Satellite People

by Hans Olav Lahlum

  Patricia helped herself to a piece of cake, but sat with it in her hand for a while before she started to eat it slowly.

  ‘I still think that Wendelboe would find it hard to lie to a policeman. Ask him about his wartime threat, ask if they discussed any concrete plans with Herlofsen about how to bump off Schelderup, and ask Mrs Wendelboe if she telephoned Leonard Schelderup on the evening he was murdered. I hope that they will give you answers that can help us progress. Otherwise . . .’

  Neither of us said anything for a moment. I unfortunately had a good idea of what she was going to say when she continued.

  ‘Otherwise, we know quite a lot, but not what you should do tomorrow. I do not think there is much hope of squeezing out any more information and it is not obvious where else we might look. So we still lack a catalyst that will help to wind up the case.’

  I nodded in agreement and believed that Patricia was thinking the same as me. In other words, that yesterday’s letter had implied that there would be another murder, and that was not the catalyst that we wished for in the investigation.

  I left 104–8 Erling Skjalgsson’s Street with an uneasy feeling that a new catastrophe was imminent, but I did not know where, when or whom it might impact. With a pang of anxiety, my thoughts turned to Maria Irene, who only a few hours earlier had been so soft and warm and trusting in my arms during our interrupted dance at Schelderup Hall.

  X

  I arrived at the Wendelboes’ house in Ski once again at around seven o’clock. This time it was Mrs Wendelboe who opened the door with a brave smile and showed me into the living room, where her husband was already seated. The atmosphere was tense, though they both said that they perfectly understood my situation and apologized for not having told me things before that they perhaps should. The tension eased a little when I said that there were perhaps also questions I should have asked sooner.

  It was inevitable, however, that my new questions would ratchet up the tension again. As regards his sharp warning to Magdalon Schelderup during the war, Wendelboe immediately admitted to it. They had been in a very difficult situation and he had doubted Schelderup’s loyalty. Mr Wendelboe had, only in our last meeting, admitted that he would have considered direct action against Schelderup if it could be proved that he was guilty of killing his brother-in-law. He did not believe it was certain that Schelderup was guilty, and so had dismissed the idea of doing anything now. Herlofsen had outlined various possibilities and had mentioned times and weapons that might be used. The Wendelboes claimed that they had not wanted to go ahead with any plans. Neither of them had heard Herlofsen mention anything about poisoning, and certainly not in connection with powdered nuts or the Sunday suppers. That is, if one was to believe their joint explanation.

  But the real drama happened when I turned abruptly to Mrs Wendelboe and asked her directly if she had telephoned Leonard Schelderup on the night that he was killed. She burst into tears. Her husband looked at me intently, but I also caught a small glimpse of respect in his eyes. Once again, it was he who answered.

  ‘My wife has had to live with a heavy burden and it has been weighing on her even more in recent days. We hope that it will not be necessary to tell Mrs Ingrid Schelderup about this episode. My wife and I had nothing to do with Leonard Schelderup’s death. But it is unfortunately the case that my wife phoned him and made a threat in the hope that he would confess to the murder of his father. We have obviously realized with hindsight that he had nothing to do with it, and that this does not have anything to do with his death. But it has been hard for my wife to live with the knowledge that she unjustly made such a threat to a young man who only hours later was killed himself.’

  I looked questioningly at Mrs Wendelboe. She was still sobbing, and nodded three times before she managed to find her voice.

  ‘What my husband says is true; it is terrible, and he knew nothing about it. I knew that we had nothing to do with Magdalon Schelderup’s death. But we had only days before sat here with Herlofsen and discussed the possibility of murdering Magdalon Schelderup. I was terrified that Herlofsen would let it slip and that we would become suspects. The thought of how awful that would be for our children and grandchildren was unbearable. And given the situation, it seemed most likely to me that the poor young Leonard had killed his tyrannical father. I wanted to frighten him into a confession, but instead added to the burden of an innocent man in what were his final hours on earth. The world came crashing down around my ears when I heard that he too had been murdered.’

  Mrs Wendelboe was so inconsolably distraught that it was impossible to be angry with her. I patted her on the shoulder and thanked her as kindly as I could for her explanation. She asked for permission to go and lie down and left the room with a bowed head. Her husband and I remained sitting and listened to her footsteps as she dragged herself up the stairs.

  As he showed me out, Wendelboe thanked me in a quiet voice for my understanding.

  ‘As you have no doubt understood, my wife has been in a terrible state over the past few days. In a way, she has continued to circle round her dead brother for all these years. And recent events have just brought it all up again. She did not tell me that she had called until afterwards and I immediately said that I wished it was undone.’

  I could not help but ask what he had thought the next morning, when he heard that Leonard Schelderup had been found dead. He gave a heavy sigh; things had obviously been difficult for him too.

  ‘I have to admit that I was actually quite relieved when I heard that young Leonard had been murdered. My wife and I were not involved in any way and the desperately unfortunate phone call was obviously of no relevance to his death. But the steps I had to take as I approached my wife’s bed that morning to tell her about his death felt like an interminable journey. As I entered the room, I thought that the worst thing would be if Leonard had committed suicide and it later transpired that his father had been killed by someone else. I think my wife’s fragile mental health would then have cracked and I would have had to watch over her day and night to ensure that she too did not take her own life.’

  I nodded and then shook his hand. I felt sorry for Mrs Wendelboe. And I definitely felt that Petter Johannes Wendelboe was more reliable than Hans Herlofsen. But after the day’s revelations I did not trust either of them, particularly when it came to the death of the much-maligned Magdalon Schelderup.

  XI

  After my second visit to the Wendelboes that day, I felt empty, both physically and mentally. On my way home, I had to face up to the fact that I had no more leads to follow, either this evening or tomorrow. Following the day’s revelations, I now believed that the murderer was either Hans Herlofsen or Magdalena Schelderup. But I had no idea whatsoever how I would manage to get any evidence or discover a crack in the defence.

  And, on top of all the other problems, I felt a physical exhaustion creep over me, which made it even harder to think clearly. I got home around seven, set my alarm for nine and lay down for an hour or two. I fell asleep almost immediately, but did not sleep well. The surviving guests disturbed my sleep. And then I finally slipped into a very pleasant dream where I was dancing with Maria Irene in her room at Schelderup Hall. Just as I bent down to kiss her, we were interrupted – this time by my alarm clock.

  As I lay there for a few extra minutes, half awake, I had to admit to myself that I was more than fascinated with Maria Irene, I was in fact in love with her.

  I felt sure that this had nothing to do with her money and property. The diamond on the gold chain, which symbolized her wealth, was no more than an insignificant detail in my memory from Schelderup Hall. The image that had burnt itself into my mind was her red lips, only a breath away from mine, and the glimpse I had seen of the tops of her beautiful young breasts. As I lay there in bed, I made a pact with myself that I would make a serious attempt to see the rest of them as soon as the case was over. In my dozing daydream, I lay with her for a few moments more in her four-poster bed at Schelderu
p Hall, with her mouth gasping for mine, her naked, moaning body under mine. She was no longer relaxed and in control, but quite the opposite; unexpectedly wild and passionate.

  This dream was definitely the highlight of the day so far. But one absolute requirement was that the murder case had to be solved before I could even begin to follow up on the dream. At half past nine, I got out of bed alone and moved into the living room. I spent the next hour in an extremely frustrating state where I could not think of anything other than the case, but at the same time was unable to make any headway.

  XII

  For a change, my phone rang at half past ten in the evening on Thursday, 15 May. This time it was Synnøve Jensen’s distraught voice that I heard at the other end.

  ‘Maybe this is silly . . . But Magdalon said something to me not long before he died, something that I don’t understand. And I also have something I think I should show you. I should probably have done so before. It is all very peculiar and I may have done something wrong without knowing it. Would you be able to come here first thing tomorrow morning?’

  I hesitated a moment and then asked if she had received some kind of threat. She immediately replied no, and then added that it was probably not so urgent I needed to go there now, straight away. But I felt more and more uncertain. There was something about the intensity of the case and the memory of Leonard Schelderup phoning me in the evening and then being found shot before I could meet him the next day. So I pushed my tiredness to one side and said in a determined voice that I would come immediately.

  It took no more than two minutes from the time that I put down the receiver until I had my coat on and was out through the door. But all the same, I felt reasonably calm as I left my house.

  It was while I drove through the night alone in my car, heading towards Sørum, with no means of communication with Synnøve Jensen, Patricia or anyone else, that I was overwhelmed by a sudden unease.

  This was probably due to a combination of the anxiety I thought I detected in Synnøve Jensen’s voice, the fact that Leonard Schlelderup had been shot only hours after he called me and yesterday’s letter warning of another death. Whatever the case, I felt a rising anxiety and put my foot to the floor. Visibility was good and there was very little in the way of traffic. In a strange way, the great silence and loneliness of the road only served to heighten my fears. My thoughts were preoccupied with what it was that Synnøve Jensen thought was so important to show me, but I could find no sensible answer.

  I had been driving well over the speed limit, and at five past eleven I parked the car and made my way up to Synnøve Jensen’s little house in Sørum. The rain was pelting down so I dashed through the dark towards the front door.

  XIII

  There was no doorbell. I knocked hard on the door three times, without any response from inside. And yet I could see through the small windows that the light was on in the living room.

  I called out to Synnøve Jensen, but still heard not a sound from inside. I hammered on the door for a fourth time. Then it occurred to me that it might not be locked. In the same moment, an icy-cold feeling told me that something was wrong, very wrong, and what is more, dangerous.

  I knocked on the door for a fifth time. Then I opened it and went into the living room.

  The sight that met my eyes was at first an enormous relief. Synnøve Jensen was sitting on the sofa facing me, wearing a simple blue dress, and there was no sign of anyone else in the small room. Her eyes were wide and they met mine.

  Another even stronger feeling of danger flashed through me in those few seconds. Synnøve Jensen sat looking straight at me, but did not move. It was a relief when she opened her mouth. But this immediately turned to horror when the blood spilled out. I then noticed that blood was pouring from a bullet wound in her chest. The bullet had clearly been fired too high and missed the heart. There was a pistol lying on the floor by her hand. I vaguely registered that it looked rather old-fashioned, but I was more concerned about the woman on the sofa.

  Her staring eyes were wide and frightened. The will to live still burnt bright in them. They told me one thing loud and clear, and it was important: Synnøve Jensen had not shot herself.

  I grasped her hand. It was burning. The pulse in her wrist was still there, but barely.

  Thoughts tumbled through my mind – that the murderer must have left by the door only shortly before I arrived. But I could not leave the fatally wounded Synnøve Jensen. Her hand held desperately onto mine, as though she was trying to cling to her life through me. Again she tried to say something, but was prevented from doing so by the blood. Her right hand clung to mine. She waved her left hand towards the back of the room, without much force. I instinctively looked up but could see no sign of anyone there.

  ‘Was it Hans Herlofsen who shot you?’ I asked.

  Her eyes met mine, but I could not see any affirmative or negative response. The same happened when I asked: ‘Was it Magdalena Schelderup?’ I could not work out whether Synnøve Jensen did not want to confirm or simply could not.

  Synnøve Jensen waved her left hand towards the back of the room again, with even less force. Her eyes looked into mine with a deep desire to tell me something, but she was unable to express what. Her free hand crept slowly up and stopped on her belly. Then her eyes closed.

  For some reason, as soon as her eyes closed, I started to count the pulse in her wrist. I felt four slow beats. Then Synnøve Jensen’s pulse stopped.

  I sat for a few seconds with her hand in mine before slowly releasing my hand from her dead body, which sank down onto the sofa with no resistance. I was gripped by a violent rage, in part with myself, but mostly with the faceless person I was pursuing. Synnøve Jensen was dead, and her unborn child was now dying in her womb. I had come a few minutes too late to prevent the murder and perhaps only seconds too late to hear Synnøve Jensen say who it was who had shot her. I had no idea what to do now. I had seen no sign of another living soul out there in the dark. It was most likely that the murderer was over the hills and far away by now.

  I went over to her telephone and called for an ambulance. Then I rang Romerike police station to let them know that there had been a murder, and that I was already at the scene of the crime.

  Then I dialled Patricia’s number.

  I was worried that she might already have gone to bed. It was a great relief when I heard her voice after only five rings. I explained very quickly where I was calling from and what I had seen.

  There was silence on the other end for a few seconds. Complete silence. It felt as though neither of us dared to breathe.

  After a few breathless seconds, Patricia let out a deep sigh before starting to speak.

  ‘You said that you had just come in through the door, which was unlocked, and found Synnøve Jensen who had been shot and was dying, but still visibly alive with her eyes open. A pistol lay on the floor beside her. She could not speak but waved her hand twice towards the back of the room before she died?’

  ‘Yes,’ I confirmed.

  ‘But . . .’ she started.

  There was silence again for a moment, before she mustered the courage and continued.

  ‘But then the shot cannot have been fired more than minutes before and it is unlikely that the murderer would dare to leave while she was visibly still alive. So then the most feasible explanation is without a doubt that the murderer was standing there waiting for her to die and when you knocked on the door, dropped the gun onto the floor and ran upstairs to hide in one of the rooms. In which case, he or she will still be there.’

  Neither of us said anything. I turned around quickly and looked up the stairs. There was no sign of movement up there. However, the logic in what Patricia had just said was undeniable. Synnøve Jensen had tried to say something when she waved her hand around and she had indicated the stairs, not the door. There was a considerable chance that the murderer was still upstairs.

  ‘As the murder weapon is still there and as it is unlikely that
the murderer would want to be caught with the weapon after the murder, it is likely that he or she is unarmed now. But one cannot of course be certain of that. As you have not heard any noises, you may assume that there is only one person. But of course, one cannot be certain of that either,’ Patricia’s voice said, with a sudden worried undertone.

  I thanked her and promised to call back as soon as I had a chance. Then I put down the phone.

  I sat still for a brief moment, my eyes moving between the dead Synnøve Jensen and the empty stairs. I did think about calling the police station again to ask for reinforcements. But I was not sure that there was anyone upstairs and the risk that the intruder might escape through a window or over a balcony would only increase in the time that it would take to get any backup here. And what is more, I had no idea how long it would take to get more men here so late in the evening.

  So I sat there, staring at the gun. With a pounding heart, I realized that it was an old Walther pistol, the same type that the Dark Prince had used to shoot his two victims during the war. The thought that the Dark Prince might be hiding upstairs made the possibility of an arrest even more tempting. So I made a hasty decision that there were not likely to be any fingerprints on the gun in any case, and picked it up with my handkerchief. Then, armed with the murderer’s own weapon, I mounted the stairs to the first floor. I vaguely registered that my watch showed that it was a quarter past eleven precisely when I started my ascent.

  XIV

  The stairs swayed and creaked alarmingly under my weight. But all was quiet on the first floor. There were three doors and I had no reason to choose one rather than the other.

  So the most obvious thing was to start with the door closest to the stairs. It was unlocked and there was no light to be seen through the keyhole. I rapped on it twice. Then I opened the door with the gun raised.