Hans Lahlum - Satellite People

I followed them out into the hallway and asked Mrs Wendelboe what she had said to Herlofsen. She claimed that she had simply apologized for her outburst. Herlofsen confirmed this, but asked her somewhat curtly to repeat what else she said. She blanched, sent him a withering look, but then told me what she had said: ‘It must be either Fredrik or Magdalena.’ Herlofsen nodded his confirmation, said clearly that he believed this to be the case, and left the house in a rush.

I stood on the steps for a moment with the Wendelboes. I repeated my offer of police protection. This provoked the first comment of the day from Petter Johannes Wendelboe.

‘No, thank you. We will definitely not be going out, either this evening or tonight. And if any of the others should decide to pay us an unexpected visit, which is highly unlikely, they will receive a warm welcome.’

I thought I caught a shadow of a smile on Petter Johannes Wendelboe’s face when he said this. It occurred to me that he, unlike all the others, seemed to be enjoying the dramatic situation. But I was not able to discern if that was due to anything other than reliving some of the excitement of the war. A moment later, his face wore its usual stony mask. Both he and his wife shook my hand and then left without further words.

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.

‘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:

Here, now.

So one of the dictator’s wives has now gone.

More may follow, if you do not soon find out which of us is doing wrong…

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

Here, now.

So one of the dictator’s friends has now gone.

More may follow, if you do not soon find out which of us is doing wrong…

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.’