The Murder of Harriet Krohn (14 page)

“Family silver?”

“Valuable old cutlery,” he tells her, “a pattern that’s gone out of production, quite sought after. But, Julie, don’t mention it to Grandma when you’re there. She’s so muddled, and I don’t want to run the risk of her regretting it all and demanding to have the silver back again.”

She nods and glances at the photo again.

“But you owed two hundred thousand. Was the silver worth that much?”

“Yes. There was a gold watch as well. Candlesticks and that sort of thing. So it was just enough.”

“Call Me Crazy?”

“He’s as gentle as a lamb. Don’t let the name frighten you.”

She clutches the picture. She’s still dumbfounded and keeps glancing at him, wanting to check that he’s being truthful.

“Julie,” he begins, “you’ve no idea how lovely he is. You can’t see his color properly in the photo. I took it in the ring, you know, and there wasn’t enough light.”

At this something subsides in her, some of the suspicion and doubt.

“Have you ridden him?” she asks suddenly.

“Just briefly.” He smiles at the memory.

“Did you give him a canter?”

“Yes, I rode in a volte,” he answers. “But I didn’t dare try a jump.”

“Cowardly custard,” she teases. She gets off her chair and goes over to him. She sits down beside him on the edge of the bed. And they sit there close together. Charlo can smell the scent of shampoo on her hair. He’d like to give her a big hug, but he doesn’t.

“When can we go and look at him?” she asks.

“As soon as you’ve finished your homework,” he jokes.

She leaps up and starts emptying her dresser.

“D’you read my letters?”

“Yes.”

He sits on her bed with his hands clasped in his lap. She’s suddenly in a great hurry, and he recognizes that old enthusiasm, which he hasn’t seen for so long. She’s looking for some riding breeches. “You know, the checkered ones,” she says. “D’you remember them?” It’s a delight to sit here like this watching her, with all sorts of things come flying out of the dresser. Sweaters, blouses, underwear, and at last the breeches. She goes into the bathroom to change into the breeches. “They’re a bit big perhaps, but I haven’t got any others.”

“You’ll soon grow into them again,” he says. “Just you wait. I’ve bought you a monster. I hope you realize that?”

She laughs at him and dives into the closet for her riding boots.

“The leather’s scuffed and dry; they need some polish. I’ll do it later.”

She pulls them on. Stands in the middle of the room in her checkered breeches with their leather-reinforced seat, and stares down at the long boots.

“It’s been so long since I’ve worn this stuff,” she comments, looking at him.

Charlo is dumb with admiration. Now he recognizes his own Julie again. He’s no longer alone. He’s got a family like other people. She stands before him, ready. They walk into the street together.

“Dad,” she says, “you’ve dented the car.”

Charlo lowers his eyes to the asphalt for a moment, thinking of all the things he must be careful about.

“Yes,” he says, “it was some numbskull who didn’t know when to give way.”

“You’ve been trying to repair it,” she declares. “That’s the worst repair I’ve ever seen. Why didn’t you take it to a garage? If it was someone else’s fault, didn’t he have to pay?”

Charlo gets into the front seat, mulling it over.

“I got the damage assessed and the money paid out,” he lies, “but I used it for something else. Something more important.”

She gets in, accepting his explanation. She finds a scrunchie in her pocket and gathers her hair at the nape of her neck. He can see her hot breath inside the dark car. I’ve got her, he thinks. Now it’s a case of not losing her; I mustn’t make mistakes.

“Dad,” Julie says suddenly. “You know what I’d like to do? Before we go to the stables?”

He changes gear and drives down the street while he waits for her wish, which he will naturally fulfill. That’s what he’ll do from now on. It’ll be his mission for the remainder of his life.

“I’d like to visit Mom.”

He nods in complete agreement.

“We’ll do that,” he says emphatically. “We’ll go at once. Is it long since you were there last?”

“I don’t find it all that easy,” she says quietly.

No, Charlo ponders, visiting the dead doesn’t provide much sense of peace. He always has a feeling of helplessness when he stands by the headstone, a feeling of being superfluous. But now there are the two of them. He turns in by the church. They walk between the graves silently. A shyness has interposed itself between them. Then they arrive and stand hushed with bowed heads. They each read her name: “Inga Lill Torp.” The grave doesn’t need much tending in early December. Charlo notices that the erica is frozen; its reddish-mauve has turned to brown.

“Anyway, the gravestone’s nice,” Julie says, and he nods, thinking that he made the right choice.

“Next time we’ll bring a candle,” he says.

They stand awhile, thinking their own thoughts. Then they shake off the solemnity and return to the car.

“Are you excited?”

She nods and blows on her hands. Then for a joke, she pinches her own arm. Again Charlo has to laugh. It’s heartfelt laughter from deep within him as if he’s slightly drunk. He turns the car and joins the main road. They are still slightly shy in each other’s company, but, Charlo thinks, that doesn’t matter. That’ll pass. We need time.

“We should have brought a bag of carrots,” she says.

He nods. “There’s a shop not far from the stables; we can stop there. Of course we must have carrots.”

They buy carrots and a couple of Cokes. Out of habit, Charlo looks at the newspaper headlines while he’s at the checkout, but Harriet Krohn has been forgotten. He imagines her file buried in a drawer, because there are so many other killings. So much else to spend time on than an old woman from Hamsund. But he knows it isn’t true. The investigation will be plodding along, and they’re presumably working behind the scenes. He pushes these thoughts away, as they drive the last bit to the stables. They park the car and emerge into the cold air. Julie has gone quiet.

“Well,” Charlo says, “here we are. Let’s get into the warmth.”

He plucks up courage and puts an arm around her shoulder. He opens the heavy door. Just then, a black cat darts out, and Charlo jumps. The cat brings back memories. For one mad second, he imagines it’s the same cat and that it’s following him. He shakes off the eerie thought and points down the passage.

“The last box on the left.”

Julie walks up to the bars. Charlo stands next to her and watches. The hairs on the back of his neck rise.

She had just been born.

Lying trembling on Inga Lill’s stomach, naked and curled up like a pink frog. A velvety down covered her head. I’ll never forget this moment, Charlo thought. It etched itself into every cell of his body and suffused every part of him. It’s the same with this moment. Julie standing next to Crazy, cradling his great, heavy head and stroking him gently on the muzzle. The horse lets himself be stroked and closes his eyes now and again, looking sleepy. Then she must feel him all over, his ears, his mane. She runs her hand down his legs and looks at the powerful hooves. Rises again and looks the horse in the eyes. Her voice, when she speaks, is soft.

“Want to go for a run, boy?”

Charlo is taken back to that first time she sat on Snowball and couldn’t be dislodged. He reminds her about that now, and she gives him a broad smile. He helps her saddle up, and together they walk down to the ring. Charlo lays a rug over the horse’s hindquarters. She mounts, puts the horse into a walk, and disappears down the long side.

“Bye, Dad,” she says. “See you in a couple of hours!”

Charlo is so moved that he stands there staring, breathless. Joy leaps in his breast. This is his doing. He’s sacrificed himself for this. He shakes his head in astonishment and looks around for a chair. Finds one and begins rolling a cigarette. He lights it, inhaling greedily. He follows Julie with his eyes.

His thoughts begin to wander again. It’s bad luck that they’re already searching for a red Honda. Maybe he needn’t be too concerned about it, but still, it’s worrying. He crosses his legs and shivers a little; it’s quite cold in the ring and he hasn’t got a lot on. That knee giving way under him is a bit suspicious. It’s not easy to relax, not easy to concentrate on what’s happening in front of his eyes. He should be happy and satisfied, now that he’s reached his goal. The horse is moving at a free walk with his head up and slack reins. I’d like to sit here for years and watch Julie and Crazy. I don’t ask any more of life. I just want to be left in peace. Don’t I deserve that? I’ve gone so far and sacrificed so much. He feels chilly and shuffles his feet, but notices that Julie is riding toward him. She lifts the rug off the horse and hands it to him.

“Here, you poor, frozen old man,” she says, laughing.

She looks so buoyant. She’s shining like a beacon, and her hair is exactly the same color as the horse. They are a pair. Charlo packs the rug around himself, and Julie puts Crazy into a trot. There, he thinks, there goes my daughter. Riding her own horse. He’s large, certainly, but really he’s just the right size. Her main interest is dressage, and she’s quite good at it, too. I reckon she’ll improve a lot now that she’s got her own horse. But she jumps as well, one meter twenty. Pretty good for a sixteen-year-old. It’s a Holstein. I’ve always had a weakness for bays. I’m absolutely certain that those two will make their mark.

Møller comes into the ring. He stops next to Charlo, thrusts his hands in his pockets, and tilts his head in acknowledgment.

“Well,” he says, “they make a fine pair. Going well?”

Charlo nods. “I think they’ve hit it off. It happened so quickly, too. The horse does what she asks; there’s no doubt about that. His traverses are lovely. So very precise, when you consider his size. And he’s got long legs, too. It all looks very promising.” He pauses. “Are you ready to put me to work?”

“Yes, I am actually,” Møller says, and kicks laddishly at the sawdust. “Now that you’re available, I’ve lined up various things. I’ve bought some new mangers that have got to go up, and the windows in the stables need to be better insulated. The water has a tendency to freeze in winter; we’ve had to carry in buckets of water before now. In the summer, I might get some painting done, including the fence around the outside ring and the stables. Maybe the garages, too. They’re blistered, especially on the west side.”

Charlo nods enthusiastically.

“Let’s make a start,” Møller says, “then we’ll see how many hours it comes to. It’s difficult to say anything about your wages now, but I’m sure we’ll come to an agreement.” He stands there a bit longer, watching Julie. Now she’s reining back very elegantly, and the horse steps back correctly with straight legs and lowered head.

“Well, I never,” Møller says, shaking his head. Charlo is soon warm beneath the rug. Julie rides for two hours, until her bangs are damp and the horse is sweating.

IT’S MORNING, AND
he’s up early.

The kitchen table has become his observation post. He sits by the window, eating and keeping an eye on the passing cars. He sees a Ford and shortly afterward a Volkswagen Beetle. He puts two spoonfuls of sugar in his coffee and marvels at this new habit acquired so late in life, but it does him good. A taxi for hire drives past. The bread is stale, so he leaves the crusts. They’re hard and hurt his gums. Buying bread for one is impossible, he thinks. Inga Lill was always so clever about that. She’d cut up the entire loaf and then pack the individual slices in a container. The container went in the freezer. She’d thaw them in the toaster, and then she always had fresh bread. Dear Inga Lill. It isn’t easy. But things are going better now. I’m in a different place. I’ll do the right things from now on, I promise. I want Julie to feel proud. I want her to point me out to others and say, that’s my father. Cool, isn’t he?

He clears up after his modest meal. Afterward he poses in front of the mirror. He relaxes his shoulders, sticks his chin out, and notices that he’s lost three or four kilos. His face is sharper and it suits him. It was from his father that he inherited his wide jaw and his long, straight nose. His blue and gray shirt matches his eyes. One thing at a time, he thinks. Live for the moment. Do all the little things that decent people do. Life is made up of details. Have a proper breakfast and choose something to go on the bread. Gouda and marmalade are his favorites. Shower and shave, get out clean clothes. Run a comb through his thinning hair. Go out and get things done. He puts on his quilted jacket and goes to the car. He avoids looking at the dent, because each time he does he’s filled with a huge despair.

He drives down Blomsgate and then takes the bridge over to the east side of town. He parks outside the Job Center. This district is a planning nightmare: lovely old timber houses have been annihilated by new commercial buildings without any plan or any system at all. But this is his neighborhood, where he grew up. Its untidy character is close to his heart.

He puts twenty kroner into a parking meter, enters the building, and takes a ticket. Number fifty-eight. Forty-nine is being attended to at the counter. He glances at the people who are ahead of him. You can see it right away. These men are unemployed. They’re on Social Security. They’ve lost their self-respect; there’s no hope in their eyes. They read brochures listlessly and avoid looking at one another. This is going to end now, Charlo thinks. I don’t want to be one of them. I want to be part of society. I’m a young man with strong arms and sense enough. It’s important to him now to do things right.

He finds a vacant chair and straightens his back. Here am I, he thinks, Charles Olav Torp, covered in my own crime, clothed from head to foot in that terrible deed. It’s so strange that they can’t see it—that it doesn’t stink or shine out. Can he atone for his misdemeanor by behaving well for the rest of his life? Not as regards the justice system, but in terms of the great eternal reckoning? If there is such a thing. Sometimes he does sense something larger. As he did in Harriet’s kitchen, when he felt someone else take control. He’d assumed a role that was intended for him. He waits half an hour. A tall, lanky man is being served. He’s never killed anyone, Charlo thinks. There’s something natural about the way he leans on the counter, a spontaneity he himself has lost. Just as guilt is manifest in people’s faces, so innocence is visible as a kind of unpretentiousness.