Satellite People (10 page)

Knowing as I did what the contents of the will were, it seemed to me that this cast in an even more serious light the three who stood to gain most from it – in other words, Magdalon
Schelderup’s two sons and his mistress. Judging from what I knew, he had been afraid that one of them might try to kill him as soon they received the letter. It was therefore highly possible
that someone had pre-empted him. Especially if the person had known the contents of the will, which had, after all, been lying here for three days – in the metal box to which his mistress had
the key. I only had her word for it that she had not used it.

Synnøve Jensen was obviously a lady of strong will. She was still sitting with her face turned away, eyes downcast, when I closed the box and looked at her about five minutes later. Two
frightened eyes finally met mine across the table and the untouched cups of coffee. I felt sorry for her if she was in fact not a cold-blooded murderer, but I suspected her of being precisely that.
So I was ruthless, in the hope of being able to resolve the case then and there.

‘There are several letters in the box – and the top one is addressed to you.’

There was a flicker in her eye, but she did not look away.

‘I really had no idea that they were there. He had asked me never to open the box unless he was here, and I did as he told me,’ she said. Her voice was choked and unclear, but loud
enough to hear. She repeated her short defence twice more, as if it were an oath.

I could not be sure whether it was the truth or not. But I did realize that I was not going to get her to change her explanation. So instead I asked her to tell me about Magdalon’s visit
here on the previous Friday.

She stuttered and sniffled to begin with, but then gradually started to talk more coherently. He had offered to drive her home after work. He had done this before, and practically always came in
when he did. They had stopped by a cafe in Sørum for dinner. When they got back to the house, she put on some coffee for him, but they went up to the bedroom without waiting for it to be
ready. He had gone down again later and came up smiling with a cup of coffee for her. She had not seen him put anything in the metal box, but then he had his own key and could have put the letters
there either before or after he came up with the coffee for her. She had been tired and had not got up until he had left.

This did not sound entirely convincing. But neither did it sound unfeasible, I had to admit to myself. So in the end I made the snap decision to take the metal box, but not Synnøve
Jensen, with me. I ordered her to stay at home until she came to the planned reading of the will at Schelderup Hall later that afternoon.

Synnøve Jensen looked up at me, obviously alarmed, but immediately cheered up when I said that I would be there in person so she would be safe.

On the way back into town, I felt pretty sure that Synnøve Jensen would keep her word and come to the reading of the will. Any attempt to flee would be as good as a confession, and it was
not easy to imagine how she would escape. I felt far less certain, however, of the possibility that she might be the murderer.

IV

Back at the police station I first checked that the other envelopes contained the same two documents. I then sent both the metal box and the envelopes for fingerprinting, with
instructions that it was a matter of urgency that this should be done before three o’clock.

There was nothing much of any importance in either the census rolls or the police records about the key players involved, with the exception of Magdalena Shelderup who, in 1945, had been
sentenced to pay a fine of 1,000 kroner and spend two months in jail. There was a short record of the reason: ‘membership of Nasjonal Samling and financial dealings with the occupying
forces’. Magdalon Schelderup had had a clean record. Of the remaining guests at Magdalon Schelderup’s last supper, there was only a slim file for the elder son, Fredrik. He had been
fined twice in the 1960s for driving under the influence and had had his licence confiscated. The second time, he had been charged another hefty fine due to his ‘highly disrespectful’
treatment of the police. He had accepted a fixed penalty and, as far as I could see from the file, had since kept to the straight and narrow. I made a routine note that Fredrik Schelderup perhaps
had more temperament than I had seen thus far.

Out of curiosity, I also checked the files of Magdalon Schelderup’s brother and dead parents. His brother had two minor convictions for attempted fraud in the interwar period, and at the
time of his death in 1946 was being investigated for extensive cooperation with the enemy. His father and mother had reported the theft of some jewellery in 1915, but were themselves reported by
the insurance company for attempted insurance fraud the year after. The case concerned the most precious piece of jewellery belonging to Magdalon Schelderup’s mother, a ‘magnificent red
diamond on a gold chain’, according to the documents, which had been stolen in a burglary – something the thief, who had been arrested, had denied. The necklace was not to be found in
the Schelderup home or anywhere else, however, and the case was eventually dropped.

In short, I found nothing of any relevance to the current investigation, but did make a note of the chequered family history.

As for the two Resistance men who were murdered during the war, I first made a phone call to Petter Johannes Wendelboe. I felt no need, however, to press him for names this time, and in the end
I went through the archive of unsolved murders from 1941. The armed skirmishes from the 1940s were a thing of the past, and the fight against the occupying forces really became fierce only in the
final year of the war.

I quickly found the two cases in question, but could not see of what relevance they might be. The names were Hans Petter Nilsen and Bjørn Varden, who were aged thirty-eight and
twenty-eight respectively, and lived in Bekkestua in Bærum, and Grønnegate in Oslo. Both had indeed been found shot dead in their bedrooms in the morning, Nilsen on 12 May and Varden
on 5 September. Nilsen had lived alone and was found by a colleague when he failed to turn up to work. Varden was married and was found by his wife, who had been sleeping in another room with their
small baby. No physical traces of the murderer were found in either case, and it was presumed that he either had keys, or managed to get in and out through an open window. The fact that both
victims had been shot with the same weapon, a German-manufactured 9x19mm calibre Walther pistol, strengthened the theory that they had both been killed by the same person. The case was closed in
spring 1943, however, due to lack of evidence, and there was nothing to indicate that it was ever followed up. A complaint from Bjørn Varden’s wife, which had been filed without
comment in 1949, was the only document from after the war. The word ‘dead’ was now written across both files in red letters.

The file concerning Ole Kristian Wiig’s death on Liberation Day in 1945 was somewhat thicker. There was a death certificate that confirmed Wiig had died as a result of two bullet wounds to
the head. There were also statements from two police constables at the scene of the crime who both said that they had been standing outside the house when they suddenly heard a shot on the first
floor.

They saw Magdalon Schelderup at the window, who gestured to them that they should come up. They stormed up the stairs and found Wiig dead on the floor of the Nazi’s study. A few feet away,
a young member of the Resistance was standing, paralysed, with a gun in his hand. Just as they came into the room, Magdalon Schelderup had snatched the gun from his hands and then declared that he
had seen the murder. Bratberg was apparently too confused to give a statement there and then and was arrested on the spot.

Magdalon Schelderup’s written statement was an accurate account of his explanation given at the scene of the crime. Bratberg had seemed distressed and confused all day and had suddenly
shot Wiig without warning. Schelderup had added a rather sad sentence at the end to say that Bratberg was obviously mentally disturbed and that he and the others in the group should have noticed
this earlier. The gun belonged to Bratberg and had his and Schelderup’s fingerprints on it, as could be expected, given that Schelderup had taken the gun from him.

Bratberg’s written statement was a chapter unto itself. I did not know whether to laugh or cry when I read it. According to Arild Bratberg, Wiig and Schelderup had been arguing when he
came into the room and Wiig had been waving a piece of paper furiously in Schelderup’s face. Schelderup had suddenly darted over to Bratberg, snatched his gun from him and shot Wiig.
Schelderup had then opened the window and waved to someone. After which he walked calmly round the table whistling, swinging the gun loosely in his hand and breaking into the popular song
‘Better and Better Day by Day’. When Bratberg said in horror that Wiig had been hit, Schelderup had, in his words, initially replied: ‘Yes, but that’s not so strange; after
all, there’s a war going on out there!’ He had then commented that it was not unusual to have a lie-down in the early afternoon, and added with a smile: ‘And anyway, it’s
only a toy gun. Try for yourself!’ Schelderup had then passed the gun to Bratberg, only to grab it from him again when the two policemen came into the room. As to the critical question of
where the piece of paper was that he claimed to have seen, Bratberg stated that Schelderup had swallowed it before the policemen entered.

Of all the many strange statements I had read, this was the most confused and desperate. The psychiatrist appointed by the court declared that Bratberg was mentally unstable, and he was
sentenced to indefinite detention. According to later attachments, he had been detained in a closed prison ward until 1954 and had then been transferred to the mental asylum at Gaustad. He was
released on probation in 1960, but had then been sectioned again following relapses in 1962, 1964, 1965 and 1967. The picture of a seriously mentally ill person who had committed a tragic and
meaningless crime was clear enough. It was not difficult to understand why the case had had such a devastating effect on Ole Kristian Wiig’s sister and her family. But I did find it hard to
see what relevance it might have to Magdalon Schelderup’s death.

V

Hans Herlofsen was punctual and arrived at midday as arranged. He was correctly dressed and visibly tense, and nodded in gratitude when I closed the door to my office behind
him.

I opened with a routine question regarding how he had travelled to Schelderup Hall the evening before. Herlofsen replied that he had, as usual, driven there alone in his own car, but hesitated
slightly when I asked which car. He nodded reluctantly when I asked if the blue Peugeot was his. It felt as if I was getting warmer already. I took a chance and tried a bluff: ‘Your
relationship with Schelderup was fine for the first few years after the war, wasn’t it? But then something happened that I think perhaps you should explain in more detail . . .’

I was prepared for a violent reaction, but it did not happen. It was clear, however, that I had hit bullseye. Hans Herlofsen started to tremble and seemed to sink back into his chair. He sat
leaning back for a while, before he started to speak in a shaky voice.

‘I hope that you appreciate how hard it is for me to talk about this. I will be honest, but I pray that it does not need to become public knowledge, unless it should prove to have anything
to do with the murder. And I can guarantee you 100 per cent that it does not,’ he hastened to add.

I waved impatiently for him to continue, but did give an understanding nod.

‘It is an irony of fate that I, who have spent my life looking after figures for other people, have not been able to look after my own. There is one year in my life that I simply cannot
account for. That year started on 12 February 1948 when I came home to Lysaker and found my wife lying dead on the sofa with our two-year-old son in her arms. And it ended on 14 February 1949 when
I was met at the office by a furious Magdalon Schelderup, and was accused of defrauding his company to the tune of 107,123 kroner. I still remember very little from the intervening period. I know
that I sent my son to my wife’s sister and I myself drank and gambled every weekend and most evenings. I have no other explanation for it other than that it was an extreme form of grief,
perhaps combined with a delayed reaction from the horrors of the war. Whatever the case, I am still not able to explain how I managed to lose such a large amount, even if I did bet on the horses
and gamble whenever I got the chance. And the fact that I could do anything so unthinkable as swindle Magdalon Schelderup is even more inexplicable.’

I nodded in agreement. From what I had heard about Magdalon Schelderup thus far, he was certainly not someone one should try to swindle.

‘But you do perhaps remember what happened on 14 February 1949?’

He nodded and swallowed.

‘Yes, very clearly, unfortunately. Magdalon was absolutely livid in his own peculiar calm way, as he could be when he lost money or felt that he had been cheated by someone. He said he
would call the police unless I could put the money on the table in the course of the working day – with interest. I confessed to him that I had drunk or played the money away. Then I got down
on my knees in front of his desk, weeping, and begged him to spare me for the sake of my motherless little boy. I promised that I would pay him back every krone with interest over time. I explained
that my assets were worth barely a tenth of the sum and that I would not be able to earn the money if I was found guilty of fraud. He said neither yes or no, just told me to get out of his sight.
He added that I might as well crawl out. So I did as he said. I crawled out of his office on my hands and knees and did not stand up until I was out in the corridor and almost tripped up his
wife.’

The memory was obviously deeply uncomfortable and distressing. Hans Herlofsen wiped the sweat from his brow and took a short pause before continuing.

‘There was absolutely nothing in the world I could do, so I went back to my own office and carried on working as best I could. All day I waited for the police to knock on my door. And
eventually it was Magdalon himself who came in, without knocking, at the end of the afternoon. He put down two written documents on the desk in front of me. One was a confession to fraud. The other
was a contract in which I declared that I owed him 95,000 kroner, of which 87,123 was an ‘unpaid loan’ and 7,877 was ‘unpaid interest’. The amount was to be paid back with
interest at 10 per cent, in annual instalments of 10,000 kroner. And my house and all my other assets were held as collateral in the event of any default in payment. I was given half a minute to
sign or he would call the police. I signed, and he left the office holding both the documents. I have never seen them since, but I have been conscious of their existence every day of my life. Year
after year has gone by without us ever mentioning the matter directly. I have been his slave – I had to carry on working for him for whatever wage he himself decided to pay me and could never
answer back, no matter what bile he spat at me. My life has been an endless toil, a never-ending struggle to meet those payments on 31 December every year. And in 1964, I had to pawn my
wife’s last pieces of jewellery between Christmas and New Year in order to make it.’