Bratberg, snatched his gun from him and shot Wiig.
Schelderup had then opened the window and waved to someone. After which he walked calmly round the table whistling, swinging the gun loosely in his hand and breaking into the popular song
‘Better and Better Day by Day’. When Bratberg said in horror that Wiig had been hit, Schelderup had, in his words, initially replied: ‘Yes, but that’s not so strange; after
all, there’s a war going on out there!’ He had then commented that it was not unusual to have a lie-down in the early afternoon, and added with a smile: ‘And anyway, it’s
only a toy gun. Try for yourself!’ Schelderup had then passed the gun to Bratberg, only to grab it from him again when the two policemen came into the room. As to the critical question of
where the piece of paper was that he claimed to have seen, Bratberg stated that Schelderup had swallowed it before the policemen entered.
Of all the many strange statements I had read, this was the most confused and desperate. The psychiatrist appointed by the court declared that Bratberg was mentally unstable, and he was
sentenced to indefinite detention. According to later attachments, he had been detained in a closed prison ward until 1954 and had then been transferred to the mental asylum at Gaustad. He was
released on probation in 1960, but had then been sectioned again following relapses in 1962, 1964, 1965 and 1967. The picture of a seriously mentally ill person who had committed a tragic and
meaningless crime was clear enough. It was not difficult to understand why the case had had such a devastating effect on Ole Kristian Wiig’s sister and her family. But I did find it hard to
see what relevance it might have to Magdalon Schelderup’s death.
V
Hans Herlofsen was punctual and arrived at midday as arranged. He was correctly dressed and visibly tense, and nodded in gratitude when I closed the door to my office behind
him.
I opened with a routine question regarding how he had travelled to Schelderup Hall the evening before. Herlofsen replied that he had, as usual, driven there alone in his own car, but hesitated
slightly when I asked which car. He nodded reluctantly when I asked if the blue Peugeot was his. It felt as if I was getting warmer already. I took a chance and tried a bluff: ‘Your
relationship with Schelderup was fine for the first few years after the war, wasn’t it? But then something happened that I think perhaps you should explain in more detail . . .’
I was prepared for a violent reaction, but it did not happen. It was clear, however, that I had hit bullseye. Hans Herlofsen started to tremble and seemed to sink back into his chair. He sat
leaning back for a while, before he started to speak in a shaky voice.
‘I hope that you appreciate how hard it is for me to talk about this. I will be honest, but I pray that it does not need to become public knowledge, unless it should prove to have anything
to do with the murder. And I can guarantee you 100 per cent that it does not,’ he hastened to add.
I waved impatiently for him to continue, but did give an understanding nod.
‘It is an irony of fate that I, who have spent my life looking after figures for other people, have not been able to look after my own. There is one year in my life that I simply cannot
account for. That year started on 12 February 1948 when I came home to Lysaker and found my wife lying dead on the sofa with our two-year-old son in her arms. And it ended on 14 February 1949 when
I was met at the office by a furious Magdalon Schelderup, and was accused of defrauding his company to the tune of 107,123 kroner. I still remember very little from the intervening period. I know
that I sent my son to my wife’s sister and I myself drank and gambled every weekend and most evenings. I have no other explanation for it other than that it was an extreme form of grief,
perhaps combined with a delayed reaction from the horrors of the war.
Schelderup had then opened the window and waved to someone. After which he walked calmly round the table whistling, swinging the gun loosely in his hand and breaking into the popular song
‘Better and Better Day by Day’. When Bratberg said in horror that Wiig had been hit, Schelderup had, in his words, initially replied: ‘Yes, but that’s not so strange; after
all, there’s a war going on out there!’ He had then commented that it was not unusual to have a lie-down in the early afternoon, and added with a smile: ‘And anyway, it’s
only a toy gun. Try for yourself!’ Schelderup had then passed the gun to Bratberg, only to grab it from him again when the two policemen came into the room. As to the critical question of
where the piece of paper was that he claimed to have seen, Bratberg stated that Schelderup had swallowed it before the policemen entered.
Of all the many strange statements I had read, this was the most confused and desperate. The psychiatrist appointed by the court declared that Bratberg was mentally unstable, and he was
sentenced to indefinite detention. According to later attachments, he had been detained in a closed prison ward until 1954 and had then been transferred to the mental asylum at Gaustad. He was
released on probation in 1960, but had then been sectioned again following relapses in 1962, 1964, 1965 and 1967. The picture of a seriously mentally ill person who had committed a tragic and
meaningless crime was clear enough. It was not difficult to understand why the case had had such a devastating effect on Ole Kristian Wiig’s sister and her family. But I did find it hard to
see what relevance it might have to Magdalon Schelderup’s death.
V
Hans Herlofsen was punctual and arrived at midday as arranged. He was correctly dressed and visibly tense, and nodded in gratitude when I closed the door to my office behind
him.
I opened with a routine question regarding how he had travelled to Schelderup Hall the evening before. Herlofsen replied that he had, as usual, driven there alone in his own car, but hesitated
slightly when I asked which car. He nodded reluctantly when I asked if the blue Peugeot was his. It felt as if I was getting warmer already. I took a chance and tried a bluff: ‘Your
relationship with Schelderup was fine for the first few years after the war, wasn’t it? But then something happened that I think perhaps you should explain in more detail . . .’
I was prepared for a violent reaction, but it did not happen. It was clear, however, that I had hit bullseye. Hans Herlofsen started to tremble and seemed to sink back into his chair. He sat
leaning back for a while, before he started to speak in a shaky voice.
‘I hope that you appreciate how hard it is for me to talk about this. I will be honest, but I pray that it does not need to become public knowledge, unless it should prove to have anything
to do with the murder. And I can guarantee you 100 per cent that it does not,’ he hastened to add.
I waved impatiently for him to continue, but did give an understanding nod.
‘It is an irony of fate that I, who have spent my life looking after figures for other people, have not been able to look after my own. There is one year in my life that I simply cannot
account for. That year started on 12 February 1948 when I came home to Lysaker and found my wife lying dead on the sofa with our two-year-old son in her arms. And it ended on 14 February 1949 when
I was met at the office by a furious Magdalon Schelderup, and was accused of defrauding his company to the tune of 107,123 kroner. I still remember very little from the intervening period. I know
that I sent my son to my wife’s sister and I myself drank and gambled every weekend and most evenings. I have no other explanation for it other than that it was an extreme form of grief,
perhaps combined with a delayed reaction from the horrors of the war.
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