Magdalon Schelderup’s written statement was an accurate account of his explanation given at the scene of the crime. Bratberg had seemed distressed and confused all day and had suddenly shot Wiig without warning. Schelderup had added a rather sad sentence at the end to say that Bratberg was obviously mentally disturbed and that he and the others in the group should have noticed this earlier. The gun belonged to Bratberg and had his and Schelderup’s fingerprints on it, as could be expected, given that Schelderup had taken the gun from him.
Bratberg’s written statement was a chapter unto itself. I did not know whether to laugh or cry when I read it. According to Arild Bratberg, Wiig and Schelderup had been arguing when he came into the room and Wiig had been waving a piece of paper furiously in Schelderup’s face. Schelderup had suddenly darted over to Bratberg, snatched his gun from him and shot Wiig. Schelderup had then opened the window and waved to someone. After which he walked calmly round the table whistling, swinging the gun loosely in his hand and breaking into the popular song ‘Better and Better Day by Day’. When Bratberg said in horror that Wiig had been hit, Schelderup had, in his words, initially replied: ‘Yes, but that’s not so strange; after all, there’s a war going on out there!’ He had then commented that it was not unusual to have a lie-down in the early afternoon, and added with a smile: ‘And anyway, it’s only a toy gun. Try for yourself!’ Schelderup had then passed the gun to Bratberg, only to grab it from him again when the two policemen came into the room. As to the critical question of where the piece of paper was that he claimed to have seen, Bratberg stated that Schelderup had swallowed it before the policemen entered.
Of all the many strange statements I had read, this was the most confused and desperate. The psychiatrist appointed by the court declared that Bratberg was mentally unstable, and he was sentenced to indefinite detention. According to later attachments, he had been detained in a closed prison ward until 1954 and had then been transferred to the mental asylum at Gaustad. He was released on probation in 1960, but had then been sectioned again following relapses in 1962, 1964, 1965 and 1967. The picture of a seriously mentally ill person who had committed a tragic and meaningless crime was clear enough. It was not difficult to understand why the case had had such a devastating effect on Ole Kristian Wiig’s sister and her family. But I did find it hard to see what relevance it might have to Magdalon Schelderup’s death.
V
Hans Herlofsen was punctual and arrived at midday as arranged. He was correctly dressed and visibly tense, and nodded in gratitude when I closed the door to my office behind him.
I opened with a routine question regarding how he had travelled to Schelderup Hall the evening before. Herlofsen replied that he had, as usual, driven there alone in his own car, but hesitated slightly when I asked which car. He nodded reluctantly when I asked if the blue Peugeot was his. It felt as if I was getting warmer already. I took a chance and tried a bluff: ‘Your relationship with Schelderup was fine for the first few years after the war, wasn’t it? But then something happened that I think perhaps you should explain in more detail…’
I was prepared for a violent reaction, but it did not happen. It was clear, however, that I had hit bullseye. Hans Herlofsen started to tremble and seemed to sink back into his chair. He sat leaning back for a while, before he started to speak in a shaky voice.
‘I hope that you appreciate how hard it is for me to talk about this. I will be honest, but I pray that it does not need to become public knowledge, unless it should prove to have anything to do with the murder. And I can guarantee you 100 per cent that it does not,’ he hastened to add.
I waved impatiently for him to continue, but did give an understanding nod.
‘It is an irony of fate that I, who have spent my life looking after figures for other people, have not been able to look after my own. There is one year in my life that I simply cannot account for. That year started on 12 February 1948 when I came home to Lysaker and found my wife lying dead on the sofa with our two-year-old son in her arms. And it ended on 14 February 1949 when I was met at the office by a furious Magdalon Schelderup, and was accused of defrauding his company to the tune of 107,123 kroner. I still remember very little from the intervening period. I know that I sent my son to my wife’s sister and I myself drank and gambled every weekend and most evenings. I have no other explanation for it other than that it was an extreme form of grief, perhaps combined with a delayed reaction from the horrors of the war. Whatever the case, I am still not able to explain how I managed to lose such a large amount, even if I did bet on the horses and gamble whenever I got the chance. And the fact that I could do anything so unthinkable as swindle Magdalon Schelderup is even more inexplicable.’
I nodded in agreement. From what I had heard about Magdalon Schelderup thus far, he was certainly not someone one should try to swindle.
‘But you do perhaps remember what happened on 14 February 1949?’
He nodded and swallowed.
‘Yes, very clearly, unfortunately. Magdalon was absolutely livid in his own peculiar calm way, as he could be when he lost money or felt that he had been cheated by someone. He said he would call the police unless I could put the money on the table in the course of the working day – with interest. I confessed to him that I had drunk or played the money away. Then I got down on my knees in front of his desk, weeping, and begged him to spare me for the sake of my motherless little boy. I promised that I would pay him back every krone with interest over time. I explained that my assets were worth barely a tenth of the sum and that I would not be able to earn the money if I was found guilty of fraud. He said neither yes or no, just told me to get out of his sight. He added that I might as well crawl out. So I did as he said. I crawled out of his office on my hands and knees and did not stand up until I was out in the corridor and almost tripped up his wife.’
The memory was obviously deeply uncomfortable and distressing. Hans Herlofsen wiped the sweat from his brow and took a short pause before continuing.
‘There was absolutely nothing in the world I could do, so I went back to my own office and carried on working as best I could. All day I waited for the police to knock on my door. And eventually it was Magdalon himself who came in, without knocking, at the end of the afternoon. He put down two written documents on the desk in front of me. One was a confession to fraud. The other was a contract in which I declared that I owed him 95,000 kroner, of which 87,123 was an ‘unpaid loan’ and 7,877 was ‘unpaid interest’. The amount was to be paid back with interest at 10 per cent, in annual instalments of 10,000 kroner. And my house and all my other assets were held as collateral in the event of any default in payment. I was given half a minute to sign or he would call the police. I signed, and he left the office holding both the documents. I have never seen them since, but I have been conscious of their existence every day of my life. Year after year has gone by without us ever mentioning the matter directly. I have been his slave – I had to carry on working for him for whatever wage he himself decided to pay me and could never answer back, no matter what bile he spat at me. My life has been an endless toil, a never-ending struggle to meet those payments on 31 December every year. And in 1964, I had to pawn my wife’s last pieces of jewellery between Christmas and New Year in order to make it.’
My head was spinning. The situation was easy enough to understand, but not the profundity of it. Among Magdalon Schelderup’s ten guests, there were already so many tragic fates and possible motives for murder.