Satellite People

by Hans Olav Lahlum

  Patricia nodded and released a deep sigh.

  She pulled the Russian book about chess from the pile and put it down on the table.

  ‘When analysing a complex chess position, one first has to try to figure out several possible moves ahead. One then has to consider how the pieces will respond to the various moves. This can be extremely difficult, particularly when the moves are complicated and not obvious. The man who posted the first letter and who gave the remaining letters to Synnøve Jensen was in just such a position. He could to a certain extent predict possible future moves, but could not know for certain what would happen after the first death. People are by nature more unpredictable than chess pieces, so the possible future moves in this game would be even more uncertain. Which is why the letters are more vague. And why Synnøve Jensen was given several letters, which she was to send according to who had died. There were several possibilities, so Synnøve Jensen, simple and loyal woman that she was, made small pen marks on the back of the envelopes so she could remember which letter to send under which circumstances.’

  ‘So the man who gave her the letters was the same man who put the nuts on Magdalon Schelderup’s food?’

  Patricia nodded.

  ‘He is the only one who could have got her to post the letters and she is the only one he could have trusted with such a task.’

  ‘This man was then perhaps also the real father of her unborn child?’

  Patricia gave a bitter smile.

  ‘Without a doubt.’

  I racked my brains. The only remaining male candidates were Fredrik Schelderup, Petter Johannes Wendelboe and Hans Herlofsen – and of course the now deceased Leonard Schelderup. One of them must have had a relationship with Synnøve Jensen. But I could not understand who.

  ‘The man with the powdered nuts knew about Magdalon Schelderup’s heart condition?’

  Patricia sent me a puzzled look.

  ‘Of course, it is perfectly obvious that he did.’

  ‘But why did this man need to write the letters beforehand and then give them to Synnøve Jensen? Why could he not wait and see what happened and then send them himself?’

  I definitely made myself vulnerable with that question. Patricia now looked at me with mildly patronizing eyes, as if I was a small child who could not understand anything.

  ‘For the very good reason that he himself would be dead!’

  The truth punched home as she said this. And the impact was brutal. This was indeed a terrible truth.

  ‘So the man who planned it all, posted the letter, slashed the car tyres, put on the recording of the fire alarm and then with devastating precision sprinkled the nuts on Magdalon Schelderup’s plate was in fact . . .’

  Patricia nodded.

  ‘Magdalon Schelderup himself.’

  We sat in silence for some seconds. It felt as if the air itself was trembling with fear. Patricia’s thin arms were certainly shaking. She pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes before she continued.

  ‘As Sherlock Holmes so aptly said: “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” But this is perhaps not so improbable when you consider Magdalon Schelderup’s distinctive and egotistical character. His whole life was about self-assertion and attention. He loved only himself and did not give a hoot about his family and friends once he was dead. Quite the contrary: he would have liked to kill some of them, if he could avoid being caught and having to face punishment. The man had a perverse need for control and power over other people. His secrets and the things that he had done in the past were starting to catch up with him. Herlofsen posed a threat, and behind his mask Magdalon Schelderup was still more frightened of Petter Johannes Wendelboe than of anything else. The danger that he would be found out was growing. The thought of suicide must have been tempting once he found out that he did not have long to live. His collapse in the doctor’s waiting room had given him a shock and he did not want to risk a more serious attack on the open street or at a dinner party. Magdalon Schelderup became a hunted man and was terrified of saying something that might give him away.’

  I had nothing to say. So I just nodded to Patricia for her to continue.

  ‘But Magdalon Schelderup did not want to die with the disgrace that suicide so often entails. It would be far better to die as the victim of murder, whether it was left unsolved or someone was accused of doing it. He planned a suicide that was camouflaged as a murder, and that would at the same time cause the murder of some of the people he hated and scorned most in his closest circle. Magdalon Schelderup wanted to go down with his colours flying; he wanted to continue to exert influence on the lives and deaths of those closest to him even after he was gone. But most of all, he wanted to fool everyone, including the police, as he had done during the war. This was his final game and charade. Last Saturday, he was finally ready to set the wheels in motion. Having first punctured the tyres on his own car, he started the ball rolling by calling you. Then the following day he continued as planned, first by putting on the cassette recording and then, in the ensuing chaos, by sprinkling the powdered nuts on his food.’

  Patricia stopped abruptly, looked at me, and then carried on.

  ‘He needed an assistant to ensure that the game continued and of course chose his loyal and dependable secretary, Synnøve Jensen, who was the only person who really cared about him. She continued to orbit him even after his death and loyally posted out the letters as instructed. Presumably, he had also told her that the letters might be important to the police investigation should more people than just himself be killed. She would never understand the danger in which her dead lover’s game placed her. But she sensed after a while that something was not right, and rang you to tell you about the letters. Unfortunately she was a bit slow on the uptake and ended up calling you just minutes too late to save her own life.’

  I had finally regained the power of speech and felt the irritation and wonder growing.

  ‘So I have been leading a murder investigation for five days when in fact there has been no murder, in a legal sense. Now, do not come here and tell me that Synnøve Jensen’s death was not a murder and that it was not a murderer whom I chased that night?’

  Patricia shook her head and was deadly serious.

  ‘Absolutely not. Synnøve Jensen was without question murdered and you were chasing a cold-blooded and egotistical murderer that night; a person who, without knowing the truth about Magdalon Schelderup’s death, had seen an opportunity and taken the chance in the chaos that ensued. And while we do not need to fear any further action from the man who sprinkled the nuts on Magdalon Schelderup’s food, there is a considerable danger that the person who shot Synnøve Jensen might strike again. There is in fact every reason to fear that this person is planning to strike again tonight, again at one of the remaining guests. I cannot of course be 100 per cent certain, as the risk is enormous. But the gains are so great and the chances of getting away with it so good that I believe the murderer will take that risk tonight.’

  I stood up without thinking.

  ‘That’s terrible,’ I exclaimed, spontaneously.

  Patricia looked up at me with absolute calm.

  ‘Yes and no. It is terrible, but it could also be perfect. You may have another chance to do what you nearly did yesterday: that is, to catch the murderer in person at the scene of the crime. Even though I am fairly certain of who it is you are chasing, there are still potentially two people who might turn up tonight. However, you should get in touch as soon as possible with the person who is at risk of being murdered.’

  I nodded earnestly.

  ‘In which case, where should I hide tonight?’

  There was no turning back now, so Patricia did not hesitate for a moment.

  ‘In Fredrik Schelderup’s flat. Ensure that there are no policemen visibly standing guard and conceal yourself somewhere inside.’

  ‘Please excuse a silly question, but how will the murderer get in?�
�

  Patricia gave another of her bitterest smiles.

  ‘Perhaps pure luck, but that is in fact not such a silly question. They will in this case come through the door, using the key from Magdalon Schelderup’s missing key ring. So check first that Fredrik Schelderup has not changed the locks, and make sure that he does not put the safety chain on. It would be rather a shame if the murderer could not get in to be arrested.’

  I agreed and got ready to leave. However, Patricia waved at me to stop.

  ‘Just a couple of quick final things. We have already seen how cold-blooded the person who killed Synnøve Jensen is, so beware, and please keep your wits about you. And get some rest first. I can guarantee that nothing will happen before a quarter past eleven at the earliest, and possibly not until a few hours later, so you still have plenty of time.’

  I nodded. My trust in Patricia was without limit following the day’s performance and her concern for me gave a touch of warmth in what was otherwise such a cold, cynical case.

  ‘And the second thing?’

  ‘I will keep the telephone within easy reach tonight. Call me if you have to during the night, but if you can wait until tomorrow morning sometime after eight, it would be preferable. I tend not to sleep very well during murder investigations.’

  She had my full understanding for that and I promised to call her as soon as the night’s mission had been accomplished.

  VIII

  I ordered a constable to guard Fredrik Schelderup’s home at a discreet distance and in civilian clothes until eleven o’clock that evening, when I would myself take over.

  Then I rang Fredrik Schelderup and fortunately this time was greeted by his easy-going, jocular self. I gave the situation a positive slant and promised that I would grant him permission to travel to South America tomorrow if there had not been an arrest before then. In the meantime, we would guard his home and I would myself spend the night in his flat. I joked that he would no doubt rather have a beautiful young woman to stay overnight, but hopefully the fact that she would instead be allowed to travel abroad with him tomorrow might be acceptable compensation. He immediately agreed to this and said, before putting down the phone, that in that case he had better call her and tell her to start packing.

  I myself went to bed around seven for three hours’ kip, with the alarm clock set for ten. This went unexpectedly well. Only a couple of times did an image of the remaining candidates flicker through my mind, but I was still none the wiser as to who it was that I had chased the night before, or who I might meet in Fredrik Schelderup’s home that night. I fell asleep at ten past seven, strangely secure in the knowledge that a solution was close at hand.

  IX

  At a quarter past eleven I took over from the constable outside Fredrik Schelderup’s home, and rang the doorbell. My host was far from entertaining company now. He complained of getting a headache after his first glass of the evening and that he drank a couple more without it helping much. He went to bed around half past eleven, which, according to him, was the earliest he had gone to bed for several years – that is to say, when the intention was to sleep.

  To begin with, I managed only too well without his company, but soon time started to drag as I sat at my post behind the door in the living room. By one o’clock, I was very sceptical of Patricia’s prediction, and by two I was thoroughly bored of the whole thing. The cigarette smoke that impregnated the walls made me more and more drowsy. At half past two, I caught myself dozing off for a couple of seconds.

  But then at a quarter to three, I found myself wide awake on hearing a muffled sound by the front door. All my senses were on full alert by the time the door was opened with great caution a couple of minutes later.

  A person about half a head shorter than me, dressed in trousers and a shirt, with a nylon stocking pulled down over the head, tiptoed in. I caught a glimpse of a key ring in the person’s left hand. The figure then glided silently across the floor towards the door to Fredrik Schelderup’s bedroom. The intruder was holding a small pistol in their right hand, but he or she appeared to be otherwise unarmed.

  I was unable to identify the person in the pitch-dark. It was only when I slipped up behind the intruder and put my hand round their right upper arm that I knew that it was without doubt a woman.

  I did not have time to think any more. The pistol fell onto the floor with a thud and then slid under a chair when I grabbed her arm. I had obviously instinctively thought that the drama would then be over, as the intruder was a woman who was not only smaller, but also slighter than me. However, the next shock was greater for me than for her. In her fright, she let out a piercing scream and with a furious movement managed to twist out of my grasp.

  For a few seconds we stood facing each other, unarmed, in the middle of the dark room. Then there was a flash as she pulled a sharp kitchen knife from a pocket.

  The woman with a nylon stocking over her head stood dancing on her toes in front of me, holding out the knife threateningly. We stayed like this, the one measuring up the other in tense animosity and fear, for a few moments. I did not dare to take my eyes off her for a second.

  Suddenly she made a lightning thrust towards my chest. I quickly sidestepped and managed to move back at the same time. She did not follow up on this attack, but instead took a couple of steps back. With her left hand, she fumbled behind her for the door. Despite a dangerously high pulse, I took a couple of steps towards her. I got so close that I could see that her hands were shaking, but not close enough to recognize her, and not close enough to apprehend her.

  Then she made another unexpected lunge, this time towards my throat and face. One moment I saw with horror the knife coming through the air towards my eye, and in the next I felt it slice cold and hard past my cheek.

  A second later she lost her balance. This was precisely what I needed to kick her right leg from under her. She fell, but was cool-headed enough to keep a firm hold of the knife. There was another struggle, with her on her hands and knees on the floor, and me above her with my hands round her upper arms. Again she twisted and turned, with the strength of a desperate animal.

  We continued to struggle on the floor. I had managed to get a firm hold of her right arm, but her fingers were tight around the handle of the knife. The small woman on the floor was stronger and had more stamina than one might expect on first seeing her. In the dark and heat of the struggle, it felt as though I held her right wrist forever before she eventually let go of the knife with a quiet groan.

  Even without a weapon, my opponent’s furious fight to escape was not over. She lashed out, bit, clawed and kicked blindly and wildly with a panicked intensity. Her sharp nails scratched my bare underarms several times. A small eternity seemed to pass before I eventually managed to get out the handcuffs and snap them shut round her right wrist. She was such a wild, feral beast that she continued to kick and hit out, and I felt another searing scratch down my arm, until I finally managed to cuff her left wrist as well.

  Following her first scream, she had been impressively silent throughout the whole struggle. It was only when the cuffs were on both her wrists that she spat out ‘NO, NO!’ a couple of times, then seemed to hiss. I sat with all my weight on her legs, initially in shock and with a racing heart, as she slowly stopped flailing.

  My first attempt to pull the nylon stocking off her head provoked a new furious outburst. And my self-discipline broke. I manhandled her onto her back and straddled her stomach, leaving her legs to kick as much as she liked. Then I ripped the nylon stocking from her head in anger.

  Just as I was unmasking my prisoner, the door to Fredrik Schelderup’s bedroom opened and the light was switched on. He stood swaying and squinting in the doorway in his dressing gown, with a wine glass in his hand. Fredrik Schelderup took one look at my prisoner on the floor, rolled his eyes and exclaimed: ‘It’s a good thing you were here on guard to stop her, Detective Inspector. She is not only a little too old, but also too difficult for me to want her in m
y bedroom.’

  No more was needed to provoke another burst of rage from Sandra Schelderup. She screamed barely comprehensible swear words at her stepson, and kicked and flailed so furiously that I was almost frightened that the handcuffs might give way. Fredrik Schelderup looked down at her with scorn and fetched a length of nylon rope from a cupboard.

  He remarked: ‘I wish you a continued goodnight, despite the unfortunate female company. It has happened to me more than once.’

  With a slightly exaggerated yawn and no further comment, he retired back to bed.

  I still did not like Fredrik Schelderup, but had to admit that he had a point. This hissing, hateful version of Sandra Schelderup that I was now alone with was certainly not one I would want to take home.

  Once the nylon rope had been tied around her legs, she calmed down. I found the pistol, the knife and the large key ring on the floor. I felt another mysterious small metal object in her pocket. This turned out to be Magdalena Schelderup’s missing ring. It was such a cynical detail that I certainly did not look at Sandra Schelderup with kinder eyes.

  At a quarter past three in the morning of 17 May 1969, I stood in the living room of Fredrik Schelderup’s flat with an almost trussed Sandra Schelderup. I felt enormous relief that an apparently inexplicable murder case had suddenly been solved.

  At the same time, I suffered for the first time in my life what can only be called a panic attack. It came over me in the form of a bizarre fear that if I left the house, I myself would be shot or attacked in the few steps that it took to get to my car. The fear was so paralysing that to begin with I could not even go to the window to look out.

  I had to convince myself that the fear was completely irrational and due to being overtaxed. I had no reason to believe that Sandra Schelderup might have an accomplice out there in the dark. In the end, however, I called the police station and asked them to send two constables over in a Black Maria as quickly as possible. The official explanation was that someone needed to continue to stand guard over the place while I took the suspect in.