Satellite People (17 page)

His little joke cheered him up and he put his glass down on the table with purpose.

‘And talking of my personal life, I am expecting a guest soon and she may actually be one worth holding on to. We are going to celebrate my inheritance and then discuss the possibility of
using some of it on a trip to Brazil’s balmy beaches, as soon as the investigation is over. So unless you have any more questions to ask today . . .’

I did not, and I longed to get out into the fresh air. I had started to realize that behind Fredrik Schelderup’s playboy image there might lurk a sadder story and a sharper observer than
one might at first think. I did not trust him any the more for that, and though I doubted that a murderer would behave in this way, I felt uncomfortable sitting at the table with a man who, within
hours of his only brother’s death, would be celebrating his inheritance with wine, women, and song.

Leonard Schelderup’s frightened voice from the evening before persisted in my mind like a bad conscience. As did the picture of his dead body and contorted face. So I quickly asked a final
question as to whether Fredrik was aware of any changes in his father’s health in the past couple of years. He replied that he was not, but would not have been told until it was strictly
necessary. His father had never liked to share his weaknesses and came from the old school that kept any such worries secret even from their family for as long as possible. Following this answer, I
decided that there was nothing more to be gained from talking any further to Fredrik Schelderup today.

VII

Who could tell me about Leonard Schelderup’s life now that his father was dead, his mother was asleep and his brother knew nothing, proved to be a good question.

The head of the institute at the University of Oslo was not of much help. ‘Young Mr Schelderup’ had had very good qualifications and made a favourable impression, but he had only
been there for six months and so had not yet got to know his more senior colleagues. As his supervisor had been abroad on sabbatical, the young Mr Schelderup had mostly worked on his own. The head
of the institute thought that he seemed very nice, if a bit shy. I agreed with this conclusion, even though it did little to help. The conversation ended with the head saying that they had no doubt
lost a great talent and that it would unfortunately mean a lot of work for the institute as the stipend would have to be advertised again.

The athletics club was my next port of call, but there was not much to be had here either. The chairman of the club expressed his sorrow and said what a loss it would be to the team only days
before the annual Holmenkollen relay race, and then gave me the number of the man who had been Leonard Schelderup’s trainer for many years.

Other than the dead boy’s mother, the trainer was the first person who sounded as though he would genuinely miss him. He said in a gentle voice that not only was Leonard Schelderup one of
the greatest talents he had ever met, but also one of the greatest people. There was an incredible contrast between his iron will and competitive instinct on the track and his gentle, considerate
nature otherwise. As far as the trainer could remember, he had never said no when the club asked him to do something. In the past couple of years, however, it had been generally understood that it
was best not to ask without warning. They could see that it made him uncomfortable and they feared it might ruin his concentration in competitions.

The trainer had met Leonard Schelderup’s mother on numerous occasions, and also his stepmother and sister a couple of times, but he only knew his father through the media. Leonard had been
in the club since he was fourteen, but only his mother ever drove him to training in those early years. Then, when he was sixteen, he started to come on a bike and, later, when he had turned
eighteen, in a car. But always on his own, as far as he could remember. It was not generally known in the club whether he had ever had a girlfriend. If I wanted, I could have the names and numbers
of some of the people he had run and trained with, but it was unlikely that any of them had ever been to his home.

One of the youngest members of the relay team had once called Leonard Schelderup ‘the lone horseman’, obviously inspired by some boys’ book about the Wild West. And the
nickname had stuck, as a fond sign of respect. He had always been quite reserved as a person, but presumably that was in part due to his family background and wealth. In contrast to his son, the
father was widely discussed and disputed, the trainer added.

I understood what he meant. Though he had never actually been there in person, Magdalon Schelderup had affected his son’s life even in athletics circles. But to them, Leonard was simply
the lone horseman, and apparently no one had tried to find out what was hidden behind his hero’s mask.

Otherwise, the trainer agreed that Leonard Schelderup had had more of a spring in his step in recent months. The trainer had thought that this was perhaps in part due to his steadily improving
performance and in part to resolving his work situation. I thanked the trainer for all his information and asked if I might call again if necessary. He replied sadly that of course I could ring,
but he was unlikely to be of any more help to me.

Having put down the receiver, I sat in my office for a few silent minutes, deep in thought. Leonard Schelderup had, to an apparently alarming extent, been, if not a man without character,
certainly one without a private life. He was someone towards whom no one felt any ill will but, equally someone whom no one, not even his brother, would miss. Leonard Schelderup had, to all intents
and purposes, walked a lonely path through the inhabitants of Oslo, from his flat to his office to the athletics track, interrupted only by unwanted family gatherings. Even though he had not been
willing to follow the path his father wanted, his short life had been deeply influenced by him. I thought about Patricia’s concept about satellite people, and found it frighteningly
fitting.

There appeared to be no conflicts outside family circles that would give anyone reason to want Leonard Schelderup dead. Yesterday’s lady visitor was now even more mysterious and
interesting, as was the unidentified man who had apparently visited him several times in the past few months.

VIII

The Wendelboes’ house in Ski was more or less as I had expected it to be. Visibly smaller than Schelderup Hall, it was still larger than all the other houses on the street
and most other houses in Oslo. There was only one car parked outside the house, but it was also quite possibly the largest and most expensive in the street. And it was a spacious white Volvo that I
immediately recognized from outside Schelderup Hall. The car was newly polished and the lawn around the house had recently been cut.

I immediately felt more at home here than at Schelderup Hall. Petter Johannes Wendelboe opened the door himself and showed me into the living room. Having seated me in a comfortable chair by the
dining table, he then said he would go and get his wife. I said that some of my questions were about the war and that we perhaps need not disturb her. He nodded and promptly sat down on the chair
opposite me.

‘That is very considerate of you. This tragic event has brought up many old memories that are still very hard for my wife to bear,’ he told me.

I glanced quickly around the room. It was far more lived-in than the drawing room at Schelderup Hall. This was partly because the room was smaller. There were only eight chairs around the dining
table. However, the main difference was all the family pictures on the wall. It is true that Wendelboe was not smiling in any of them but, photographed in shorts with his daughter and two
grandchildren eating ice cream, he could be taken for a grandfather like all others. The sense of gravity was always there. The largest picture on the wall was an old black-and-white photograph of
the couple in younger days, together with Ole Kristian Wiig. Mrs Wendelboe had one arm around her husband and one around her brother, but she was leaning most towards her brother.

He followed my gaze and cleared his throat.

‘My wife is a kind-hearted good woman and she was exceptionally close to her brother. It was a great loss to her that touched her life deeply.’

It struck me that this loss had also greatly affected Wendelboe’s life, but that he perhaps would rather die than admit it.

My initial questions about the recent events were quickly answered. He had heard about the young Leonard Schelderup’s death on the radio. It made the situation even more tragic and had
been yet another blow for his wife. Neither Wendelboe nor his wife could claim to know Leonard Schelderup well, but they had seen him regularly since he was a child during the war.

‘We have talked about it many times. He was obviously a very talented young man, but quite unlike his father,’ he observed.

‘That nearly sounds like a compliment,’ I ventured.

Wendelboe tightened his lips.

‘Well, yes and no. They were, more than anything, incredibly different. Magdalon was a remarkably strong and successful man, but also a remarkably ruthless man. For a long time we have
thought that his son seemed to be kinder, but also weaker.’

I nodded to encourage him on. He hesitated, but then continued.

‘My wife and I were by chance sitting in the grandstand when he won the Norwegian Championship last year. Our eldest grandchild was taking part, but was far less successful. We commented
then that Leonard must have inherited some of his father’s willpower after all. My wife suggested that we wait for him outside the entrance after the ceremony, so we could congratulate him.
And I am very glad now that we did. It was clear he was extremely grateful that we did.’

Wendelboe was not one to waste words, but it was easy to believe him when he said this. I suddenly understood what Leonard Schelderup had meant when he said that behind his mask Wendelboe had
more human warmth than his own father.

However, Wendelboe did not have much more of any help to say. Neither he nor his wife had ever visited Leonard Schelderup in his flat. They had been at home together the evening before.
Wendelboe had suggested inviting a couple to dinner, but his wife had not been up to it, he added, pointedly. I certainly found this to be believable, but noted down all the same that, in reality,
the Wendelboes did not have an alibi.

It seemed to me that Wendelboe’s eyes flashed as soon as I said that we now needed to talk about the war. His replies were concise and relatively unemotional as long as we talked about the
Resistance group. What he remembered about the dead Resistance men was more or less what was written in the archives. Hans Petter Nilsen had been found dead in his home on 12 May and Bjørn
Varden on 5 September 1941. He explained his excellent memory by saying that the death of friends during the war was not something one forgot. Furthermore, he and his wife had talked a lot about it
later. Nilsen had lived alone and had neither siblings nor parents who were still alive. Varden had a young wife by the name of Mona, who, as far as they knew, still lived at the same address in
32B Grønne Street.

I made a note of this and swiftly moved on to talk about when Magdalon Schelderup had joined the group. According to Wendelboe, it had happened rather unexpectedly in the summer of 1941: in
other words, between the two murders. Wendelboe had at first been rather sceptical and pretended not to know him when Schelderup contacted him. They had studied together for their university
entrance exam and their families knew each other, but they were not close friends. The fact that his brother and sister were both members of the NS certainly did not play in Schelderup’s
favour. However, he was a man of action, the type of man they needed, and Wendelboe had somewhat reluctantly allowed himself to be persuaded by Ole Kristian Wiig to contact Schelderup again, who
had been positively surprised and quickly proved himself to be trustworthy.

We sat looking at each other for a moment or two. He hesitated when I asked him in what way Schelderup had proved himself to be trustworthy.

I hastily added that the case would of course be time-barred and that I did not need any names, but had to know what happened. It could be of vital importance to the murder investigation and
might even shed new light on the old war cases.

Wendelboe gave a brief nod to the former and a slower one to the latter. He leant forwards in his chair and continued in a hushed voice.

‘It was a liquidation. An NS member with a lot of power and too many contacts on the German side, who we thought might be a threat to us and other people on the right side. He already had
numerous arrests on his conscience, and several of those arrested later lost their lives or health in German war camps. He left behind no wife or children. I have not regretted that action one
single day, only that we did not take him out before. We had spoken about it even before Magdalon joined us. I was interested to see whether he would oppose it; after all, it was someone he had
studied with and who was a business contact. However, it was in fact Magdalon who initiated the operation. He first suggested it sometime in December 1941. I remember the case was discussed here
under the guise of a Christmas dinner.’

‘And the operation itself?’

Wendelboe hesitated for a moment again, but then carried on.

‘It took place later on in the spring, towards Easter 1942. He was shot when he was out skiing. I have promised never to say who was involved in those operations.’

‘But it may be vital, in terms of Schelderup’s role and his murder. I have to ask whether Schelderup was directly involved in the hope that you will either nod or shake your
head?’

Wendelboe gave it a couple of moment’s thought, then gave a curt nod.

‘Ole Kristian Wiig?’

He nodded again.

‘Hans Herlofsen?’

He shook his head.

‘And yourself?’

He nodded. In that moment I believed his story and did not feel the need to press him any further. Certainly not at the moment. Instead I quickly changed the subject and threw down one of the
trump cards that Patricia had given me.