I could not help but ask what he had thought the next morning, when he heard that Leonard Schelderup had been found dead. He gave a heavy sigh; things had obviously been difficult for him too.
‘I have to admit that I was actually quite relieved when I heard that young Leonard had been murdered. My wife and I were not involved in any way and the desperately unfortunate phone call was obviously of no relevance to his death. But the steps I had to take as I approached my wife’s bed that morning to tell her about his death felt like an interminable journey. As I entered the room, I thought that the worst thing would be if Leonard had committed suicide and it later transpired that his father had been killed by someone else. I think my wife’s fragile mental health would then have cracked and I would have had to watch over her day and night to ensure that she too did not take her own life.’
I nodded and then shook his hand. I felt sorry for Mrs Wendelboe. And I definitely felt that Petter Johannes Wendelboe was more reliable than Hans Herlofsen. But after the day’s revelations I did not trust either of them, particularly when it came to the death of the much-maligned Magdalon Schelderup.
XI
After my second visit to the Wendelboes that day, I felt empty, both physically and mentally. On my way home, I had to face up to the fact that I had no more leads to follow, either this evening or tomorrow. Following the day’s revelations, I now believed that the murderer was either Hans Herlofsen or Magdalena Schelderup. But I had no idea whatsoever how I would manage to get any evidence or discover a crack in the defence.
And, on top of all the other problems, I felt a physical exhaustion creep over me, which made it even harder to think clearly. I got home around seven, set my alarm for nine and lay down for an hour or two. I fell asleep almost immediately, but did not sleep well. The surviving guests disturbed my sleep. And then I finally slipped into a very pleasant dream where I was dancing with Maria Irene in her room at Schelderup Hall. Just as I bent down to kiss her, we were interrupted – this time by my alarm clock.
As I lay there for a few extra minutes, half awake, I had to admit to myself that I was more than fascinated with Maria Irene, I was in fact in love with her.
I felt sure that this had nothing to do with her money and property. The diamond on the gold chain, which symbolized her wealth, was no more than an insignificant detail in my memory from Schelderup Hall. The image that had burnt itself into my mind was her red lips, only a breath away from mine, and the glimpse I had seen of the tops of her beautiful young breasts. As I lay there in bed, I made a pact with myself that I would make a serious attempt to see the rest of them as soon as the case was over. In my dozing daydream, I lay with her for a few moments more in her four-poster bed at Schelderup Hall, with her mouth gasping for mine, her naked, moaning body under mine. She was no longer relaxed and in control, but quite the opposite; unexpectedly wild and passionate.
This dream was definitely the highlight of the day so far. But one absolute requirement was that the murder case had to be solved before I could even begin to follow up on the dream. At half past nine, I got out of bed alone and moved into the living room. I spent the next hour in an extremely frustrating state where I could not think of anything other than the case, but at the same time was unable to make any headway.
XII
For a change, my phone rang at half past ten in the evening on Thursday, 15 May. This time it was Synnøve Jensen’s distraught voice that I heard at the other end.
‘Maybe this is silly… But Magdalon said something to me not long before he died, something that I don’t understand. And I also have something I think I should show you. I should probably have done so before. It is all very peculiar and I may have done something wrong without knowing it. Would you be able to come here first thing tomorrow morning?’
I hesitated a moment and then asked if she had received some kind of threat. She immediately replied no, and then added that it was probably not so urgent I needed to go there now, straight away. But I felt more and more uncertain. There was something about the intensity of the case and the memory of Leonard Schelderup phoning me in the evening and then being found shot before I could meet him the next day. So I pushed my tiredness to one side and said in a determined voice that I would come immediately.
It took no more than two minutes from the time that I put down the receiver until I had my coat on and was out through the door. But all the same, I felt reasonably calm as I left my house.
It was while I drove through the night alone in my car, heading towards Sørum, with no means of communication with Synnøve Jensen, Patricia or anyone else, that I was overwhelmed by a sudden unease.
This was probably due to a combination of the anxiety I thought I detected in Synnøve Jensen’s voice, the fact that Leonard Schlelderup had been shot only hours after he called me and yesterday’s letter warning of another death. Whatever the case, I felt a rising anxiety and put my foot to the floor. Visibility was good and there was very little in the way of traffic. In a strange way, the great silence and loneliness of the road only served to heighten my fears. My thoughts were preoccupied with what it was that Synnøve Jensen thought was so important to show me, but I could find no sensible answer.
I had been driving well over the speed limit, and at five past eleven I parked the car and made my way up to Synnøve Jensen’s little house in Sørum. The rain was pelting down so I dashed through the dark towards the front door.
XIII
There was no doorbell. I knocked hard on the door three times, without any response from inside. And yet I could see through the small windows that the light was on in the living room.
I called out to Synnøve Jensen, but still heard not a sound from inside. I hammered on the door for a fourth time. Then it occurred to me that it might not be locked. In the same moment, an icy-cold feeling told me that something was wrong, very wrong, and what is more, dangerous.
I knocked on the door for a fifth time. Then I opened it and went into the living room.
The sight that met my eyes was at first an enormous relief. Synnøve Jensen was sitting on the sofa facing me, wearing a simple blue dress, and there was no sign of anyone else in the small room. Her eyes were wide and they met mine.
Another even stronger feeling of danger flashed through me in those few seconds. Synnøve Jensen sat looking straight at me, but did not move. It was a relief when she opened her mouth. But this immediately turned to horror when the blood spilled out. I then noticed that blood was pouring from a bullet wound in her chest. The bullet had clearly been fired too high and missed the heart. There was a pistol lying on the floor by her hand. I vaguely registered that it looked rather old-fashioned, but I was more concerned about the woman on the sofa.
Her staring eyes were wide and frightened. The will to live still burnt bright in them. They told me one thing loud and clear, and it was important: Synnøve Jensen had not shot herself.
I grasped her hand. It was burning. The pulse in her wrist was still there, but barely.
Thoughts tumbled through my mind – that the murderer must have left by the door only shortly before I arrived. But I could not leave the fatally wounded Synnøve Jensen. Her hand held desperately onto mine, as though she was trying to cling to her life through me. Again she tried to say something, but was prevented from doing so by the blood. Her right hand clung to mine. She waved her left hand towards the back of the room, without much force. I instinctively looked up but could see no sign of anyone there.
‘Was it Hans Herlofsen who shot you?’ I asked.