The electric atmosphere in the room meant that everyone rather bizarrely turned against Fredrik Schelderup following his angry outburst, despite the fact that he quickly regained control and only seconds later tried to apologize. Herlofsen and Mrs Weldelboe turned away from each other and now glared at him. Even Petter Johannes Wendelboe had turned discreetly towards Fredrik Schelderup. I noticed with a small shard of jealousy that Maria Irene had finally turned her eyes away from me and was now looking at her half-brother. Magdalena Schelderup was puffing furiously on her third cigarette and through the smoke blew out a question as to whether a statement like that might not constitute a confession.
With this, the pressured and slightly intoxicated Fredrik Schelderup let his mask slip completely. He roared his innocence, slammed his glass back down onto the table with such force that the stem broke, and added that he was the only one around the table that he could guarantee had not killed his father.
There was complete silence in the room for a moment. Six pairs of venomous eyes watched Fredrik Schelderup as he poured himself another drink and drained the stemless glass. Then he crashed the remainder of the glass demonstratively down on the table, stood up and asked if he could now consider himself arrested.
I replied that his outburst and behaviour had been noted. I would not arrest him, but that from now on he would only be allowed to move between Bygdøy and Gulleråsen with my permission. This was obviously seen as further provocation. He came and stood right in front of me and howled: ‘You can see for yourself the situation I am in. My father and brother have been killed, I am being accused of killing them, and all the people in this room can be trusted to try to kill me too. So tomorrow you can either arrest me or let me go to South America. Prison or Brazil are the only places I can now feel safe from these monsters!’
Before I could answer, he stormed out of the room and the building. Six pairs of eyes watched me in silence as I let him go. I wrote in my notepad with exaggerated movements to demonstrate that his behaviour would not be forgotten.
Sandra Schelderup had regained much of her composure, but her voice was still sharp as a knife when she demanded a continued police presence to safeguard her and her daughter until an arrest was made. Magdalena echoed this demand. I agreed to both on the spot. Magdalena Schelderup’s face called to mind an old owl when she gave a curt nod. She shook my hand briefly in passing and left the building without gracing the others with so much as a look.
Mrs Wendelboe leant forward and whispered something in Hans Herlofsen’s ear, who responded with a brief nod. I sent them a questioning look, and asked if there was anyone else who would like police protection overnight. Mrs Wendelboe looked at Mr Wendelboe, who shook his head. And, like a strange echo, Herlofsen did the same. All three of them got up to leave.
I followed them out into the hallway and asked Mrs Wendelboe what she had said to Herlofsen. She claimed that she had simply apologized for her outburst. Herlofsen confirmed this, but asked her somewhat curtly to repeat what else she said. She blanched, sent him a withering look, but then told me what she had said: ‘It must be either Fredrik or Magdalena.’ Herlofsen nodded his confirmation, said clearly that he believed this to be the case, and left the house in a rush.
I stood on the steps for a moment with the Wendelboes. I repeated my offer of police protection. This provoked the first comment of the day from Petter Johannes Wendelboe.
‘No, thank you. We will definitely not be going out, either this evening or tonight. And if any of the others should decide to pay us an unexpected visit, which is highly unlikely, they will receive a warm welcome.’
I thought I caught a shadow of a smile on Petter Johannes Wendelboe’s face when he said this. It occurred to me that he, unlike all the others, seemed to be enjoying the dramatic situation. But I was not able to discern if that was due to anything other than reliving some of the excitement of the war. A moment later, his face wore its usual stony mask. Both he and his wife shook my hand and then left without further words.
I loitered for a minute or two in the hall, apparently to think things through, and what I hoped and expected might happen did. Maria Irene came almost dancing down the stairs, smiling her mischievous smile, and apologized that the atmosphere at Schelderup Hall was unfortunately not at its best at the moment.
‘But let us hope that it will improve in the future, when this whole nightmare is over,’ she added, with a broader smile. ‘Do you think it will take long?’ she asked in a whisper. I replied that I hoped and thought that there would be a resolution within a couple of days.
Maria Irene nodded and looked up at me questioningly, but then nodded again with understanding when I just gave her an exaggerated stern look. I was given a brief hug before she tripped silently back up the stairs.
I stood there, looking up, for a few seconds after she disappeared. Then I went out on my own into the May day.
I left Schelderup Hall feeling remarkably unsettled. Following this gathering of the remaining guests from Magdalon Schelderup’s last supper, I understood better than ever Patricia’s description of them as satellite people in a universe that had lost its point of gravity. The situation still felt very unstable and unclear, no matter which way I looked. And it became no clearer when I returned to the office and discovered a new finding from the deceased Synnøve Jensen’s house waiting for me on my desk.
V
‘So, what do you make of these? A blue line on the back of the first envelope, and a black line on the back of the second.’
I put the letters down on the table in front of Patricia.
The letter with the blue line read:
Here, now.
So one of the dictator’s wives has now gone.
More may follow, if you do not soon find out which of us is doing wrong…
And the text in the letter with the black line was:
Here, now.
So one of the dictator’s friends has now gone.
More may follow, if you do not soon find out which of us is doing wrong…
Patricia sat and pondered for a while, but then gave a cautious smile.
‘This really is very depressing news, but does tie in rather well with my theory about how it all fits together. So these were hidden between the pages of two different books on Synnøve Jensen’s bedside table? And both envelopes were sealed?’
I nodded, without fully understanding the significance of this. Patricia fired her next technical question.
‘And the letter in Synnøve Jensen’s pocket, you only said that her fingerprints were found on the envelope? Were they on the letter as well?’
‘Only on the envelope. There were no fingerprints on the letter itself.’
Patricia nodded sagely, but also let out a heavy sigh. I asked her, anxiously, if that did not fit with her theory. She replied that it in fact fitted well, but pointed to a very depressing conclusion. I was slightly flummoxed as to what she meant by that in a situation where I myself would be more than happy with any conclusion to any of the three murders. In my mind I counted my lucky stars that there were no newspapers on 17 May, but was not overly optimistic as to how my boss would assess the status of my investigation.
Patricia looked at me for a few seconds without saying anything. Her expression was unusually friendly, almost affectionate. She just sat there looking at me. For some reason or another, I thought about Maria Irene. It was not a comfortable situation. So I broke the silence with a question.
‘A penny for your thoughts, Patricia?’
The answer was swift and unexpected.
‘Just wondering why you are still alive!’
No doubt I looked rather stunned at this. She carried on immediately.
‘Do not get me wrong, I am very glad that you are still alive. But has it not struck you as rather odd? Just imagine the situation the murderer found themselves in last night when you arrived. The murderer who had just shot Synnøve Jensen was standing behind her with a loaded gun in their hand when you rather inconveniently knocked on the door. Given that this is clearly an exceptionally intelligent and callous person, one might assume that the most obvious solution was to shoot you as soon as you opened the door, and then escape afterwards. Instead, the murderer carried through the suicide plan at ridiculous risk, leaving the gun beside Synnøve Jensen and then barricading themselves in upstairs, unarmed. Understandable if the murderer did not know who it was knocking on the door, or had reason to believe there was a large muster of policemen outside. But undeniably strange if the murderer knew that it was only you who was standing there.’