A hint of seriousness returned once again to Fredrik Schelderup’s otherwise jocular expression when he said this. And when he had left the room, I sat and ruminated on whether I had also seen a hint of respect or fear when I looked in his eye.
VII
Leonard Schelderup was an intense, gum-chewing man of twenty-seven, about half a head shorter than me. He appeared to glide into the room, with the classic light step and lithe body of a long-distance runner. He had managed to regain some composure by the time he came in for questioning, two hours after the murder, but was clearly still deeply affected by the drama in the dining room. He admitted as much himself and started by apologizing for his confused behaviour. He then added that the day’s events really were quite extraordinary, and that he felt particularly exposed.
I said that I fully understood his situation, and then tagged on a comment that he and his dead father seemed to be very different. Leonard Schelderup chewed frantically on his gum for a few moments before his answer more or less tumbled out of his mouth: ‘Yes and no. It’s easy to understand that it might seem that way. I am very influenced by what other people think and say about me, and I actually care about other people’s feelings. Neither were ever traits of my father. I am often nervous when meeting people and have never been interested in business. But there were similarities. I have a lot of my father’s willpower and his competitive streak, but use it instead on the track and at university. And that was not what my father wanted. But in recent years it seemed that he did understand and respect me a little more. We have unfortunately never had a good relationship. But I hope that it was not quite so bad in the last year of his life.’
He swiftly added: ‘I was eight when my father came into my room one day and told me that my mother was moving out and that I would be staying here without her. Our relationship never really moved on from there. I have long since accepted that my father is who he is and had absolutely no reason at all to wish him dead now. It still seems very unreal that he has been murdered, and why he chose me to taste his food is a mystery.’
The formulation ‘had absolutely no reason at all to wish him dead now’ immediately caught my attention. I asked, in a sharper tone, whether that meant that he had previously wished his father were dead.
Leonard Schelderup’s jaws worked even harder on the chewing gum before he answered.
‘I may have said something of the sort to him when I was a teenager, when I was rebelling. I thought he treated my mother appallingly both before and after the divorce, and whatever I did was apparently of no interest whatsoever to him. Shouting at my father was like banging your head against the wall. He never lost control and just looked down at me and through me, superior in every way. Even when I was taller than him. It always ended with me coming to apologize. And then he still just looked at me overbearingly. Deep down I hated him for many years, and in my youth I had some violent outbursts. But I have never really wanted to kill him and, what’s more, have never done anything to attempt it.’
He squirmed in his chair and added in a quiet voice: ‘Though God knows who will believe that now.’
I sympathized with him. Leonard Schelderup was indeed in an exposed situation vis-à-vis the others around the table, partly because he had been selected to taste the food, and partly because he was the one his father had pointed to after swallowing the powdered nuts. And what was more, he had no alibi when it came to the punctured tyres. According to his statement, he had been in the Oslo area in the days before the murder, tramping along the well-worn path from his flat in Skøyen to the track at Bislett, and to his office at the university.
Leonard Schelderup appeared to be as ill-informed about the inheritance situation as his older brother – and far less interested. He hoped that he would get a third of the fortune, but was fully prepared for the eventuality that it might be the minimum amount of 200,000 kroner. His older brother had wanted to discuss the issue with him several times, but he had tried to think about it as little as possible. It would make relatively little difference to his life if he inherited 200,000, a million or thirty million. He was happy working on his Ph.D. in chemistry at the university, and was getting better and better on the track. Any notion of joining the business was alien to him. If he inherited five million, two would go into his own account and three to his mother, who he believed should have got more after the divorce. But they both had healthy balances as it was. Leonard Schelderup did not have his own family and had no plans to get one. He added, without any prompting, that his experiences from childhood did not make it an attractive prospect.
As for the guests who were not part of the family, Leonard Schelderup had really only ever exchanged pleasantries with them. He did comment though that Wendelboe, behind his grave mask, was possibly a warmer person than his own father had ever been.
Leonard Schelderup told me that he had only sporadic contact with his older brother. The two of them had always got on well, despite the age difference, and there had never really been any serious conflicts between them. However, their differences had become more pronounced over the years, and they now had very little in common outside the family. Their father had on one occasion remarked to the young Leonard that his lack of interest in the business was a disappointment, but he had at least had one son who was interested in something other than the next party.
Leonard Schelderup said that he had had a good relationship with ‘Aunt Magdalena’ ever since he was a child, but that they did not meet very often. Leonard Schelderup did not hide the fact that he disliked his father’s new wife, who he believed had used her youth and beauty to usurp his mother’s place. However, they now had a formal and relatively relaxed relationship. She was an intelligent and active woman, who always asked politely about his running results and work situation whenever they met on social occasions. Leonard Schelderup grimaced when he added that, in recent years, his stepmother had in fact shown more interest in his life than his own father ever had done.
‘There is one episode from last year that I should perhaps mention to you,’ he said abruptly. His voice was trembling slightly when he continued. ‘I bumped into my father on Karl Johan, where he was standing talking to a business contact. My father took me almost respectfully by the hand and said “This is Director Svendsen and he saw you at Bislett and wanted to congratulate you on winning the Norwegian Championships. And I would also like to do that. You really have become an impressively good runner!” I shook them both by the hand. Then I went and sat alone in the corner of a cafe and cried over a cup of coffee. I was twenty-six years old and it was the first time that I had ever heard my father say anything positive about my running. And the last time too.’
Leonard Schelderup had very little contact with his younger half-sister. Like his brother, he had the impression that she was unusually intelligent and determined. Even though she did not do any sports, he believed that his sister was also an exceptionally competitive person.