We finished the conversation there, on a relatively civil note. I asked him to let me know if he had anything more to tell me. It seemed to me that he hesitated for a second, but then he replied that he had nothing more to tell or declare, as he put it with a small smile. He repeated that he had not murdered Magdalon and did not know who had done it.
We said goodbye fairly politely at five o’clock. His hand was definitely sweaty now.
On the way back into the centre of Oslo, I passed Lysaker station just as a train was pulling out. Standing alone on the platform was a young man in his twenties who had obviously run to catch the train, but not made it. He looked so lonely and bewildered that I hoped his life would not be off-kilter for more than an hour or so. But that image of a completely unknown young man at the railway station stayed with me as an illustration of the tragedy of the now-deceased Arild Bratberg’s life. No matter whether he was guilty of murder or not, Arild Bratberg had been left alone on the platform as the train pulled out after the war with all the others on board. And no matter whether he was guilty of murder or not, his loneliness and confusion were so great that he stayed there for the rest of his life.
As far as Hans Herlofsen was concerned, I knew that he had not had an easy life either, and I did feel some sympathy for him. But all the same, I did not trust that he was not the murderer, in fact even less now that he had told me the truth. When I thought about it, the same was also true of several of those who were still alive. And I would meet one of them very shortly, as I was now on my way to Magdalena Schelderup’s flat in Gulleråsen.
‘Why did you choose not to tell me that your fiancé in 1940 was none other than Hans Petter Nilsen, who was shot by the Dark Prince the following year?’
Magdalena Schelderup looked tired and fractious. It struck me that she appeared to be older and more bitter than when I met her five days ago. She defiantly lit another cigarette before answering.
‘Well, first of all, because I did not think it was relevant any more. And secondly, because I assumed that either the Wendelboes or Herlofsen would have told you already, and that you would ask if you felt there was a need. It is not something that I am proud of. A broken engagement in 1940 with a man who left me because I was a member of the NS, and who then became a war martyr. I have talked about it as little as possible since.’
