Satellite People (21 page)

I had to agree with her, yet again.

XIII

Around nine o’clock I went back to the police station to finish my report. Once I had done this I wrote out Patricia’s suggested wording for a police bulletin. In
the absence of any new findings, I could think of no other means of solving the murder of Leonard Schelderup. It was still a mystery to me who of the possible suspects might want to kill Leonard
Schelderup and how it had come to pass. Even though I did not place as much weight on the position of the murder weapon as Patricia did, I had to admit that it was yet another puzzling piece within
the greater mystery.

The police bulletin that Patricia had written was relayed to the national broadcaster at Marienlyst by phone, and they promised to read it out on the morning news. I was still somewhat sceptical
as to whether Leonard Schelderup’s unidentified guest would contact us voluntarily, but saw no reason not to try.

The switchboard informed me that the newspapers had shown far more interest in Leonard Schelderup’s death than they had in his father’s. Both news desks and sports desks were on the
story now. I hastily wrote a short press release to confirm that Leonard Schelderup had been found shot in his own home, and that the police were working on the premise that there might be a direct
connection with his father’s death two days earlier. I also left a message that I would like to receive the census files for Arild Bratberg and Mona Varden as soon as possible the following
day.

I finally drove home at around ten o’clock. Tuesday, 13 May 1969 had been a long and demanding day. After having watched a short report about Leonard Schelderup’s death on the
evening news, I went to bed with one more murder investigation than I had had at the start of the day. Despite this, I went to sleep that night with a growing belief that the case would be solved
within a few days.

For some reason, I fell asleep with the image of two young ladies playing on my mind. One was not surprisingly Patricia Louise Borchmann, and the other was Maria Irene Schelderup. It bothered me
that both the possible motives for the Schelderup murders that Patricia had mentioned could also constitute a danger to Maria Irene’s life.

On Overgrown Paths

I

When I sat down to breakfast on Wednesday, 14 May 1969, the only thing I could say with any certainty was that the anonymity with which Leonard Schelderup had lived his life,
despite being the heir to millions and an athletics star, contrasted dramatically with the fame he achieved in death. The main story of the day was a major fire in the centre of Tromsø, but
all the big newspapers reported on Leonard Schelderup’s death in the sports pages, and most of them ran a headline on the front page. ‘Olympic Flame Snuffed Out’ was the headline
across the top of
Dagbladet
’s front page. The papers all wrote that at the time of his death, Leonard Schelderup had been one of Norway’s greatest hopes for the Summer Olympics
in 1972, something I could not recall any of them having written before.

All the newspapers had pulled out photographs from last year’s national championships. I was struck by how unruffled and earnest he looked both before and after he crossed the finishing
line, and when he stood on the podium to receive his medal. Petter Johannes Wendelboe was not the only person involved in this case who never smiled. I had never actually seen Leonard Schelderup
smile, in a photograph or in real life. With the exception of the carefree, partying older son, any smiles from Magdalon Schelderup’s supper guests were few and far between. I thought to
myself that what Patricia had said about how terrible the case was, and how cold and bleak it was out there in the spheres of the surviving satellite people, was entirely appropriate.

I opened the door to my office at nine o’clock on the dot, just as the telephone started to ring.

‘Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen,’ I rattled off when I picked up the phone. The first thing I heard was a relieved sigh, followed by an unidentified man’s
voice.

‘Thank goodness that I have managed to get hold of you. I have nothing whatsoever to do with the murder of Leonard Schelderup, but I am the person who visited him last night between ten
o’clock and midnight. I would be more than happy to tell you what little I know, if that can help solve the murder. I would rather not come to the police station if at all possible. Could I
meet you somewhere else later on today?’

It was my turn to be silent for a while. As he spoke, I finally understood the circumstances.

Just to make sure, I asked if he had by any chance visited the flat on other occasions through the spring, and if so, what he had been wearing. He replied immediately that he had been there
several times and that he had been wearing a hat and a coat with the collar turned up. It occurred to me that I had heard his voice somewhere before, but I was not able to place it without seeing
him.

I heard myself saying that I was a liberal young man under forty too, and did not wish to cause any problems for him. So I suggested that we meet in a cafe on one of the side streets off Karl
Johan, the main shopping street, at midday, and added that there was a reasonable chance that his name could be kept out of the public eye if he answered all my questions. He assured me that he
would do as much as he could to help solve the murder and promised to be waiting at a table at the back of the cafe at midday. Then he put down the phone.

Left alone with the dialling tone, I decided that I had managed to clear up some of the mystery surrounding Leonard Schelderup, but that I was still far from solving his murder. I sat there and
speculated idly about where on earth I had heard his guest’s voice before. But that was a mystery that would hopefully be solved soon enough. So in the meantime I let it go, having first gone
through a quick elimination round to make sure that it did not belong to anyone I had met in the course of the investigation.

II

As there were no better clues to follow up in the Leonard Schelderup case, I turned to the overgrown paths from the Second World War for the rest of the morning.

The first thing I encountered was a setback. The census records for Arild Bratberg stopped with the note that he was registered dead on 14 March 1969. He was recorded as living at an address in
Rodeløkka, but according to his file had also spent substantial periods in Gaustad Mental Hospital. He was last registered as leaving there in December 1968, following a sojourn of one
year.

I finally managed to get hold of the head doctor who had been responsible for the ward where Arild Bratberg had stayed during his last periods there.

The doctor’s voice on the other end of the phone was deep-frozen to begin with. Fortunately it then thawed somewhat when he realized that I was ‘that well-known detective inspector
from the newspapers’, and that the case might also be connected to the ‘much-talked-about and very interesting Schelderup murders’. By this stage he was almost friendly.

The doctor was willing, ‘between you and me’, not to make too much fuss about confidentiality, given that the person in question was dead and had no family. He could therefore tell
me that Arild Bratberg’s death had been long anticipated. He had for many years been a ‘committed chain-smoker and heavy drinker’, and had developed lung cancer. At his own wish,
he had been discharged so that he could celebrate Christmas at home and then die. The doctor added that there might well have been a celebration at Bratberg’s home in Rodeløkka, but it
was not likely that there had been many guests. Both his parents were dead and his siblings had not been in touch for years. The doctor said, by way of explanation, that seeing Bratberg was often
not a pleasant experience.

The only person who had visited Arild Bratberg in recent years was a ‘very caring’ elderly neighbour from Rodeløkka, a widow by the name of Maja Karstensen. She had no doubt
looked after him when he got home. His answer to my question whether Arild Bratberg had been seriously and chronically mentally ill was a definitive yes. His answer to my question whether the war
had contributed to this was also yes, though it was very likely that there was something there from birth or childhood. The staff all knew about the judgement after the war and he had
‘maintained repeatedly on many occasions and often with great intensity’ that he had never killed anyone. However, all he could do was regurgitate his ridiculous explanation over and
over again. In recent years it seemed that he had become less violent, though he could still be threatening if anyone mentioned the case or challenged him in this connection.

I thanked the doctor and then picked up the telephone directory. And sure enough, there was a Maja Karstensen listed who lived on the same street in Rodeløkka as Arild Bratberg. She was
at home and would be happy to talk to me if it was of any help. It might perhaps be best if I could come to her, she said, with a small sigh. Her legs were not what they used to be and she had sold
her bicycle. I suggested that I could be there at half past one, and she promised to have the coffee ready when I got there.

The next mystery from the war was in connection with the Dark Prince. According to the census records, Mona Varden was very much alive and still listed in the telephone directory as living at
32B Grønne Street. She picked up the telephone on the second ring, saying: ‘Mona Varden, can I help you?’

I introduced myself as Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen and apologized for disturbing her. I would be very grateful, however, if she could answer some questions regarding the
unsolved murder of her husband.

‘Finally,’ she said slowly, her voice trembling.

After a couple of moments’ silence, she continued.

‘Please don’t put the phone down. Every day for the past twenty-eight years I have waited for the police to call and ask about the murder of my husband. You can come here or I can
come down to the police station, whichever suits best. I will answer all your questions.’

I felt a vague sense of guilt on behalf of the police. So I mumbled that perhaps someone should have called her before, but that I would very much like to meet her today, and that I was more
than happy to come to her house if that was easier for her. She did not hesitate.

‘I would gladly walk barefoot from here to the police station if it would help to clear up the murder of my husband. But it is perhaps best if you come here. Then at least you can see the
room where he was killed. I have left it untouched for all these years, in case someone should ask about it one day. So you are more than welcome whenever you want to come.’

I heard myself asking if three o’clock would be suitable. She replied immediately that it would be fine and that she looked forward to meeting me.

I sat holding the receiver for a while after she had hung up. The feeling that I had had before ringing Mona Varden was now stronger than ever. It was true that Magdalon Schelderup’s death
was unearthing more and more interesting stories involving other people’s lives.

III

I arrived at the agreed cafe to meet Leonard Schelderup’s mysterious guest at four minutes past midday, having first quickly changed into civilian clothes. I ordered a
coffee and a piece of cake and then made my way towards the back. There was only one man sitting there, but I could not see his face as a waiter was standing between us. I had come just in time to
see the waiter, a young man of around twenty, take back a piece of paper with an autograph on it.

I caught a glimpse of the name as the excited waiter dashed past me. But by then I had already seen who the guest was and realized where I knew his voice from. It was from the sports news on the
radio, and the football pitch. He was still high on the list of top scorers in the Norwegian premier league, and had played a good many games in the past decade or so with the Norwegian flag on his
shirt.

He gave a short, friendly nod as I sat down. His voice, which had been loud and jocular in his conversation with the waiter, was now quiet and serious.

‘It was me who called you at around nine o’clock this morning, and I’m not sure that any further introduction is necessary?’

I nodded and held out my hand. His handshake was firm, but I noticed that his hand was clammy and trembling.

‘I would like to thank you for your discreet handling of the case so far. This has been a huge dilemma for me, as I very much want to help as far as I can to solve the murder of my dear
friend, but must also confess to being afraid of causing a scandal and of being suspected of murder. It was very considerate of you to come in civilian clothing, and your announcement was so
carefully phrased. The use of the word “person” and the wording “to be cleared from the case” indicated that you had understood the situation, but did not wish to blow our
cover.’

I nodded and said that the words had been carefully chosen. Fortunately he accepted without further question that it was I who had composed the announcement.

‘So I am the person who visited Leonard Schelderup late yesterday evening. We had agreed a few days earlier that I would come. I did call him earlier in the day to say that perhaps it
would be better if I didn’t come, given the situation. He said that he felt cornered and that he needed to talk to me. So I went as agreed, despite the additional risk that it now entailed. I
cared a lot for Leo. More than for anyone else in the world.’

He said the latter very quietly indeed. I gave an appreciative nod and lowered my voice too when I replied.

‘Then it is undoubtedly your hair and fingerprints that were found in the flat, and in the bedroom. Is that right?’

He gave a tiny nod. Even though we were sitting on our own, at a safe distance from the few staff and customers who were there, his voice was almost a whisper when he answered.

‘Yes. But not a lot happened there yesterday. We lay with our arms around each other; that was it. Leo needed intimacy more than anything, and was too nervous and tense to do any
more.’

Again I gave an understanding nod, as if we were discussing the football results. A couple of new, younger, customers who had just come in pointed, or rather, waved at us. The man I was talking
to gave a friendly wave back.