Satellite People

by Hans Olav Lahlum

  Suddenly the man was upbeat, almost cheerful. He repeated a couple of times that he was certain that the car door had not been open and then asked promptly if it was important. I still did not understand why it was significant, but replied that it was likely to be of considerable potential importance, and I thanked him profusely on behalf of myself and the entire police force. The man shook my hand in delight and more or less flew out of the room.

  The door slammed shut behind him, but was opened again half a minute later. He had come back to offer me a written statement that the car door had been closed, if that would be of any help to the investigation. I assured him that a spoken statement would suffice for the moment, but that we would contact him later should we need a written statement. He gave a jovial salute and promised that he would stay at home and get up early until the case had been solved.

  So in the middle of all the horror, I sat with a gentle smile on my lips until well after the witness had left the station. Whatever Patricia had meant by her curious question, it had certainly saved the day and the mental well-being of a well-meaning witness.

  III

  It was with a pounding heart that I went to meet the constable who had been on night watch at Schelderup Hall at around lunchtime. His report gave no cause for concern, however. He had been awake at his post all night and had seen no sign of anyone trying to get into or out of the building. The dogs had barked furiously for a few minutes around half past ten, and then again at about one o’clock in the morning. It would seem that this was entirely unprovoked on both occasions, and the night had otherwise passed without drama.

  Afterwards, I rang Schelderup Hall and suggested that everyone should gather there at three o’clock. Sandra Schelderup immediately said yes to this.

  I was unable to get in touch with one of the eight remaining guests by phone. I felt my heart beating faster as Ingrid Schelderup’s telephone rang again and again without being answered. However, I soon realized what might have happened and called the hospital, and was informed that she had been taken in the same morning. The constable who had been on guard outside her house overnight had driven her there only an hour before in a very unstable condition. Once he was back at the station he could tell me that she had appeared to be in relatively good humour the evening before, and that the night had passed without incident. But the news of Synnøve Jensen’s death in the morning had affected her with such unexpected force it had caused another collapse. Mrs Schelderup had been given tranquillizers when she got to the hospital and was now expected to sleep until early evening. This was not hard to believe. And in any case, from what the constable had told me, it could be ruled out that it was Ingrid Schelderup who had murdered Synnøve Jensen last night.

  The others were easy to get hold of, but hard to fathom. The Wendelboes had been at home together all evening, and Herlofsen had been at home alone. His son and daughter-in-law could confirm that he had been there, as they had had an evening coffee together around ten, but they could not be certain that he had not left the house later.

  Magdalena Schelderup claimed to have been at home but there was no one to confirm this. She was extremely upset about being without an alibi for yet another murder.

  As for Fredrik Schelderup, he had had a visit from his girlfriend, but had asked her to leave around half past ten, as he did not feel up to it. And from then on, until the morning, he had been seen by no one other than ‘the drinks cabinet and his bed’.

  Everyone was clearly affected by the ongoing case and they were further shaken by the news of Synnøve Jensen’s death. They all categorically denied knowing anything about it.

  Once I had called everyone, I sat and thought about what I was actually going to say to them. One thing that I was not going to mention at the moment was the existence of the letters. These could be an important lead, but where they might lead I still did not know. Either the murderer had left the letter in her pocket, or Synnøve Jensen was responsible for the letters herself, and in that case might also be behind the first two murders.

  I could not quite bring myself to believe in the idea that the murderer had left the letter in Synnøve Jensen’s pocket. It seemed highly unlikely that the murderer would do that while she was still alive. This possibility was also thwarted when the fingerprint report came back: the only prints on the envelope were those of Synnøve Jensen herself.

  It did seem to fit rather well that Synnøve Jensen had killed Magdalon and Leonard Schelderup. If she had known about the will, she had a possible motive for both murders. And a copy of the will had been kept at her house in the metal box to which she had a key, in an envelope with her name on it. But who had killed Synnøve Jensen was then an even more burning question.

  IV

  Understandably enough, the seven guests sitting in their usual places around the table at Schelderup Hall at three o’clock were very sombre indeed. They listened to my account of the situation following Synnøve Jensen’s death. I ended with the conclusion that there had been some important breakthroughs in the investigation, but no one had been arrested and no one had been named as an official suspect.

  Following my update, there was silence. I had been prepared for loud diatribes against me and my investigation. It was six days now since they had sat at this very table and witnessed the death of Magdalon Schelderup, and his murderer had still not been caught. Instead, two further guests had been shot.

  Fortunately, it seemed that none of those present wanted a confrontation of any sort with me. Maria Irene smiled almost imperceptibly when my eyes met hers. The others showed no reaction when I looked at them, but did show increasing animosity towards each other. Herlofsen scowled at the Wendelboes, and Mrs Wendelboe glared back at him. Every now and then, all three of them sent spiteful sideways glances at Magdalena Schelderup, who was smoking even more than usual and had a dark expression on her face. Sandra Schelderup looked alternately from her sister-in-law, Magdalena, to her stepson, Fredrik, but never with a pleasant face. Fredrik Schelderup sipped his glass of white wine and, for the moment, seemed rather unaffected by it all.

  I was interested to see who would be the first to speak. Slightly unexpectedly, Magdalena’s rusty voice was the first to be heard. Her defence was offensive.

  ‘We all fully understand that this is an extremely difficult case. But when those who have been killed are my brother and two of his four heirs, then there is every reason to consider who stands to gain most from this.’

  And so all hell was let loose. Only two people sat quietly with inscrutable faces. And it was the two whom I now liked best: old Petter Johannes Wendelboe and young Maria Irene Schelderup. All the others were suddenly making a noise. Sandra Schelderup snarled that she was not standing for any such insinuations, when all the time she and her daughter were the only two who could prove that they did not commit the two most recent murders.

  Magdalena retorted that she had not mentioned any names, but reminded everyone that alliances were a possibility and that no one had an alibi for Magdalon’s death. Then, for good measure, she added that there were those who still harboured grudges from the war. Herlofsen’s face flushed red and he pointed out that there were three candidates in the room and demanded to know who Magdalena meant. The otherwise careful Mrs Wendelboe waded in too, with tears in her eyes, and said that Magdalena must of course mean Herlofsen, but that she, if anyone, should be wary of raking up old sins from the war. Sandra Schelderup snarled again and snapped that it was easy enough to see who would gain from the will, but a good place to start might be someone who had inherited an unmerited amount without having an alibi for anything.

  At which point, things boiled over for the until now calm Fredrik Schelderup. He shouted that he did not think it was any more respectable to screw your way to a fortune than to kill for it.

  The electric atmosphere in the room meant that everyone rather bizarrely turned against Fredrik Schelderup following his angry outburst, despite the fact that he quickly regained control and
only seconds later tried to apologize. Herlofsen and Mrs Weldelboe turned away from each other and now glared at him. Even Petter Johannes Wendelboe had turned discreetly towards Fredrik Schelderup. I noticed with a small shard of jealousy that Maria Irene had finally turned her eyes away from me and was now looking at her half-brother. Magdalena Schelderup was puffing furiously on her third cigarette and through the smoke blew out a question as to whether a statement like that might not constitute a confession.

  With this, the pressured and slightly intoxicated Fredrik Schelderup let his mask slip completely. He roared his innocence, slammed his glass back down onto the table with such force that the stem broke, and added that he was the only one around the table that he could guarantee had not killed his father.

  There was complete silence in the room for a moment. Six pairs of venomous eyes watched Fredrik Schelderup as he poured himself another drink and drained the stemless glass. Then he crashed the remainder of the glass demonstratively down on the table, stood up and asked if he could now consider himself arrested.

  I replied that his outburst and behaviour had been noted. I would not arrest him, but that from now on he would only be allowed to move between Bygdøy and Gulleråsen with my permission. This was obviously seen as further provocation. He came and stood right in front of me and howled: ‘You can see for yourself the situation I am in. My father and brother have been killed, I am being accused of killing them, and all the people in this room can be trusted to try to kill me too. So tomorrow you can either arrest me or let me go to South America. Prison or Brazil are the only places I can now feel safe from these monsters!’

  Before I could answer, he stormed out of the room and the building. Six pairs of eyes watched me in silence as I let him go. I wrote in my notepad with exaggerated movements to demonstrate that his behaviour would not be forgotten.

  Sandra Schelderup had regained much of her composure, but her voice was still sharp as a knife when she demanded a continued police presence to safeguard her and her daughter until an arrest was made. Magdalena echoed this demand. I agreed to both on the spot. Magdalena Schelderup’s face called to mind an old owl when she gave a curt nod. She shook my hand briefly in passing and left the building without gracing the others with so much as a look.

  Mrs Wendelboe leant forward and whispered something in Hans Herlofsen’s ear, who responded with a brief nod. I sent them a questioning look, and asked if there was anyone else who would like police protection overnight. Mrs Wendelboe looked at Mr Wendelboe, who shook his head. And, like a strange echo, Herlofsen did the same. All three of them got up to leave.

  I followed them out into the hallway and asked Mrs Wendelboe what she had said to Herlofsen. She claimed that she had simply apologized for her outburst. Herlofsen confirmed this, but asked her somewhat curtly to repeat what else she said. She blanched, sent him a withering look, but then told me what she had said: ‘It must be either Fredrik or Magdalena.’ Herlofsen nodded his confirmation, said clearly that he believed this to be the case, and left the house in a rush.

  I stood on the steps for a moment with the Wendelboes. I repeated my offer of police protection. This provoked the first comment of the day from Petter Johannes Wendelboe.

  ‘No, thank you. We will definitely not be going out, either this evening or tonight. And if any of the others should decide to pay us an unexpected visit, which is highly unlikely, they will receive a warm welcome.’

  I thought I caught a shadow of a smile on Petter Johannes Wendelboe’s face when he said this. It occurred to me that he, unlike all the others, seemed to be enjoying the dramatic situation. But I was not able to discern if that was due to anything other than reliving some of the excitement of the war. A moment later, his face wore its usual stony mask. Both he and his wife shook my hand and then left without further words.

  I loitered for a minute or two in the hall, apparently to think things through, and what I hoped and expected might happen did. Maria Irene came almost dancing down the stairs, smiling her mischievous smile, and apologized that the atmosphere at Schelderup Hall was unfortunately not at its best at the moment.

  ‘But let us hope that it will improve in the future, when this whole nightmare is over,’ she added, with a broader smile. ‘Do you think it will take long?’ she asked in a whisper. I replied that I hoped and thought that there would be a resolution within a couple of days.

  Maria Irene nodded and looked up at me questioningly, but then nodded again with understanding when I just gave her an exaggerated stern look. I was given a brief hug before she tripped silently back up the stairs.

  I stood there, looking up, for a few seconds after she disappeared. Then I went out on my own into the May day.

  I left Schelderup Hall feeling remarkably unsettled. Following this gathering of the remaining guests from Magdalon Schelderup’s last supper, I understood better than ever Patricia’s description of them as satellite people in a universe that had lost its point of gravity. The situation still felt very unstable and unclear, no matter which way I looked. And it became no clearer when I returned to the office and discovered a new finding from the deceased Synnøve Jensen’s house waiting for me on my desk.

  V

  ‘So, what do you make of these? A blue line on the back of the first envelope, and a black line on the back of the second.’

  I put the letters down on the table in front of Patricia.

  The letter with the blue line read:

  Here, now.

  So one of the dictator’s wives has now gone.

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

  And the text in the letter with the black line was:

  Here, now.

  So one of the dictator’s friends has now gone.

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

  Patricia sat and pondered for a while, but then gave a cautious smile.

  ‘This really is very depressing news, but does tie in rather well with my theory about how it all fits together. So these were hidden between the pages of two different books on Synnøve Jensen’s bedside table? And both envelopes were sealed?’

  I nodded, without fully understanding the significance of this. Patricia fired her next technical question.

  ‘And the letter in Synnøve Jensen’s pocket, you only said that her fingerprints were found on the envelope? Were they on the letter as well?’

  ‘Only on the envelope. There were no fingerprints on the letter itself.’

  Patricia nodded sagely, but also let out a heavy sigh. I asked her, anxiously, if that did not fit with her theory. She replied that it in fact fitted well, but pointed to a very depressing conclusion. I was slightly flummoxed as to what she meant by that in a situation where I myself would be more than happy with any conclusion to any of the three murders. In my mind I counted my lucky stars that there were no newspapers on 17 May, but was not overly optimistic as to how my boss would assess the status of my investigation.

  Patricia looked at me for a few seconds without saying anything. Her expression was unusually friendly, almost affectionate. She just sat there looking at me. For some reason or another, I thought about Maria Irene. It was not a comfortable situation. So I broke the silence with a question.

  ‘A penny for your thoughts, Patricia?’

  The answer was swift and unexpected.

  ‘Just wondering why you are still alive!’

  No doubt I looked rather stunned at this. She carried on immediately.

  ‘Do not get me wrong, I am very glad that you are still alive. But has it not struck you as rather odd? Just imagine the situation the murderer found themselves in last night when you arrived. The murderer who had just shot Synnøve Jensen was standing behind her with a loaded gun in their hand when you rather inconveniently knocked on the door. Given that this is clearly an exceptionally intelligent and callous person, one might assume that the most obvious solution was to shoot you as soon
as you opened the door, and then escape afterwards. Instead, the murderer carried through the suicide plan at ridiculous risk, leaving the gun beside Synnøve Jensen and then barricading themselves in upstairs, unarmed. Understandable if the murderer did not know who it was knocking on the door, or had reason to believe there was a large muster of policemen outside. But undeniably strange if the murderer knew that it was only you who was standing there.’

  I had actually not thought about how strange it was that I was still alive. But I took her point when she put it like this and immediately asked if she had a theory about the connection here. To my relief, she gave a measured nod.

  ‘I really only see one possibility. And that fortunately falls into place with my overall theory of how everything fits together. But I am still not absolutely certain, and it is without a doubt a very serious step to accuse someone of murder when you have no concrete evidence.’

  She hesitated, then asked abruptly: ‘What do you make of the situation yourself?’

  I realized that Patricia was not willing to divulge her theory without knowing what I thought, and I had little to lose by revealing this in such a closed and highly unofficial space. So I launched myself out into the unknown waters.

  ‘I have to admit that I am not certain about anything. I think you are right in saying there is more than one person involved here. Yesterday, I was very close to arresting Hans Herlofsen. Today, my main theory is that Magdalena Schelderup was the Dark Prince and killed the two Resistance men during the war, but that Synnøve Jensen wrote the letters and killed the Schelderups, both father and son. Synnøve Jensen had planned several murders, most immediately Magdalena, who then beat her to it.’

  Patricia stared at me wide-eyed for a moment.

  ‘You surpass yourself,’ she remarked, apparently serious.

  My joy lasted for all of ten seconds. Because when she continued, it was far less pleasant.