Satellite People

by Hans Olav Lahlum

Then I put down the rest of the papers in the pile and took the single sheet of paper with me. I went back to Mrs Maja Karstensen and asked if she recognized the name on the piece of paper.

  She thought about it long and hard and, in the end, said that she could not recall ever having met the man, but that Arild had mentioned his name. Could it perhaps be someone who worked at the Schelderup office during the war? I nodded, thanked her for her help and rushed away.

  I was very impatient to get an explanation as to why there was a piece of paper with only ‘Hans Herlofsen, 12 February 1969’ written on it in the late Arild Bratberg’s flat. But I would have to wait for a few more hours to find out. It was already half past two, and I had agreed to meet a woman at three o’clock who had been waiting twenty-eight years for my visit.

  VI

  At first glance, Mona Varden looked younger than I had expected. She was fifty-two, but in a photograph could easily have been mistaken for a woman in her forties, with her black hair and pale skin. There was, however, something about her face and movements that was heavy and serious, which aged her when you met her in the flesh. She gave a small smile when she saw me. I got the impression that she had not laughed for years – perhaps not since the end of the war. Her hand was heavy and firm, and rested in mine for a few moments.

  ‘Thank you so much for coming. I am so grateful that a young policeman such as yourself wants to make amends for the neglect of your seniors, even though I do realize that it is the more recent murders that have sparked this interest in my husband’s death.’

  I could not deny this. So I gave a friendly nod and assured her that I would very much like to clear up the mystery surrounding her husband’s death at the same time.

  Mona Varden had a spacious and tastefully decorated two-bedroom flat from the early 1900s. The most striking feature was a door that was barricaded by a large bed.

  The coffee and cakes were already on the table when I came into the living room. As was Bjørn Varden. The photograph was old, but his eyes were still clear. The picture showed a tall, fair-haired and handsome man in a dark suit on his wedding day. His wife’s dress was a dazzling white, as was her smile.

  She pointed to the picture and gave another fleeting smile.

  ‘That was on Sunday, 13 October 1939, in Gamle Aker church. The war had already started in Europe, but here in Norway everything still felt very safe. We had to marry in a bit of a rush, but were thrilled to do so. We had been together for a little over two years and I had wanted to get married for as long. But Bjørn had had a hernia when he was younger and was afraid that he might not be able to have children. And in that case, he wanted me to be free to choose another man, or so he said. Even though I assured him time and again that he was the only one for me. Then on 1 October 1939, I told him that I was pregnant. He wept with joy and asked me to marry him on the spot. We ran hand in hand to the priest, who granted us dispensation and agreed to marry us two Sundays later. We were the happiest people in the world that autumn, even though we only had a room in my mother’s flat and had to borrow money for the wedding meal.’

  I nodded and waited patiently for her to continue. Mona Varden lost herself in her memories for a while, but came back to earth before the coffee got cold.

  ‘When our love child was born, she was born into an occupied Oslo. It has plagued me since that I tried to stop Bjørn the first time he mentioned joining the Resistance. I thought that his primary duty was to make sure that his daughter had a father. He said that his duty was to ensure that all the brothers and sisters she would have later were able to grow up in a free country and lead valuable lives. And he was, of course, right. My saving grace is that I soon gave in and later supported him wholeheartedly.’

  She looked slightly worried when she said this. I hastily commented that I was sure that he understood and appreciated that.

  ‘We lived in constant fear. Especially after Hans Petter Nilsen was killed by an unknown murderer in his own home. We hoped that we would be safer because there were two of us.’

  With a slowness in her body, she stood up and pointed towards the bed that was barricading the door.

  ‘My daughter and I slept in that bed, which was pushed up against the door to the bedroom behind. The idea was that if a murderer broke in, he would stop either out of compassion or because he could not get past us without causing a commotion that would wake Bjørn. I have since realized that Bjørn thought differently. He knew that the window was the risk, and we would be safe on the other side of the door.’

  She carefully pushed the bed to one side and waved for me to follow her into the bedroom. I got quite a shock when I crossed the threshold, and only reluctantly went into the room.

  Bjørn Varden’s bedroom had been kept as a museum of his murder, and of the man who had died in the bed here twenty-eight years ago. Some photographs of him had been hung on the wall. But the rest of the room was exactly as it had been on the morning she came in and found him dead, his widow assured me. I believed her.

  ‘My daughter and I had all the space we needed in the rest of the flat. For many years I could not face walking through this door and, as I said, I have waited until today for the police to come and ask questions.’

  She took a couple of deep breaths before she continued.

  ‘We did realize that the window might be a risk. It was easy to open from the inside in case he needed to escape, but it was equally easy to open from the outside if the person trying to get in knew what kind of window it was. We thought it would be safe, as we were on the first floor, but an intruder would need no more than a short ladder to get in. We truly believed that no one would do it, and that no one knew which window and bedroom it was. But we were wrong.’

  I asked quickly who might have known about it. She let out a great sigh and then answered.

  ‘Everyone in the group: the Wendelboes, Magdalon Schelderup and Hans Herlofsen, as well as the late Ole Kristian Wiig. They had been here for a meeting only three days earlier. And then there was, well, the one who I always thought . . .’

  ‘In other words . . .’

  ‘In other words my former friend, Magdalena Schelderup, who very conveniently happened to come by for a coffee only a few days before. We had just moved in, you see, so I played the good hostess and showed her around the flat when she asked. Of course, I did not mention the issue with the window, but goodness knows whether her eagle eyes picked it up.’

  I nodded appreciatively, and felt my pulse racing. Once again, there seemed to be much to implicate Magdalena Schelderup. I asked if there had been any contact since.

  ‘With Magdalena? No, nothing. Either she killed my husband, or understood that I suspected her of it. She was certainly wise enough to stay away.’

  Mona Varden stood alone with her sad memories for a moment or two. Then a cautious smile slipped over her lips.

  ‘The others were terrific. I got money from the Wendelboes and Schelderup, so that I could stay here for the rest of the war. One day after it ended, Magdalon Schelderup himself came to see how we were, my daughter and I, and to ask how much we would need for the years ahead. He spoke to Wendelboe about it, and since then, they have deposited all the money I need into my account in January each year. I received 6,000 kroner a year from 1946 to 1951, then it was 8,000 until 1958, and from 1959 I have received 10,000 kroner every year. I have always thought that Magdalon suspected his sister but was not certain, and that he therefore showed a generosity that was not seen by many. Whatever the case, it was incredibly kind of him.’

  I had to agree. It was incredibly kind of Magdalon Schelderup. And not like him in the slightest. Out of interest, I asked how long the money had continued to come into her account. Mona Varden looked almost ashamed when she replied.

  ‘I still get it. I wrote to them when my daughter moved away from home a few years ago, and said that I could now start to work again, but the money continued to come. It was around that time that Bjørn’s first grandchild was born.
So I simply accepted the money and used the time to look after my daughter’s child.’

  I could not think of any other questions, so I asked how life was for her daughter and grandchild.

  ‘As well as could be hoped. My daughter did not suffer the financial difficulties that many other children without fathers did after the war. But she did grow up without a father and things did not go as well at school as I had hoped, even though I got a private tutor for her for a while. Bjørn was not here and I was here all the time. I suppose she is too much like me and too little like him.’

  She looked serious when she said this, but then she brightened up again.

  ‘She has a son who is three years old now. He is called Bjørn, and is so like his grandfather. Come, have a look!’

  The boy in the photograph was very sweet and all smiles. However, other than the colour of his hair, I could see no noticeable similarity between him and the Bjørn Varden in the old photographs. But it was not relevant to my investigation and I trusted that Mona Varden was a better qualified judge of that. So in my friendliest voice I said that there was a remarkable similarity and that he was obviously a very intelligent little boy. She responded with a warm smile.

  To get back on track again, I then asked if she had lived here alone with her daughter for all these years.

  ‘Yes. I said before the wedding that it was him or no one, and there was no one after him. In the years after the war, there were a few not entirely unsuitable men who showed an interest. But I wanted to dedicate my life to Bjørn’s daughter, and, well, when you find the person you love dead and never manage to find out who killed him, it breaks something in you that can never be fixed.’

  That was understandable enough. But I had to ask whether any of those who had shown an interest were men she had known during the war.

  ‘Never Magdalon Schelderup and never Petter Johannes Wendelboe, if that is what you mean. Both had married well, and when Schelderup later got divorced, he was married again within a matter of weeks. So the help that he gave me seems to have been with no strings attached. On the other hand . . .’

  She hesitated, but then carried on when I indicated impatiently that she should.

  ‘On the other hand, there was a time when I got the impression that the manager, Hans Herlofsen, was interested. It was in the period just after he had lost his wife, when life was no doubt difficult for him and his young son.’

  She noticed my astonishment and promptly continued.

  ‘It was completely harmless. He stopped by a couple of times after work, talked about how much time and money two single parents, each with their own child, might save by getting married. He was not someone I would have chosen anyway. And, more importantly, I still had nothing to give any man other than Bjørn, and did not think that I ever would. I helped him to understand this and he paid no more visits. It has always been pleasant enough whenever we have met again over the years. But I really do not see what that has to do with any of the murders.’

  Neither did I, if truth be told. However, I noted down a new question for Hans Herlofsen, and reflected that he had obviously forgotten to tell me rather a lot.

  I remarked that I had probably seen all that I needed to in the room where her husband had been killed and that she could now do whatever she wished with the room, with a clear conscience. She shook her head sadly.

  ‘I would love to tidy out the room, but I am not ready for it yet. I hope that I will be able to start the day after you tell me who murdered my husband.’

  I took the hint and stood up to leave. I heard my voice promise to do my best and said that I would let her know as soon as I discovered anything new. At the same time I thought to myself that, no matter who had killed Magdalon Schelderup, he had indeed left a sad collection of people and fates in his wake.

  VII

  When I left Mona Varden at around four o’clock, it was clear to me, given the day’s findings, that I should pay another visit to one of the parties. It would be impossible to finish the day without having confronted Hans Herlofsen with the new information, in particular the piece of paper from Arild Bratberg’s flat. I stopped by the office to see if there was anything new there.

  Most of the staff had gone home for the day and, as I expected and feared, there were no new messages from the forensic department.

  There was something that caught my attention, however, waiting all alone on my desk. It was a small, slim envelope addressed to ‘The head of the investigation into the murder of Magdalon Schelderup’.

  The typeface was the same as the letter that I had received the day after Magdalon Schelderup’s death. This envelope also contained a single sheet of white paper. However the text was even shorter this time.

  Here, now.

  So one of the dictator’s children has gone.

  More may follow, if you do not soon find out which of us is doing wrong . . .

  I sat there staring at the piece of paper. Patricia’s preliminary conclusions about the first letter were certainly reinforced by the second. If the sender really was the murderer, he or she was without doubt a mediocre poet who for some reason or other felt the need to show off to the police.

  But I was unable to glean any more than that from the brief letter. And there was one obvious and disturbing conclusion: that more dramatic deaths were to be expected.

  The sender had, reasonably enough, not signed this letter either. I made a photostat copy of it and sent the original to be checked for fingerprints – without any high hopes. With the naked eye, I could see that it was the same type of envelope, addressed in the same way as the last letter.

  But there was one small, strange difference. Whereas the back of the last envelope had been white and unblemished, I discovered a tiny mark from a green pen on this one. It was a straight line, not even an inch long. But somehow I could not bring myself to believe it was accidental. In a peculiar way that I could not even explain to myself, the short green line only increased my confusion and concern about future developments in the case.

  VIII

  Hans Herlofsen’s house out at Lysaker was larger than I had expected. It was of roughly the same size as the Wendelboes’ house, a spacious home spread over two floors, with a well-kept garden. Herlofsen’s old Peugeot somehow looked out of place.

  The front door was opened by a young woman with a small toddler dozing on her arm. She gave a cautious smile and said that her husband had not yet come home from work, but that her dear father-in-law upstairs was at home.

  I found Hans Herlofsen in a large dining room, seated alone at a big table with the remains of an early supper in front of him. He immediately indicated that I should sit down on the other side of the table. His face took on a doleful expression when I complimented him on such a beautiful, well-kept house.

  ‘It would be hard to find another man in this town who is more attached to his house than me. I was born on the ground floor and have lived here for all fifty-five years of my life. We have a wonderful arrangement now whereby the younger generation live downstairs, on the promise that I can live here until I die. I could not imagine my life without this house and my son. It is a small miracle that I have been able to keep them both. And to have acquired a daughter-in-law who is a good cook into the bargain.’

  ‘The contents of the will must have been an enormous relief for you?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I am more than happy to admit that. It was as though a dead weight I had been carrying around for some twenty years had been lifted, when I heard the will being read. As long as there are no complications or anything like that, I can now forget my past and start saving my own money. I have learnt to live frugally, so with no more interest and down payments to make, I should be able to save around 4,000 to 5,000 kroner a year. With the current interest rate, that could amount to nearly 100,000 before I am seventy and can retire. Which means that I could leave my son and his family a house with no mortgage and a healthy bank account. I have never asked f
or more, after all that has happened.’

  It seemed a shame to ruin his happy, carefree mood. But it was easier to do so now that I knew he had withheld important information.

  ‘I apologize, but I am afraid that I have to ask you some more difficult questions. I am, after all, leading a murder investigation, and Magdalon Schelderup’s death was clearly a great release for you.’

  Hans Herlofsen wiped his brow with a look of concern.

  ‘No one would deny that, but I have been perfectly open about it. There are at least three others who have gained considerably more than I did, before you even count the unborn child. I had no idea that the will had been changed and, had it not, his death would quite frankly have spelled my ruin. So I find it hard to see that as a motive and, in any case, I did not kill him.’

  His reasoning was logical enough. But there were still some questions regarding issues that Herlofsen had not been so open about, and I was intrigued to see how he would react.

  ‘I went to speak to Bjørn Varden’s widow today. She told me that you courted her shortly after the war. She even remembered your calculation of how much you could save if the two of you got married.’

  Herlofsen was thoughtful for a moment. A sad smile twitched at the corners of his mouth before he answered.

  ‘And I still remember those figures too: the average financial outgoings of both households multiplied by 0.75 . . . That is an embarrassing episode that I had hoped she had forgotten, and I cannot see how it bears any relevance to the present murder investigation. It only illustrates how desperate I was for the first two or three years after my wife’s death, both socially and financially. Mona Varden made it clear in a very considerate manner that she was not interested and I left without protest. I later realized that it was best for everyone. I had no money and was living under such enormous pressure that I would not have been a good husband to her or any other woman. And I have since understood that she is still deeply affected by the painful memories of her husband’s death. So it would have been like the deaf leading the blind.’