Satellite People (34 page)

I nodded to reassure her.

‘I believe you. But no matter how confused and grief-stricken you were, you obviously understood what would happen – that if it got out that he had shot himself, everyone would
believe that he shot his father and then regretted it. And you understood the importance of removing his fingerprints.’

She nodded.

‘I apologize,’ she said suddenly, her voice thick with tears.

I got up to leave, when she rather unexpectedly asked me a question.

‘The poor secretary who was shot last night . . . I didn’t really know her that well; she came from a different background, after all. But I hope for her sake and for mine . . . that
things would not have been any different for her if I had told you the truth before?’

I desperately wanted to answer no. But I had to be honest, so I said that at the moment no one could answer that, and it was possible that no one ever would. At last there was some movement in
the sagging body in the chair. With surprising speed, she lifted her hands and hid her face.

I quickly thanked her for her help and left the room as quietly as I could. I had thought of asking Ingrid Schelderup formally whether she still denied having sprinkled nuts in her
ex-husband’s food, but I was now certain that she had not. And I had feared that I might have to ask her what she knew about her son’s secret love life, but that was obviously no longer
of any importance.

‘We have nothing left to say to each other that matters any more,’ a seventeen-year-old summer love once told me at Åndalsnes train station many years ago. And rather oddly,
this remark echoed in my ears as I closed the door to the sixty-year-old Ingrid Schelderup’s hospital room on Friday, 16 May 1969. I had the same feeling that we would not see each other
again and that we would never have anything more of any significance to say to each other anyway.

It was only when I was on my way back that I realized how much I dreaded telling Petter Johannes Wendelboe. He would now have to take those seemingly endless steps into his wife’s room to
tell her that Leonard Schelderup did in fact take his own life only hours after she called and threatened him.

I still could not fathom who had killed Magdalon Schelderup. But I thought to myself that whoever it was had started a chain of events that was claiming ever more victims, including some of the
living. Then I thought about Patricia’s comment that all of the ten guests at Magdalon Schelderup’s last supper were satellite people. Two of them had now definitely crashed and two
others were so out of orbit that it was uncertain whether they would ever find their paths again. And hidden in their ranks was still one, if not two murderers. And as I drove back to 104–8
Erling Skjalgsson’s Street, I was more unsure than ever about who this might be.

VII

‘So there you have it. You have solved the mystery of who shot Leonard Schelderup. The answer is Leonard Schelderup himself.’

Patricia nodded glumly and took a deep breath in preparation for one of her longer speeches.

‘I should have dared to draw that conclusion earlier, but was uncertain because of the gun. The problem was not so much where it was lying, but where it was not lying. I did not want to
risk accusing poor Ingrid Schelderup unnecessarily. The answer was really very logical to anyone with a minimal understanding of psychology. It would hardly be surprising if Leonard Schelderup had
had suicidal thoughts earlier, given his great secret and his troubled relationship with his father and family. Poor Leonard was, as his sister said, strong on the tracks where he felt at home, but
weak where he did not. And then he was forced out of orbit, into a highly vulnerable and unpredictable position in space. He clearly considered suicide as an option when he took the revolver from
Schelderup Hall. What finally pushed him totally off course was the series of events later on in the day. First of all, his aunt urged him to confess, then he was threatened by a stranger on the
telephone. We will never know for certain what was the final straw. I think it is quite possible that his conversation with you helped him through the first crisis after the telephone call, and
that it was in fact his lover who quite unintentionally gave him the final, fatal push later on in the evening. Despite all his talents, Leonard Schelderup had been a very lonely person all his
life. After all those years, he had finally found his love. Imagine the disappointment, then, when the only person he truly trusted and loved also urged him to confess. Who on earth would believe
him then?’

Patricia gave a sorry shake of the head and concluded sadly: ‘His lover of course knew no better. Even though Leonard Schelderup pulled the trigger himself, it still feels as though he was
murdered. In part by a conservative society that would not allow him to live the way he wanted, simply because he was different. And in part by the evil person who intentionally and in cold blood
put him under impossible pressure by means of the well-staged poisoning of Magdalon Schelderup.’

I vaguely noted that Patricia had an unexpectedly liberal view on homosexuality, despite her conservative family background. However, I was so focused on developments in the investigation that I
did not stop to discuss the topic.

‘There is, alas, not much that we can do about the former, but there is definitely something we can do now about the latter. Who was it who sprinkled the nuts on Magdalon
Schelderup’s food?’

Patricia finished her coffee and then sat in contemplation.

‘That is, if possible, the most depressing part of the whole thing. Over the past few days, I have come to realize that the two who have lost their lives were perhaps the kindest of the
guests round the table when the man they all orbited died. The murder of Synnøve Jensen was, as I have already said, cold-blooded in the extreme. The powdered nuts in Magdalon
Schelderup’s food and the plan behind it are, even so, the peak of human evil and the work of an extremely devious and egotistical person.’

I waited in suspense for the name of Magdalon Schelderup’s murderer. But instead, Patricia started to reflect on his nature.

‘I understood very early on that the guests sitting around the table were all satellite people who orbited Magdalon Schelderup. But I did not fully understand to begin with how inseparable
his dominant and extremely distinct personality was from the solution. You should always be wary of making psychological diagnoses of dead people. However, there can be no doubt that Magdalon
Schelderup, behind his mask, suffered from severe narcissism. It is a condition suffered by many famous geniuses throughout history, including the philosopher Nietzsche. The symptoms are an
exaggerated ego that often results in an equally exaggerated lack of consideration for others, and a pathological need for control. Life for Magdalon Schelderup was simply a matter of asserting
himself, the line between the play and the player becoming ever more diffuse. And this is where the key lay to the mystery of his death.’

Patricia was silent for a long time following this introduction. I realized that she wanted to wait a little longer before revealing the name of the person who had killed Magdalon Schelderup, so
asked instead what clues she had followed.

‘There were various factors that all pointed in the same direction. But the most important thing was the letters. One thing was the question as to why the murderer had taken the trouble to
send them to the police. And the other was just how different they were. The first letter was very detailed; the second one that came in the post and the others that were found in Synnøve
Jensen’s house were remarkably general and vague. They contained nothing to indicate any knowledge of the later deaths. In fact, we would probably have dismissed them as the work of a mad
person, had it not been for the first letter and the few similarities. There was also the strange fact that the first letter was posted before Magdalon Schelderup’s death, whereas the second
was not posted until after his son’s death.’

I looked at her with some scepticism.

‘So are you saying that the first letter was written by someone different from the others?’

Patricia shook her head.

‘I did consider that possibility. But gradually I came to favour the alternative possibility, based on the obvious technical similarities between the letters, and the fact that no one had
seen the first one. This was that the letters were written by the same person, but that he or she for some reason knew more about the first death than the subsequent ones. Now that we know that
Leonard Schelderup committed suicide, it seems reasonable enough that no one else could know the details before or after.’

‘But if the letters were written by the same person then, judging by the circumstances, they must have been written by Synnøve Jensen? How else would you explain the fact that the
last letters were found at her house with only her fingerprints on them? Were the letters planted there by the person who murdered her?’

Patricia shook her head again, but only briefly.

‘The murderer could in theory have planted the letter in her pocket, but not the others in her books. She is the one who posted the letter after Leonard Schelderup’s
death.’

I felt increasingly baffled.

‘I am sure that when we discussed my theory earlier on today, you were quite clear that Synnøve Jensen had nothing to do with the letters?’

‘I did not say that Synnøve Jensen had not posted one of the letters, or that she would not post any more. However, she did not write them. In fact, circumstances would indicate
that she had not even read them.’

‘So it was not she who posted the first letter?’

Another shake of the head, but this time more definite.

‘No. If she had known anything about the first letter, she would no doubt have informed you straight away. Magdalon Schelderup’s death was a shock for his lover, and she probably
knew nothing about how much she stood to gain from the will. The first letter, and that one alone, was posted by another person. By the very same person who, the day after, according to his
fiendish and cunning plan, sprinkled nuts onto Magdalon Schelderup’s food.’

Patricia paused for effect and drank another full cup of coffee. The expression on her face was the grimmest I had seen. I had to prod her to continue.

‘So you are saying that the murderer is a man and that he wrote all the letters, but posted only the first one. The second one was posted by Synnøve Jensen, who had no idea what it
said.’

Patricia nodded and released a deep sigh.

She pulled the Russian book about chess from the pile and put it down on the table.

‘When analysing a complex chess position, one first has to try to figure out several possible moves ahead. One then has to consider how the pieces will respond to the various moves. This
can be extremely difficult, particularly when the moves are complicated and not obvious. The man who posted the first letter and who gave the remaining letters to Synnøve Jensen was in just
such a position. He could to a certain extent predict possible future moves, but could not know for certain what would happen after the first death. People are by nature more unpredictable than
chess pieces, so the possible future moves in this game would be even more uncertain. Which is why the letters are more vague. And why Synnøve Jensen was given several letters, which she was
to send according to who had died. There were several possibilities, so Synnøve Jensen, simple and loyal woman that she was, made small pen marks on the back of the envelopes so she could
remember which letter to send under which circumstances.’

‘So the man who gave her the letters was the same man who put the nuts on Magdalon Schelderup’s food?’

Patricia nodded.

‘He is the only one who could have got her to post the letters and she is the only one he could have trusted with such a task.’

‘This man was then perhaps also the real father of her unborn child?’

Patricia gave a bitter smile.

‘Without a doubt.’

I racked my brains. The only remaining male candidates were Fredrik Schelderup, Petter Johannes Wendelboe and Hans Herlofsen – and of course the now deceased Leonard Schelderup. One of
them must have had a relationship with Synnøve Jensen. But I could not understand who.

‘The man with the powdered nuts knew about Magdalon Schelderup’s heart condition?’

Patricia sent me a puzzled look.

‘Of course, it is perfectly obvious that he did.’

‘But why did this man need to write the letters beforehand and then give them to Synnøve Jensen? Why could he not wait and see what happened and then send them himself?’

I definitely made myself vulnerable with that question. Patricia now looked at me with mildly patronizing eyes, as if I was a small child who could not understand anything.

‘For the very good reason that he himself would be dead!’

The truth punched home as she said this. And the impact was brutal. This was indeed a terrible truth.

‘So the man who planned it all, posted the letter, slashed the car tyres, put on the recording of the fire alarm and then with devastating precision sprinkled the nuts on Magdalon
Schelderup’s plate was in fact . . .’

Patricia nodded.

‘Magdalon Schelderup himself.’

We sat in silence for some seconds. It felt as if the air itself was trembling with fear. Patricia’s thin arms were certainly shaking. She pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes
before she continued.

‘As Sherlock Holmes so aptly said: “When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.” But this is perhaps not so improbable
when you consider Magdalon Schelderup’s distinctive and egotistical character. His whole life was about self-assertion and attention. He loved only himself and did not give a hoot about his
family and friends once he was dead. Quite the contrary: he would have liked to kill some of them, if he could avoid being caught and having to face punishment. The man had a perverse need for
control and power over other people. His secrets and the things that he had done in the past were starting to catch up with him. Herlofsen posed a threat, and behind his mask Magdalon Schelderup
was still more frightened of Petter Johannes Wendelboe than of anything else. The danger that he would be found out was growing. The thought of suicide must have been tempting once he found out
that he did not have long to live. His collapse in the doctor’s waiting room had given him a shock and he did not want to risk a more serious attack on the open street or at a dinner party.
Magdalon Schelderup became a hunted man and was terrified of saying something that might give him away.’