I had actually not thought about how strange it was that I was still alive. But I took her point when she put it like this and immediately asked if she had a theory about the connection here. To my relief, she gave a measured nod.
‘I really only see one possibility. And that fortunately falls into place with my overall theory of how everything fits together. But I am still not absolutely certain, and it is without a doubt a very serious step to accuse someone of murder when you have no concrete evidence.’
She hesitated, then asked abruptly: ‘What do you make of the situation yourself?’
I realized that Patricia was not willing to divulge her theory without knowing what I thought, and I had little to lose by revealing this in such a closed and highly unofficial space. So I launched myself out into the unknown waters.
‘I have to admit that I am not certain about anything. I think you are right in saying there is more than one person involved here. Yesterday, I was very close to arresting Hans Herlofsen. Today, my main theory is that Magdalena Schelderup was the Dark Prince and killed the two Resistance men during the war, but that Synnøve Jensen wrote the letters and killed the Schelderups, both father and son. Synnøve Jensen had planned several murders, most immediately Magdalena, who then beat her to it.’
Patricia stared at me wide-eyed for a moment.
‘You surpass yourself,’ she remarked, apparently serious.
My joy lasted for all of ten seconds. Because when she continued, it was far less pleasant.
‘I would not have believed it was possible to get so much wrong in two sentences, and at such a late stage of a murder investigation. Magdalena Schelderup is neither the Dark Prince nor the person who killed Synnøve Jensen. Synnøve Jensen did not kill either the father or the son, she never planned to murder anyone, and nor did she write any of the letters. And just to be clear about it, the person who killed Synnøve Jensen is not the Dark Prince, either.’
It was indeed quite a salvo, even for Patricia. Fortunately, I still had a trump card up my sleeve, and decided to play it straight away.
‘Are you certain that Synnøve Jensen’s murderer was not the Dark Prince? That it was not the same pistol that was used?’
Patricia shook her head vigorously.
‘Don’t be ridiculous. It would be an incredible coincidence if it was the same kind of gun, or demonstrate a rather warped sense of humour on the part of the murderer.’
Triumphantly, I pulled out a sheet of paper and threw it down on the table between us.
‘Well then you are very wrong yourself, my dear Patricia, and I can prove it. I took this written report from the ballistics expert with me, just in case. It is 100 per cent certain that the bullets that killed Hans Petter Nilsen and Bjørn Varden in 1941 came from the same Walther pistol that was found lying in Synnøve Jensen’s house yesterday. The registration number has been filed off, so we will not be able to trace it, but it is definitely the same weapon.’
I later regretted that I did not have a camera with me. In a flash, Patricia’s face was transformed into the most surprised woman’s face I have ever seen. It was the face of a person who has suddenly seen their entire perception of the world, their whole view of life, crumble before their very eyes.
Then, just as suddenly, a relieved grin spread over her face.
To my astonishment, Patricia whooped loudly in triumph: ‘EUREKA!’
Then she started to laugh, a loud, coarse laugh. It was almost a minute before she had composed herself enough to talk again.
‘Please excuse my somewhat eccentric behaviour. But thanks to you, the final, most important, piece of the jigsaw puzzle has now fallen into place. It is incredible just how ironic fate can sometimes be.’
I looked at her, nonplussed. She chuckled a bit more, but was then suddenly serious again.
‘No more sympathy or other unnecessary luxuries. There really is only one detail left in connection with Leonard Schelderup’s death. Drive over to the hospital to see Ingrid Schelderup, and ask her as soon as she wakes up where the revolver was before she left it on the floor by the front door. When you have found out, come back here, then I will explain to you how this fits in with the other two murders.’
I looked at her again with a mixture of surprise and scepticism.
‘I thought we both agreed that Ingrid Schelderup could not possibly have anything to do with her son’s death?’
‘No one is saying that she had anything to do with her son’s death. However, the revolver which was used to shoot her son was lying somewhere else when she got there that morning. And where it was lying when she came in is of vital importance to the question of who shot Leonard Schelderup. And when I have my theory confirmed as to who shot him, I can hopefully quickly fill you in on how everything fits together, including who sprinkled the powdered nuts on Magdalon Schelderup’s food and who shot Synnøve Jensen!’
This was definitely too good an offer to say no to, particularly given my last conversation with my boss. So I got up and made ready to leave.
Patricia stopped me with a final brief remark as I stood up.
‘To misquote Sherlock Holmes ever so slightly, from one of Conan Doyle’s best novels: the point to which I would wish to draw your attention is what the dogs did in the night-time.’
I was totally lost.
‘But… if you mean the guard dogs at Schelderup Hall, they did absolutely nothing on the night that Leonard Schelderup was murdered.’
Patricia nodded smugly.
‘Precisely.’
I must have looked very bewildered, but Patricia was all secretive and jolly, and just waved me out of the door.
Three minutes later, I was in the car driving to the hospital. On the way there, I pondered Patricia’s mysterious parting remark, and could find no connection to the fact that the guard dogs at the Gulleråsen mansion had been quiet on the night that Leonard Schelderup had been shot in his flat in Skøyen. But in a strange way, I felt secure in the knowledge that Patricia had seen something that I could not, and that her explanation and solution were just around the corner.
VI
Ingrid Schelderup had slept heavily, but had just woken up when I arrived at the hospital. I had to wait a little while until she was in a fit state to talk to me. So I sat waiting for a very long half hour indeed, before being shown into her room at around half past eight. By then I had worked out the connection between who shot her son and the importance of where the revolver was placed. And I had to admit that it seemed highly plausible, to the extent that anything in this case did.
Ingrid Schelderup kept her dignity well in the face of the greatest tragedy of her life. She was sitting in an armchair, slightly slumped, but fully clothed. Her face was dead and her movements delayed. She looked at least six years older than she had done the first time we met only six days ago. I thought I could even see more grey hairs in amongst the black. Throughout our short conversation, her body seemed to be hanging off the chair. Her head sat atop her thin neck and moved very gently back and forth and her eyes were still alive. They stayed fixed on me from the moment I came through the door. She nodded faintly, but did not say anything or make any other movement.