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.
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.
