The athletics club was my next port of call, but there was not much to be had here either. The chairman of the club expressed his sorrow and said what a loss it would be to the team only days before the annual Holmenkollen relay race, and then gave me the number of the man who had been Leonard Schelderup’s trainer for many years.
Other than the dead boy’s mother, the trainer was the first person who sounded as though he would genuinely miss him. He said in a gentle voice that not only was Leonard Schelderup one of the greatest talents he had ever met, but also one of the greatest people. There was an incredible contrast between his iron will and competitive instinct on the track and his gentle, considerate nature otherwise. As far as the trainer could remember, he had never said no when the club asked him to do something. In the past couple of years, however, it had been generally understood that it was best not to ask without warning. They could see that it made him uncomfortable and they feared it might ruin his concentration in competitions.
The trainer had met Leonard Schelderup’s mother on numerous occasions, and also his stepmother and sister a couple of times, but he only knew his father through the media. Leonard had been in the club since he was fourteen, but only his mother ever drove him to training in those early years. Then, when he was sixteen, he started to come on a bike and, later, when he had turned eighteen, in a car. But always on his own, as far as he could remember. It was not generally known in the club whether he had ever had a girlfriend. If I wanted, I could have the names and numbers of some of the people he had run and trained with, but it was unlikely that any of them had ever been to his home.
One of the youngest members of the relay team had once called Leonard Schelderup ‘the lone horseman’, obviously inspired by some boys’ book about the Wild West. And the nickname had stuck, as a fond sign of respect. He had always been quite reserved as a person, but presumably that was in part due to his family background and wealth. In contrast to his son, the father was widely discussed and disputed, the trainer added.
I understood what he meant. Though he had never actually been there in person, Magdalon Schelderup had affected his son’s life even in athletics circles. But to them, Leonard was simply the lone horseman, and apparently no one had tried to find out what was hidden behind his hero’s mask.
Otherwise, the trainer agreed that Leonard Schelderup had had more of a spring in his step in recent months. The trainer had thought that this was perhaps in part due to his steadily improving performance and in part to resolving his work situation. I thanked the trainer for all his information and asked if I might call again if necessary. He replied sadly that of course I could ring, but he was unlikely to be of any more help to me.
Having put down the receiver, I sat in my office for a few silent minutes, deep in thought. Leonard Schelderup had, to an apparently alarming extent, been, if not a man without character, certainly one without a private life. He was someone towards whom no one felt any ill will but, equally someone whom no one, not even his brother, would miss. Leonard Schelderup had, to all intents and purposes, walked a lonely path through the inhabitants of Oslo, from his flat to his office to the athletics track, interrupted only by unwanted family gatherings. Even though he had not been willing to follow the path his father wanted, his short life had been deeply influenced by him. I thought about Patricia’s concept about satellite people, and found it frighteningly fitting.
There appeared to be no conflicts outside family circles that would give anyone reason to want Leonard Schelderup dead. Yesterday’s lady visitor was now even more mysterious and interesting, as was the unidentified man who had apparently visited him several times in the past few months.
VIII
The Wendelboes’ house in Ski was more or less as I had expected it to be. Visibly smaller than Schelderup Hall, it was still larger than all the other houses on the street and most other houses in Oslo. There was only one car parked outside the house, but it was also quite possibly the largest and most expensive in the street. And it was a spacious white Volvo that I immediately recognized from outside Schelderup Hall. The car was newly polished and the lawn around the house had recently been cut.
I immediately felt more at home here than at Schelderup Hall. Petter Johannes Wendelboe opened the door himself and showed me into the living room. Having seated me in a comfortable chair by the dining table, he then said he would go and get his wife. I said that some of my questions were about the war and that we perhaps need not disturb her. He nodded and promptly sat down on the chair opposite me.
‘That is very considerate of you. This tragic event has brought up many old memories that are still very hard for my wife to bear,’ he told me.
I glanced quickly around the room. It was far more lived-in than the drawing room at Schelderup Hall. This was partly because the room was smaller. There were only eight chairs around the dining table. However, the main difference was all the family pictures on the wall. It is true that Wendelboe was not smiling in any of them but, photographed in shorts with his daughter and two grandchildren eating ice cream, he could be taken for a grandfather like all others. The sense of gravity was always there. The largest picture on the wall was an old black-and-white photograph of the couple in younger days, together with Ole Kristian Wiig. Mrs Wendelboe had one arm around her husband and one around her brother, but she was leaning most towards her brother.
He followed my gaze and cleared his throat.
‘My wife is a kind-hearted good woman and she was exceptionally close to her brother. It was a great loss to her that touched her life deeply.’
It struck me that this loss had also greatly affected Wendelboe’s life, but that he perhaps would rather die than admit it.
My initial questions about the recent events were quickly answered. He had heard about the young Leonard Schelderup’s death on the radio. It made the situation even more tragic and had been yet another blow for his wife. Neither Wendelboe nor his wife could claim to know Leonard Schelderup well, but they had seen him regularly since he was a child during the war.
‘We have talked about it many times. He was obviously a very talented young man, but quite unlike his father,’ he observed.
‘That nearly sounds like a compliment,’ I ventured.
Wendelboe tightened his lips.
‘Well, yes and no. They were, more than anything, incredibly different. Magdalon was a remarkably strong and successful man, but also a remarkably ruthless man. For a long time we have thought that his son seemed to be kinder, but also weaker.’
I nodded to encourage him on. He hesitated, but then continued.
‘My wife and I were by chance sitting in the grandstand when he won the Norwegian Championship last year. Our eldest grandchild was taking part, but was far less successful. We commented then that Leonard must have inherited some of his father’s willpower after all. My wife suggested that we wait for him outside the entrance after the ceremony, so we could congratulate him. And I am very glad now that we did. It was clear he was extremely grateful that we did.’
Wendelboe was not one to waste words, but it was easy to believe him when he said this. I suddenly understood what Leonard Schelderup had meant when he said that behind his mask Wendelboe had more human warmth than his own father.