Hans Lahlum - Satellite People

Patricia took my cup of coffee and drank it straight down. Then she sat there as if all the energy had drained from her body. I heard my own voice quivering with emotion when I tried to sum it all up.

‘You are right about everything. We know who the real murderer is, but unless we find some technical evidence, we simply have to let her go – with an enormous inheritance.’

Patricia nodded almost imperceptibly. Despite her massive intake of caffeine, she sat as though otherwise dead in her wheelchair. Only her eyes showed that she was alive.

‘And that despite your enormous efforts, the like of which I have never seen,’ I added.

But Patricia was definitely not in the mood for more flattery today. She sat passively in her wheelchair for a few seconds more. Then she suddenly slammed her fist down on the table with unexpected strength.

‘So close yet so far. A thoroughly cynical, egocentric and evil person who shot a young, pregnant woman in her own home and then stood there and watched her and her unborn child die a painful death. And she may get off scot-free, with an astronomical inheritance into the bargain.’

I thought quietly to myself that the problem was even greater than that. Patricia was about to lose the battle with a young woman of the same age, who not only could walk, but also had the world as her oyster. This feeling was reinforced by her next comment.

‘Now I feel as you did when you were chasing after the murderer. I can see her in front of me, I can see her face and even call her name, but I still cannot catch her.’

There was not much more to say. So we sat there in silence for a while longer.

Patricia had tears in her eyes when she eventually threw up her hands.

‘But there really is no more that I can squeeze from this lemon now, so no one else will be able to either. She has been both ingenuous and lucky. The known facts give no evidence against her. So perhaps you should just leave me alone to weep bitter tears over this tragedy. I am sure that you do not need Beate to show you out any more.’

I was reluctant to leave Patricia alone in such a despairing mood. But her voice was forceful and clear, and there was nothing I could say to cheer her up.

It was only after I had closed the door behind me that a new thought occurred to me.

I stopped for a moment, then turned around and went hesitantly back into the room with cautious steps.

I had not anticipated the sight that met me. Patricia was lying over the table with her face down. There was no movement or sound whatsoever, and with a cold blast of fear, I worried briefly that she too had lost her life in some mysterious way. But then, fortunately, I heard her sobbing.

I tiptoed out again as silently as I could, and knocked on the door. It took a few seconds before Patricia whispered that I should come in. When I entered again she was sitting up in her wheelchair, but looked broken and very gloomy. I thought I could see a redness to her eyes, and stood waiting by the door.

‘There was a small episode involving Maria Irene at Schelderup Hall that I have not wanted to mention before… but perhaps I should now, even though I am not sure how much it might help.’

I looked away as I said this and prayed that I was not blushing like a schoolboy. When I turned back, Patricia’s body language had changed entirely. She was now sitting up straight and as near to on her toes as she could be in a wheelchair, as though ready to jump over the table.

‘Well, sit yourself back down and tell me, then,’ she urged me.

So I sat down and told her.

It felt a little odd to start with the sentence: ‘I have danced with Maria Irene…’

Patricia rolled her eyes, but fortunately all she said was: ‘In principle, dubious but of very little practical use. Tell me as precisely and in as much detail as possible what she said, how she looked and what happened otherwise.’

Patricia listened in deep silence and concentration while I told her the story. Then a slow smile slid over her face.

‘It only remains to be seen whether that is sufficient evidence for a judgement. However, there is one very interesting detail in what you just told me, which certainly justifies another round of questions,’ she said.

‘Now I have her within reach again,’ she added, rubbing her hands with glee. ‘If she falls now, she truly is a victim of her own excessive ambition,’ Patricia remarked, with a cackling and wholly unsympathetic laugh.

‘Thus far it is all very understandable, if tragic and deplorable. My mother has murdered one person and attempted to murder another out of a misconstrued love for me and a desire to increase my share of the inheritance. I am obviously extremely upset about it. But why on earth should I be called in here; what more do you expect me to say?’

Maria Irene looked at me across the table of the interview room with pleading, nonplussed eyes. As did her lawyer, Edvard Rønning Junior, who was sitting beside her. The prosecutor, who was sitting beside me, also sent me a questioning look.

‘The problem is, first of all, that your mother cannot have committed the murder alone, as she describes. We have an eyewitness who confirms that the car door was shut. And it would not have been possible for the person ahead of me to open the door, get in, start the engine and drive off before I got there.’

All three slowly seemed to understand this. Maria Irene nodded thoughtfully.

‘You really have thought of everything in this investigation. But I am afraid that again I cannot help you. Now that you say it, I do not doubt that my mother had an accomplice who drove the car, but I have not the faintest idea of who that could be. As far as I know, my mother has no secret lover, nor any friends who would be willing to help her with something like this.’

‘Precisely,’ I said.

The silence in the interview room was becoming ever more oppressive. Maria Irene had understood the significance, but was holding out for as long as possible before admitting it.

‘So what you are now implying is that I was with her and drove the car? But that is absurd, as I do not even have a driving licence.’

‘That is correct, my client does not have a driving licence,’ Rønning Junior repeated emphatically.

I ignored the lawyer and looked straight at Maria Irene.

‘I am not saying that you drove the car. I am in fact saying that your mother drove the car and that you committed the murder.’

This time the reaction from both the defence and the prosecution lawyers was instantaneous. Maria Irene, on the other hand, sat there just as calmly for a few seconds before pulling a somewhat exaggerated face.

‘This is becoming more and more absurd. I have never committed a crime of any sort in my life.’

She was convincing and I saw the look of disbelief on both lawyer’s faces, so hurried on.

‘It is perhaps true that you had never committed a crime before the evening in question. But that evening you committed a murder. I was close enough to recognize your tread, which is remarkably similar to that of your late brother. And what is more, you are the only person Synnøve Jensen would have let in. You knocked on the door and were admitted, you pulled out the pistol and shot her, you stood there waiting for the poor woman to die, and you cunningly dropped the pistol, then ran and hid when I knocked on the door.’

Six eyes were staring at Maria Irene with increasing interest. Her gaze was steadily fixed on me, as calm and irritatingly self-assured as ever.

‘With all due respect, this is all nonsense, unfounded speculation. I was at home in my bed at Gulleråsen when this terrible tragedy took place at Sørum. I was obviously on my own, so the lack of witnesses is hardly surprising.’