She noticed my astonishment and promptly continued.
‘It was completely harmless. He stopped by a couple of times after work, talked about how much time and money two single parents, each with their own child, might save by getting married. He was not someone I would have chosen anyway. And, more importantly, I still had nothing to give any man other than Bjørn, and did not think that I ever would. I helped him to understand this and he paid no more visits. It has always been pleasant enough whenever we have met again over the years. But I really do not see what that has to do with any of the murders.’
Neither did I, if truth be told. However, I noted down a new question for Hans Herlofsen, and reflected that he had obviously forgotten to tell me rather a lot.
I remarked that I had probably seen all that I needed to in the room where her husband had been killed and that she could now do whatever she wished with the room, with a clear conscience. She shook her head sadly.
‘I would love to tidy out the room, but I am not ready for it yet. I hope that I will be able to start the day after you tell me who murdered my husband.’
I took the hint and stood up to leave. I heard my voice promise to do my best and said that I would let her know as soon as I discovered anything new. At the same time I thought to myself that, no matter who had killed Magdalon Schelderup, he had indeed left a sad collection of people and fates in his wake.
VII
When I left Mona Varden at around four o’clock, it was clear to me, given the day’s findings, that I should pay another visit to one of the parties. It would be impossible to finish the day without having confronted Hans Herlofsen with the new information, in particular the piece of paper from Arild Bratberg’s flat. I stopped by the office to see if there was anything new there.
Most of the staff had gone home for the day and, as I expected and feared, there were no new messages from the forensic department.
There was something that caught my attention, however, waiting all alone on my desk. It was a small, slim envelope addressed to ‘The head of the investigation into the murder of Magdalon Schelderup’.
The typeface was the same as the letter that I had received the day after Magdalon Schelderup’s death. This envelope also contained a single sheet of white paper. However the text was even shorter this time.
Here, now.
So one of the dictator’s children has gone.
More may follow, if you do not soon find out which of us is doing wrong…
I sat there staring at the piece of paper. Patricia’s preliminary conclusions about the first letter were certainly reinforced by the second. If the sender really was the murderer, he or she was without doubt a mediocre poet who for some reason or other felt the need to show off to the police.
But I was unable to glean any more than that from the brief letter. And there was one obvious and disturbing conclusion: that more dramatic deaths were to be expected.
The sender had, reasonably enough, not signed this letter either. I made a photostat copy of it and sent the original to be checked for fingerprints – without any high hopes. With the naked eye, I could see that it was the same type of envelope, addressed in the same way as the last letter.
But there was one small, strange difference. Whereas the back of the last envelope had been white and unblemished, I discovered a tiny mark from a green pen on this one. It was a straight line, not even an inch long. But somehow I could not bring myself to believe it was accidental. In a peculiar way that I could not even explain to myself, the short green line only increased my confusion and concern about future developments in the case.
VIII
Hans Herlofsen’s house out at Lysaker was larger than I had expected. It was of roughly the same size as the Wendelboes’ house, a spacious home spread over two floors, with a well-kept garden. Herlofsen’s old Peugeot somehow looked out of place.
The front door was opened by a young woman with a small toddler dozing on her arm. She gave a cautious smile and said that her husband had not yet come home from work, but that her dear father-in-law upstairs was at home.
I found Hans Herlofsen in a large dining room, seated alone at a big table with the remains of an early supper in front of him. He immediately indicated that I should sit down on the other side of the table. His face took on a doleful expression when I complimented him on such a beautiful, well-kept house.
‘It would be hard to find another man in this town who is more attached to his house than me. I was born on the ground floor and have lived here for all fifty-five years of my life. We have a wonderful arrangement now whereby the younger generation live downstairs, on the promise that I can live here until I die. I could not imagine my life without this house and my son. It is a small miracle that I have been able to keep them both. And to have acquired a daughter-in-law who is a good cook into the bargain.’
‘The contents of the will must have been an enormous relief for you?’
He nodded.
‘I am more than happy to admit that. It was as though a dead weight I had been carrying around for some twenty years had been lifted, when I heard the will being read. As long as there are no complications or anything like that, I can now forget my past and start saving my own money. I have learnt to live frugally, so with no more interest and down payments to make, I should be able to save around 4,000 to 5,000 kroner a year. With the current interest rate, that could amount to nearly 100,000 before I am seventy and can retire. Which means that I could leave my son and his family a house with no mortgage and a healthy bank account. I have never asked for more, after all that has happened.’
It seemed a shame to ruin his happy, carefree mood. But it was easier to do so now that I knew he had withheld important information.
‘I apologize, but I am afraid that I have to ask you some more difficult questions. I am, after all, leading a murder investigation, and Magdalon Schelderup’s death was clearly a great release for you.’
Hans Herlofsen wiped his brow with a look of concern.
‘No one would deny that, but I have been perfectly open about it. There are at least three others who have gained considerably more than I did, before you even count the unborn child. I had no idea that the will had been changed and, had it not, his death would quite frankly have spelled my ruin. So I find it hard to see that as a motive and, in any case, I did not kill him.’
His reasoning was logical enough. But there were still some questions regarding issues that Herlofsen had not been so open about, and I was intrigued to see how he would react.
‘I went to speak to Bjørn Varden’s widow today. She told me that you courted her shortly after the war. She even remembered your calculation of how much you could save if the two of you got married.’
Herlofsen was thoughtful for a moment. A sad smile twitched at the corners of his mouth before he answered.
‘And I still remember those figures too: the average financial outgoings of both households multiplied by 0.75… That is an embarrassing episode that I had hoped she had forgotten, and I cannot see how it bears any relevance to the present murder investigation. It only illustrates how desperate I was for the first two or three years after my wife’s death, both socially and financially. Mona Varden made it clear in a very considerate manner that she was not interested and I left without protest. I later realized that it was best for everyone. I had no money and was living under such enormous pressure that I would not have been a good husband to her or any other woman. And I have since understood that she is still deeply affected by the painful memories of her husband’s death. So it would have been like the deaf leading the blind.’