Satellite People (33 page)

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:

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

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.

‘I would not have believed it was possible to get so much wrong in two sentences, and at such a late stage of a murder investigation. Magdalena Schelderup is neither the Dark Prince nor
the person who killed Synnøve Jensen. Synnøve Jensen did not kill either the father or the son, she never planned to murder anyone, and nor did she write any of the letters. And just
to be clear about it, the person who killed Synnøve Jensen is not the Dark Prince, either.’

It was indeed quite a salvo, even for Patricia. Fortunately, I still had a trump card up my sleeve, and decided to play it straight away.

‘Are you certain that Synnøve Jensen’s murderer was not the Dark Prince? That it was not the same pistol that was used?’

Patricia shook her head vigorously.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. It would be an incredible coincidence if it was the same kind of gun, or demonstrate a rather warped sense of humour on the part of the murderer.’

Triumphantly, I pulled out a sheet of paper and threw it down on the table between us.

‘Well then you are very wrong yourself, my dear Patricia, and I can prove it. I took this written report from the ballistics expert with me, just in case. It is 100 per cent certain that
the bullets that killed Hans Petter Nilsen and Bjørn Varden in 1941 came from the same Walther pistol that was found lying in Synnøve Jensen’s house yesterday. The registration
number has been filed off, so we will not be able to trace it, but it is definitely the same weapon.’

I later regretted that I did not have a camera with me. In a flash, Patricia’s face was transformed into the most surprised woman’s face I have ever seen. It was the face of a person
who has suddenly seen their entire perception of the world, their whole view of life, crumble before their very eyes.

Then, just as suddenly, a relieved grin spread over her face.

To my astonishment, Patricia whooped loudly in triumph: ‘EUREKA!’

Then she started to laugh, a loud, coarse laugh. It was almost a minute before she had composed herself enough to talk again.

‘Please excuse my somewhat eccentric behaviour. But thanks to you, the final, most important, piece of the jigsaw puzzle has now fallen into place. It is incredible just how ironic fate
can sometimes be.’

I looked at her, nonplussed. She chuckled a bit more, but was then suddenly serious again.

‘No more sympathy or other unnecessary luxuries. There really is only one detail left in connection with Leonard Schelderup’s death. Drive over to the hospital to see Ingrid
Schelderup, and ask her as soon as she wakes up where the revolver was before she left it on the floor by the front door. When you have found out, come back here, then I will explain to you how
this fits in with the other two murders.’

I looked at her again with a mixture of surprise and scepticism.

‘I thought we both agreed that Ingrid Schelderup could not possibly have anything to do with her son’s death?’

‘No one is saying that she had anything to do with her son’s death. However, the revolver which was used to shoot her son was lying somewhere else when she got there that morning.
And where it was lying when she came in is of vital importance to the question of who shot Leonard Schelderup. And when I have my theory confirmed as to who shot him, I can hopefully quickly fill
you in on how everything fits together, including who sprinkled the powdered nuts on Magdalon Schelderup’s food and who shot Synnøve Jensen!’

This was definitely too good an offer to say no to, particularly given my last conversation with my boss. So I got up and made ready to leave.

Patricia stopped me with a final brief remark as I stood up.

‘To misquote Sherlock Holmes ever so slightly, from one of Conan Doyle’s best novels: the point to which I would wish to draw your attention is what the dogs did in the
night-time.’

I was totally lost.

‘But . . . if you mean the guard dogs at Schelderup Hall, they did absolutely nothing on the night that Leonard Schelderup was murdered.’

Patricia nodded smugly.

‘Precisely.’

I must have looked very bewildered, but Patricia was all secretive and jolly, and just waved me out of the door.

Three minutes later, I was in the car driving to the hospital. On the way there, I pondered Patricia’s mysterious parting remark, and could find no connection to the fact that the guard
dogs at the Gulleråsen mansion had been quiet on the night that Leonard Schelderup had been shot in his flat in Skøyen. But in a strange way, I felt secure in the knowledge that
Patricia had seen something that I could not, and that her explanation and solution were just around the corner.

VI

Ingrid Schelderup had slept heavily, but had just woken up when I arrived at the hospital. I had to wait a little while until she was in a fit state to talk to me. So I sat
waiting for a very long half hour indeed, before being shown into her room at around half past eight. By then I had worked out the connection between who shot her son and the importance of where
the revolver was placed. And I had to admit that it seemed highly plausible, to the extent that anything in this case did.

Ingrid Schelderup kept her dignity well in the face of the greatest tragedy of her life. She was sitting in an armchair, slightly slumped, but fully clothed. Her face was dead and her movements
delayed. She looked at least six years older than she had done the first time we met only six days ago. I thought I could even see more grey hairs in amongst the black. Throughout our short
conversation, her body seemed to be hanging off the chair. Her head sat atop her thin neck and moved very gently back and forth and her eyes were still alive. They stayed fixed on me from the
moment I came through the door. She nodded faintly, but did not say anything or make any other movement.

I sat down with care on the chair that had been put out in front of her table, so that we were only a few feet apart.

‘I do apologize that I have to disturb you. We all sympathize with your grief over the enormous loss of your son, and we have no reason to believe that you have anything to do with any of
the murders . . .’

She nodded almost imperceptibly again, but still did not say anything. Her tense, fearful eyes were fixed on me.

‘However, we do now have reason to believe that you have given us some false information regarding an important point which may be vital to the investigation.’

Everything in the room stood still for a few breathless moments. I still feared an outburst of anger. But all I got was another small nod. This time, barely that.

‘The revolver that was used to shoot your son was on the floor by the front door when you left. But it was not there when you arrived. Where was it then?’

I saw a ripple down Ingrid Schelderup’s neck, while her face remained blank. I realized soon after that she was in fact trying to speak, but could not find her voice. In the end, I saw no
other solution than to assist her.

‘It was on the floor beside your son, wasn’t it?’

She nodded.

‘And the reason that we did not find his fingerprints on the revolver was that you had wiped them off.’

She nodded in silence one last time. Then she finally found her voice. It was still not much more than a whisper, but it was a pleasure to hear it break the tense silence between us.

‘I didn’t know what I was doing, and then later could hardly remember what I had done. The boundary between life and dreams was so hazy. And now everything is just a blur. But yes, I
must have.’

And suddenly there was no more to be said. The truth about Leonard Schelderup’s death was painfully clear, both to me and his mother. She was the one who spoke first.

‘But you really must not believe that . . . Leonard did not kill his father. Quite the contrary, it was the death of his father that killed him. Leonard’s life was never easy, but he
was the kindest boy in the world. He would never have hurt anyone other than himself.’