I took the hint, quickly finished the first half of a roll and hastily grabbed another to take with me.
‘There is one thing that I have been wondering about. If the murderer was still there when I knocked on the door and Synnøve Jensen was so clearly still alive, why did the murderer not shoot her again? I initially thought that perhaps the shot was fired seconds before I came in, but then I would have heard the bang.’
Patricia immediately livened up. She leant forwards over the table and looked at me so solemnly that it almost felt like an accusation. Her voice was unusually brisk and passionate when she spoke.
‘I will tell you right away. Because the person who shot Synnøve Jensen is a particularly cold, intelligent and egotistical person. It is a heartbreaking story. The plan was to make the murder look like suicide, by leaving the pistol beside the body. However, something unexpected happened: the shot was not aimed well enough, so Synnøve Jensen was left to die slowly on the sofa. The murderer could have curtailed her suffering, but then the suicide plan would not work. So instead the murderer chose to stand patiently and wait until the victim died from the first bullet wound. It is likely that we may never know how many minutes this took. What we do know, however, is that this heartless plan would have worked perfectly if you had not responded so swiftly to Synnøve Jensen’s telephone call, and therefore arrived while she was still alive.’
Despite the lack of sleep, Patricia’s face was alert and engaged. She hurried on.
‘It is a truly despicable act to watch a person who is suffering die like that. And it becomes inhuman when you then think that it was a young, pregnant woman who was killed in her own home.’
I had to agree with her and put down the half-roll that I had been holding, uneaten.
‘It is, as you said, the epitome of human evil.’
Patricia waved a hand in irritation.
‘I was not talking about this crime when I said that, and it is highly unlikely to be the same perpetrator. But I cannot decide which is worse: what I was thinking about then, or this. It really is a grotesque case.’
Her voice was verging on livid and I suddenly noticed that she had goosebumps on her bare arms. I leant forwards spontaneously and put my hands on them. This touch of human warmth seemed to help. The goosebumps vanished and Patricia’s voice was friendlier than normal when she carried on speaking.
‘The big question with regards to last night’s murder is what happened in the minutes before the shot was fired, when the murderer first came into the house and then aimed the gun at Synnøve Jensen? It is true that Magdalon Schelderup’s key ring is still missing, but the key to Synnøve Jensen’s house was not on it. Right now, I can only think of one logical explanation, but there may of course be several.’
‘So…’ I started.
‘So, even though this is a very pleasant way to start a Friday, we should now both work separately for a few hours. I think the best division of labour is that you continue to gather information while I work with what we already have. But do give me a call if you come up with any questions later on in the day.’
I took the hint, withdrew my hands and stood up.
II
The last papers before the weekend were favourable, given the circumstances. The Labour Party conference had now finished but still dominated the news, and all the papers, with the exception of the Communist rag, Friheten, praised the party’s clear yes to the renewal of Norway’s membership of NATO. On the other hand, opinion was divided with regard to the Labour Party’s prospects in the autumn general election, and what significance the national conference’s unexpected vote in favour of demanding the introduction of abortion in Norway might have. The murder in Sørum last night was not covered by any of the papers. But the press had got wind of the news and the switchboard reported an increase in enquiries. I wrote a five-line press release in light of the ongoing investigation, stating that there would be no further comment.
At five minutes past midday, a police constable came running in to tell me that a witness from the night before had just come forward. He also warned me not to expect too much, certainly if one was to believe the witness himself.
I understood what he meant as soon as I saw the witness. He was a grey-haired, thin elderly man in a plain brown coat, who kept his eyes fixed to the floor as he twisted a cloth cap in his hands. When we shook hands, his was feeble and trembling.
‘I hope you’ll forgive me if I’m wasting your time, but… I don’t imagine that I have anything of much importance for you. But you see, I was up on the hill behind poor Synnøve’s house last night, and saw a car parked there. It was the wife who told me that they’d announced on the radio that anyone who was nearby was to report to the police immediately. I think I was the only one there; I certainly didn’t see anyone else. But I don’t really have much more to tell, so perhaps I should not have come.’
I assured the witness that he had done the right thing by coming. After a few minutes more, however, I also had to concede that he really did not have much of interest to add. He lived on a smallholding nearby and had been out walking his dog on the hill behind Synnøve Jensen’s house. The witness had passed the house at around half past eleven and was surprised to see a car parked up there in the dark. He had thought that it was perhaps the police or some other important people and so had taken a detour rather than pass too close to the car.
The witness had not seen anyone there, and could not give any further details as to the make or colour of the car. He knew very little about cars in general. He apologized and explained that his lack of interest was due to the fact that there had never been any real possibility of him ever owning one. The car he saw had a roof and wheels, but he would not dare to describe it in any more detail than that.
The conversation depressed me, but it seemed to be even more painful for the witness. It ended with him sitting with his face buried in his hands.
‘After seventy-two years working in the fields, without ever having achieved much, I have to witness my poor neighbour being killed in her own home. And I was close by and didn’t check on her. It’s terrible, may the Lord forgive me,’ he lamented.
I tried to comfort the man and asked a bit about his neighbours, but there was not much to be gained here either. Both he and his wife had realized that Synnøve Jensen did not have an easy life. Her father was a drunkard and her mother was depressed. But the neighbours had enough problems of their own and had not wanted to interfere. No one had a word to say against Synnøve herself, but then no one knew her very well either. She had worked very hard and in recent years had really only come home to sleep.
I eventually asked the witness to wait a few minutes and went to call Patricia from my office. I did not think that there was anything more to be had from him, but could not let him go until I had checked with her.
Patricia was obviously wide awake now and listened thoughtfully to my brief update.
‘I have only one question for the witness, but it is potentially extremely important. Was the door on the driver’s side open when he passed the car?’
I did not understand why this was relevant, but I went out and asked the witness. He looked up at me in surprise, but quite noticeably livened up.
‘No, I am absolutely certain of that, I could swear to it – I would have noticed if the driver’s door was open. I would have gone to see what had happened then. There’s no doubt about that!’
Suddenly the man was upbeat, almost cheerful. He repeated a couple of times that he was certain that the car door had not been open and then asked promptly if it was important. I still did not understand why it was significant, but replied that it was likely to be of considerable potential importance, and I thanked him profusely on behalf of myself and the entire police force. The man shook my hand in delight and more or less flew out of the room.