Authors: Hans Olav Lahlum
There was still not a sound from within.
I stood up and threw myself against the door. That was when I suddenly heard a very clear sound from inside the room. What it was, I could not discern. But the murderer was in the room and was
doing something. This only served to strengthen my determination and agitation. The door looked rickety and one of the hinges was loose. When I threw my weight against it the first time, it shook
noticeably. On the third attempt it burst open with a bang.
I managed to keep my balance, quickly stepped back and pushed the remains of the door to one side as I shouted: ‘DO NOT MOVE!’
The third room on the first floor of Synnøve Jensen’s house was a small storage space. There was not a person to be seen here either.
But there was a window in the room that was now wide open. Just as I charged into the room, I heard a thud on the ground below. The drop was no more than ten feet. Through the window I saw
someone in a raincoat, with the hood up and gloves on, struggle to their feet and then run up the slope behind the house.
I tasted blood and my hunting instinct was stronger than ever. Only seconds later I hit the ground myself, and fortunately managed to stay on my feet.
XV
‘STOP!’ I shouted as soon as I had regained my balance from the jump, and fired a warning shot into the air over the head of the raincoated person.
This made no difference. The person in front did not even turn their head, let alone slow down. For a second I lowered the gun and aimed at the running legs. But at the last moment I remembered
the order to use firearms only in situations where it was strictly necessary, or in self-defence. The fact that it was not a service weapon hardly made the situation any better. So instead I
started to run up the slope. There was a fair distance between us now. However, it seemed to me that the person ahead was not running at a speed that made this discouraging. And the pace did not
get any faster as the slope got steeper.
For some reason that was wholly inexplicable to me, I started to think about the deceased Leonard Schelderup as I chased after Synnøve Jensen’s killer. In my mind, I was back at
Bislett Stadium, watching him audaciously catch up with all his competitors until, only yards from the finishing line, he overtook the final one. It felt as though Leonard was showing me the way in
the dark, running in front on his light feet, his fair hair fluttering on the wind, as I pursued the person I assumed was his murderer up the slope. We were getting steadily closer.
I had almost halved the distance between us when the person up ahead reached the top and I got even closer when they stumbled and almost fell as the ground levelled off. Even though it was dark,
I could see that the person was smaller than me, and thought gleefully to myself that I would easily catch up with them once I too reached the top.
That was when I heard a sound that made me swear out loud into the night: the impatient revving of a car engine starting up.
I reached the brow of the hill in time to see the car disappear. Synnøve Jensen’s murderer was still impressively cool-headed. He or she drove with the pedal to the floor and
without lights. What I saw was the movement of the car as it rounded the farthest bend into the dark.
I found two unclear tyre tracks where the car had been parked, under the shadow of some trees where the ground flattened out. The footprints of the person I had been chasing were very light and
would soon be washed away by the rain. It looked as though the shoes were a good few sizes smaller than my own. Not that that helped much. I could not rule out any of the remaining guests on the
basis of those tracks and an unclear picture of the person I had pursued.
I had never felt so alone and such a loser as I did around midnight on 15 May when I walked back through the dark night and rain to the body of Synnøve Jensen. I had only been a matter of
feet away from her murderer and from solving the whole mystery, but had failed to use the chance either to grab hold of the murderer or to discover their identity.
XVI
I called Patricia as soon as I was back in Synnøve Jensen’s house. She picked up the phone on the second ring and I thought I detected a light sigh of relief when
she recognized my voice. I told her quickly what had happened since we last spoke. She exclaimed that I should have shot the murderer in the foot, but added hastily that I of course could not do
that, given my orders. I agreed with both statements. She suggested that I should come to see her as soon as I could the following day, and assured me that she would be happy to welcome me any time
between seven in the morning and midnight.
Right then I heard sirens and footsteps outside, so I wished Patricia a good night and put down the telephone. It was only later that I realized I had forgotten to ask her who she now thought
had sent the mysterious threatening letters.
The case was becoming more and more of an obsession and my adrenaline levels were rising. Even though it was now past midnight, I could not leave the scene of the crime where Synnøve
Jensen had been killed until the place had been searched.
The only thing we found of any significance was in the pocket of Synnøve Jensen’s coat – but the discovery was so sensational that my thoughts dwelt on it until I finally fell
asleep around two. But the only conclusion I came to was that I had to talk to Patricia as early as possible the next morning.
Satellites in Fast Motion
I
‘So, what do you think we found in the late Synnøve Jensen’s coat pocket?’
It was five past seven in the morning of Friday, 16 May 1969. I had slept for no more than five hours, and then jumped into the car without eating breakfast. A clearly sleepy Beate had just put
down a selection of rolls on the table at 104–8 Erling Skjalgsson’s Street. Patricia was sitting opposite me with a cup of steaming black coffee, wearing only a dressing gown, as far as
I could see. However, she was looking at me with eyes that were as bright and alert as ever, and answered in her usual sharp tone.
‘A letter very much like the last one you received in the post. I have to admit that I cannot remember the exact words, but I would be very pleased to know.’
I pulled out the letter and almost threw it across the table in disbelief. The message was short, and that it resembled the last one I had received was undeniable.
Here, now.
So, the dictator’s sister has also gone.
More may follow, if you do not soon find out which one of us is doing wrong . . .
Patricia had read the text in a flash and then looked up at me again.
‘I only have one question, but it is a very important one. Was the envelope containing this letter sealed?’
‘The envelope was sealed, as it was with the other two letters, with the same typed address.’
I really did not understand the significance of the question. But Patricia obviously did, as she nodded with satisfaction and even uttered a quiet ‘ha!’
‘And—’ we suddenly both said at the same time. I stopped and let her finish.
‘
And
perhaps there was a small mark on the back of the sealed envelope? Not green this time, but most probably blue.’
‘Red,’ I told her, giving her an impressed nod all the same.
Patricia shook her head, obviously annoyed.
‘Hopefully just arbitrary. Red is less usual than blue, but a common enough pen colour that might be found in any office or home without drawing attention. And I must say it tallies very
well with my theory. We are nearly there now, the case will soon be closed.’
I nodded, slightly in awe, but most of all in delight that we were close to anything.
‘In fact, I have every hope that I will have a solution in the course of the day. Certainly to some of these apparently inexplicable deaths and events. But for that to happen, you have to
carry on doing all the things that can be done today, while I sleep, think and preferably put on a few more clothes.’
I nodded and helped myself to a roll. Seeing the plate of food had reminded me how hungry I was.
‘I will do. And I suppose I should talk to the surviving guests before we meet again? I had thought of gathering them all at a meeting at Schelderup Hall to fill them in on our progress so
far, no matter how unpleasant that might be.’
Patricia nodded and finished her coffee. She suddenly looked as though she had got up too early.
‘A splendid idea. I had thought of suggesting that myself. It could be very interesting to see who says what once they are together again. And let me know immediately if any more letters
pop up. Now, is there anything else I can help you with before you go?’
I took the hint, quickly finished the first half of a roll and hastily grabbed another to take with me.
‘There is one thing that I have been wondering about. If the murderer was still there when I knocked on the door and Synnøve Jensen was so clearly still alive, why did the murderer
not shoot her again? I initially thought that perhaps the shot was fired seconds before I came in, but then I would have heard the bang.’
Patricia immediately livened up. She leant forwards over the table and looked at me so solemnly that it almost felt like an accusation. Her voice was unusually brisk and passionate when she
spoke.
‘I will tell you right away. Because the person who shot Synnøve Jensen is a particularly cold, intelligent and egotistical person. It is a heartbreaking story. The plan was to make
the murder look like suicide, by leaving the pistol beside the body. However, something unexpected happened: the shot was not aimed well enough, so Synnøve Jensen was left to die slowly on
the sofa. The murderer could have curtailed her suffering, but then the suicide plan would not work. So instead the murderer chose to stand patiently and wait until the victim died from the first
bullet wound. It is likely that we may never know how many minutes this took. What we do know, however, is that this heartless plan would have worked perfectly if you had not responded so swiftly
to Synnøve Jensen’s telephone call, and therefore arrived while she was still alive.’
Despite the lack of sleep, Patricia’s face was alert and engaged. She hurried on.
‘It is a truly despicable act to watch a person who is suffering die like that. And it becomes inhuman when you then think that it was a young, pregnant woman who was killed in her own
home.’
I had to agree with her and put down the half-roll that I had been holding, uneaten.
‘It is, as you said, the epitome of human evil.’
Patricia waved a hand in irritation.
‘I was not talking about this crime when I said that, and it is highly unlikely to be the same perpetrator. But I cannot decide which is worse: what I was thinking about then, or this. It
really is a grotesque case.’
Her voice was verging on livid and I suddenly noticed that she had goosebumps on her bare arms. I leant forwards spontaneously and put my hands on them. This touch of human warmth seemed to
help. The goosebumps vanished and Patricia’s voice was friendlier than normal when she carried on speaking.
‘The big question with regards to last night’s murder is what happened in the minutes before the shot was fired, when the murderer first came into the house and then aimed the gun at
Synnøve Jensen? It is true that Magdalon Schelderup’s key ring is still missing, but the key to Synnøve Jensen’s house was not on it. Right now, I can only think of one
logical explanation, but there may of course be several.’
‘So . . .’ I started.
‘So, even though this is a very pleasant way to start a Friday, we should now both work separately for a few hours. I think the best division of labour is that you continue to gather
information while I work with what we already have. But do give me a call if you come up with any questions later on in the day.’
I took the hint, withdrew my hands and stood up.
II
The last papers before the weekend were favourable, given the circumstances. The Labour Party conference had now finished but still dominated the news, and all the papers, with
the exception of the Communist rag,
Friheten
, praised the party’s clear yes to the renewal of Norway’s membership of NATO. On the other hand, opinion was divided with regard to
the Labour Party’s prospects in the autumn general election, and what significance the national conference’s unexpected vote in favour of demanding the introduction of abortion in
Norway might have. The murder in Sørum last night was not covered by any of the papers. But the press had got wind of the news and the switchboard reported an increase in enquiries. I wrote
a five-line press release in light of the ongoing investigation, stating that there would be no further comment.
At five minutes past midday, a police constable came running in to tell me that a witness from the night before had just come forward. He also warned me not to expect too much, certainly if one
was to believe the witness himself.
I understood what he meant as soon as I saw the witness. He was a grey-haired, thin elderly man in a plain brown coat, who kept his eyes fixed to the floor as he twisted a cloth cap in his
hands. When we shook hands, his was feeble and trembling.
‘I hope you’ll forgive me if I’m wasting your time, but . . . I don’t imagine that I have anything of much importance for you. But you see, I was up on the hill behind
poor Synnøve’s house last night, and saw a car parked there. It was the wife who told me that they’d announced on the radio that anyone who was nearby was to report to the police
immediately. I think I was the only one there; I certainly didn’t see anyone else. But I don’t really have much more to tell, so perhaps I should not have come.’
I assured the witness that he had done the right thing by coming. After a few minutes more, however, I also had to concede that he really did not have much of interest to add. He lived on a
smallholding nearby and had been out walking his dog on the hill behind Synnøve Jensen’s house. The witness had passed the house at around half past eleven and was surprised to see a
car parked up there in the dark. He had thought that it was perhaps the police or some other important people and so had taken a detour rather than pass too close to the car.