Hans Lahlum - Satellite People

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.

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.

‘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 how 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…?’