When I finally had Sandra Schelderup in the back of the car and was driving to the station, I had to admit to myself that all the drama had taken its toll.
We drove for the first five minutes in grim silence. Now and then, I glanced over at my passenger to make sure that she was not planning to try anything, and could see that she was calming down.
‘If I confess, is there a possibility of mitigating circumstances, even if I have been arrested and am accused of murder?’ she asked in a controlled voice, just before the police station loomed into view.
I replied that that was something that the court would have to decide, but it was a possibility.
‘In that case, I hereby confess to the murder of Synnøve Jensen and the attempted murder of Fredrik Schelderup. But I do not know who shot Leonard Schelderup or who killed Magdalon Schelderup,’ she stated, after a pause.
I smiled to myself in the mirror and assured her that both those deaths had now been solved.
‘My poor daughter is fast asleep in her bed, gloriously unaware of all of this. I did it without her knowing, but I did it for her sake and the inheritance. She is the only one of my husband’s children who is suited to carrying on his work. Every mother has the right to fight for her children,’ she said, from the back seat.
I bit my tongue and said nothing. I detested Sandra Schelderup and had no wish to talk to her. But her next attempt to excuse herself made my blood boil.
‘I now regret what has happened, though I did it through sheer desperation and almost in self-defence. I did not kill Leonard. I would never do that. He was not a parasite and his mother is still alive. Both Synnøve Jensen and Fredrik Schelderup were parasites who were just waiting for my husband to die. Neither of them were of any benefit to anyone and neither of them had parents who were still alive. So Synnøve Jensen’s death was no great loss to the world, and nor would Fredrik Schelderup’s have been.’
I felt my anger rising and suddenly hated the very sound of Sandra Schelderup’s voice with intensity. I turned around and remarked with force that Synnøve Jensen had in fact been the mother of an unborn child that had died with her. Sandra Schelderup looked away as soon as our eyes met. The remaining minutes of the journey were spent in silence once again.
DAY EIGHT
When the Iron Curtain Falls
I
I disliked Sandra Schelderup more than I could ever remember having disliked a woman. However it was difficult not to be impressed by her willpower. In sharp contrast to her violent behaviour the night before, and despite her bleak future prospects, the woman who gave a confession and explanation to me in one of the interview rooms at the main police station on the morning of 17 May 1969 was focused and calm. She had been offered legal assistance, but had declined as she did not see what help that would be at the moment. So she sat there alone with me and a prosecutor, and answered all my questions clearly and concisely.
Her husband’s death had been a shock. As had the shooting of his son two days later. She knew nothing about these deaths. The reading of the will had been a nasty surprise that made her furious on her daughter’s behalf, and the tense situation had caused her to have increasingly wild thoughts in the days that followed. She had seen an opportunity when Leonard Schelderup died. The number of heirs had been reduced to two and she had every hope that any new murders would be attributed to whoever was responsible for the first two. She had first hidden her late husband’s key ring and then reported it as missing. And she had kept Magdalena Schelderup’s ring so that it could later be planted as a red herring, as she had intended to do the night before. She admitted that she had taken the ring before Leonard Schelderup was killed, but claimed that she had kept it ‘just in case’ after the reading of the will, though at that point she had no concrete plans. I reserved some doubts, but moved on to the murder of Synnøve Jensen.
The details of Sandra Schelderup’s confession were both clear and convincing. She had sneaked out late that evening and driven to the top of the hill behind Synnøve Jensen’s house in one of the company cars, which was kept in a parking place relatively close to Schelderup Hall. She immediately identified the key on her late husband’s key ring. She had been prepared to change her plan at any point, but then the temptation was too great when she got there without meeting a soul and was let into the house. Her hatred for her husband’s mistress had been overwhelming. She had shot the secretary and waited for her to die in the hope that she could camouflage it as suicide, but then fled when she heard me coming.
Sandra Schelderup’s description of the ensuing chase was exactly as I remembered it. She had asked for police protection at Schelderup Hall to ensure an alibi for a possible murder, and then given in to temptation. The fight for her innocent daughter’s legacy had become an obsession and she saw an opportunity to secure an undivided inheritance for Maria Irene and to get away with it. Fredrik Schelderup had always hated her and she had nothing but scorn for him. He was a man without a family, who would just squander the money if he got it. So she had decided to carry out her plan when she saw that there were no policemen guarding the house, only to be outwitted by me.
To my question as to how she had managed to get in and out of her own home unseen, she replied that there was a concealed passage from the cellar. Magdalon had once mentioned briefly that he had built a secret passage after the war as a combined hiding place and escape route in case of a crisis in the future. He had, however, asked her never to look for it until after his death, unless there was a crisis situation. The night after her husband’s death she had gone to find it, as she no longer need fear her husband’s reaction and she wanted to see if he had hidden anything of value there. And she had found a collection of gold and dollar bills, a valuable diamond and three guns in a cavity in the wall. She had guessed that the gold, money and diamonds were easily transportable valuables in the event of a crisis. In the 1960s, Magdalon had on a couple of occasions quite exceptionally mentioned his fear of a Soviet occupation.
She discovered that all the registration information had been filed off the oldest and largest pistol. So she had taken this with her and left it behind after she had shot Synnøve Jensen. The second gun was the smaller pistol with which she had intended to kill Fredrik Schelderup. Her plan was to leave the gun at Magdalena Schelderup’s house later, if necessary. She had also taken the ring for this very reason, and had thought of leaving it behind as a clue. Magdalena was obviously in a vulnerable position and she was a cold-hearted old woman with no children, and in any case did not have many years left to live.
It was not a story to be proud of but, unfortunately, it was true, said Sandra Schelderup, wringing her hands without looking me in the eye. I had to agree with her, but assured her that the confession was registered and would be considered by the court. She thanked me with a wan smile, and then unexpectedly apologized for the situation this had put me in. She had been treated with distrust by the others in the family and their circle of friends and had come to hate them all, but she had nothing against me and only wished me well in my career. Her daughter had also expressed great sympathy and admiration for me, she added in a quieter voice. She now realized that what she had done was not fair on her daughter, and she hoped that she would be able to explain herself to her as soon as possible. I found this a suitable point to finish the interview.
It was by now nine o’clock in the morning of 17 May and I felt an enormous relief settle over me. I telephoned my boss, who was very pleased indeed that the case had been solved and looked forward to hearing more details tomorrow. I was just about to compose a press release when I realized that some details were still missing, and that I had to inform Maria Irene Schelderup of the night’s dramatic developments as soon as possible.
II
To my relief, all was calm outside Schelderup Hall. The policeman on guard had stayed awake all night. The dogs had barked loudly and been restless for a few minutes around midnight. However, no one had tried to get into or out of t
he house. I could rest assured that Maria Irene had been there. She had obviously slept badly and had been seen at the window two or three times during the night.
Inside Schelderup Hall, a forensics team was in full swing with an investigation of the cellar, where they had found a well-camouflaged door into the secret tunnel, as described by Sandra Schelderup. The cavity that she had mentioned had also been found and I was given a list of the remaining contents, which tallied well with her account.
Maria Irene had sought refuge in her room. I was nervous about how she would welcome me this time, but soon found that that my fears were ungrounded. She embraced me as soon as the door was closed behind us. She had slept badly and had therefore got up several times during the night, and was very concerned to discover in the early hours of the morning that her mother’s room was empty.
But the eighteen-year-old’s equanimity was impressive. She listened with concentration to my account of the night’s dramatic events, including my tussle with her mother. There was a touching moment when she cried: ‘You weren’t hurt, were you?’ She added that I must not think ill of her, even though her mother had done terrible things. I felt a great relief wash over me and happily assured her that children could not be held responsible for the actions of their parents.
I remarked that her mother had expressed a wish to talk to her as soon as possible. Maria Irene replied coldly that she would no doubt have to visit her mother in prison one day, but that it would not be for a good while after this. On the other hand, she hoped that I would be kind enough to come and see her again as soon as the official investigation was over. ‘After this, I need someone I can talk to and lean on more than ever,’ was her sad conclusion. ‘And this time, I can at least promise you that my mother will not disturb us,’ she added with a quiet little smile.
I gave her a cautious hug, and was very pleased with my situation as I left Schelderup Hall. I thought to myself that I had never had a better reason to celebrate Norway’s national day. It was only when I was in the car on my way back to the station that I realized that I had not phoned Patricia following the arrest of Sandra Schelderup.
III
Patricia listened with great interest to my account of the night’s arrest, but then became more and more agitated as I told her about the interview and the visit to Schelderup Hall. When I eventually enquired if there was anything else she thought I should have asked Sandra Schelderup, her reply was fast and hard.
‘Yes, definitely. The simple and crucial question from a classic Simenon novel: what was the colour of the dress worn by the woman she claims to have killed?’
I must have seemed utterly astounded, as Patricia certainly lost all patience with me.
‘You ask your oh-so-suddenly cooperative arrestee about that, and then call me as soon as you have the answer!’ Patricia snapped, and put down the phone with unusual haste.
I called her up again ten minutes later. She answered the telephone after the first ring and appeared still to be angry.
‘She said that the dress was blue, which it was. And what is more, she gave a detailed description of the room and the sofa where Synnøve was sitting when she died. It all sounded fairly convincing to me.’
I had hoped and thought that this would make Patricia calm down. But instead she became even more vexed. First there was a deep sigh at the other end, then an explosive: ‘Buggeration!’
‘What is that supposed to mean?’ I asked.
Then I anxiously enquired if in some mysterious way this entailed problems with our understanding of the deaths of Leonard Schelderup and Magdalon Schelderup. The voice at the other end of the phone sounded no more cheerful.
‘No, both those deaths have definitely been solved. But this does mean that there are still problems in connection with solving the murder of Synnøve Jensen. Come to see me as soon as you can, and I will explain why.’
I hesitated. She noticed and carried on swiftly.
‘On your way over here, ponder the problem of timing from 8 May 1945, but this time in connection with 15 May 1969. This time there are not too many seconds, but too few. Something that is even harder to explain. If it was Sandra Schelderup you chased up the slope behind Synnøve Jensen’s house, if you were only fifteen to twenty yards behind her, and if the door to the car up there was still closed . . . how on earth did she have time to open the door, get in, start the engine and drive off before you got close enough to see her?’
I felt the blood rushing to my head and the floor heaving beneath my feet, and then what felt like an icy-cold hand tightening round my throat. I finally heard my own voice say that perhaps she had a point, and that I would be there as soon as I could.
Patricia simply said ‘good’ before abruptly putting down the phone. It certainly did not sound like she meant it.
IV
‘It might perhaps have been possible if the car engine was running and the door was open. But impossible if the door was closed, which it was, according to the witness. And you heard the car starting. Ergo, Sandra Schelderup is lying. There must have been two people out under the cover of dark that night. One who committed the murder and was chased by you. Another who was sitting waiting in the car and who opened the door and started the engine as soon as they heard footsteps. And there is only one person who could possibly have been there with Sandra Schelderup, and Sandra Schelderup is now willing to be punished in order to protect her.’
Her reasoning was idiot-proof; I had understood this finally, better late than never, as I was on my way into Patricia’s library. I had a fervent hope that Patricia would have worked out another solution, but it was thus not entirely unexpected.
‘So what you are now saying, in plain language, is that you think Maria Irene Schelderup was driving the car when Sandra Schelderup went to murder Synnøve Jensen?’
Patricia looked even more dejected and shook her head.
‘No. Unfortunately it is far worse than that. What I am saying, in plain language, is that Sandra Schelderup was driving the car when Maria Irene went to murder Synnøve Jensen. And it is not just something I think, but that I know.’
I had not expected this, and it was definitely worse than anticipated. I sat as if paralysed and stared at Patricia.
The steaming cups of coffee remained so far untouched on both sides of the table. Patricia now emptied her cup in one go.
‘It is the only possible solution, sadly. I have in fact had my suspicions all along. Remember that there was no key to Synnøve Jensen’s house. Synnøve Jensen would never in her life have let Sandra Schelderup in, because she both hated and feared her. But she might well have let Maria Irene in as, naive and trusting as she was, she liked her and thought of her as an innocent child.’
The bottom of my world, my triumph and my future dreams fell out and came crashing down. I made a feeble attempt at protest.
‘But surely there are other possible explanations . . . for example, that she opened the door for Sandra Schelderup in the belief that it was me.’
Patricia poured herself another cup of coffee and drank it, then shook her head mercilessly when she was done.
‘Possibly, but highly unlikely. Synnøve Jensen did not even have a doorbell. She no doubt looked out of the window when someone knocked on the door, as she did on your first visit. But there are several more grave issues here. What Synnøve Jensen in her desperation was trying to tell you when she waved her hand towards the stairs and then patted her tummy was, first, that the murderer had gone upstairs, and second, that the murderer was the child. The reason that you suddenly thought of Leonard Schelderup as you ran up the slope was because the footfall of the person in front subconsciously reminded you of his, because, as you noticed earlier in the investigations, his sister has the same light step.’
We both sat there in sombre thought. Patricia lifted the coffee pot again to see if there was anything left, but then threw up a hand in exasperation when she found it empty.
I tried to ask Patricia h
ow she had worked out the existence of the tunnel. She answered in a distracted and distant voice that she had developed that theory from quite early on. It did not seem likely that a former Resistance fighter of Magdalon Schelderup’s character would live in a house without a secret escape. This was confirmed by the times at which the dogs barked on the night that Synnøve Jensen was killed, as it chimed well with when the tunnel would have been used if the murderer came from Schelderup Hall. The dogs had registered sounds and movement even if the policemen on duty had not seen anyone.
‘I have to say you are right again, and that really does make this an incredibly depressing story,’ I eventually conceded.
Patricia gave an even sadder sigh.
‘But the most bitter pill is yet to be swallowed . . . namely, that we can sit here and know who the murderer is, but have no evidence to prove it in court. And legally that is not sufficient to pass a judgement; in fact, it will barely suffice to keep someone on remand. Sandra Schelderup’s confession is plausible, and, as far as I have understood, you have submitted a written report in which you state that you could not recognize the person you were chasing. The issue of the time it takes to open a car door thus becomes our word against hers. I can already hear the lawyer objecting to the hand on the stomach. Could that really be called evidence, that a dying pregnant woman instinctively puts her hand to her stomach . . . ?’
Patricia took my cup of coffee and drank it straight down. Then she sat there as if all the energy had drained from her body. I heard my own voice quivering with emotion when I tried to sum it all up.
‘You are right about everything. We know who the real murderer is, but unless we find some technical evidence, we simply have to let her go – with an enormous inheritance.’
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