The Murder of Harriet Krohn (4 page)

“Well, this is nice,” she manages to say. Again something is tugging at her, trying to hold her back. She looks searchingly at the man. His teeth in the smiling face are shining white in the lamplight. One of them is damaged, she notices, but in a strange way it suits him.

“It is, isn’t it,” he says, and pulls something out of his pocket. A piece of folded paper.

“I’ll have to trouble you for a signature,” he says. “You’ll have to sign for them.”

Signing for a package sounds perfectly reasonable to her. But there’s the sleet and it’s so wet on the doorstep. She takes the flowers, presses them to the front of her dress, and steps back into the hallway.

“We’d better go inside,” she says. “I can’t write without something to lean on. And I can’t write without my glasses, either.”

She’s quite flustered. She gives him a smile—it’s not exactly heartfelt, but she thinks a little friendliness won’t go amiss when he has to work in this dreadful weather, while others stay at home in the warmth. He returns her smile, and again Harriet has the sensation that something is nudging her. However, her anxiety is suppressed by what is taking place. She feels the weight of the flowers in her arms. It’s a large bouquet. She feels suddenly important. It’s high time, she muses. I’ve slaved all my life; I deserve a bit of attention. Could it be from one of the men over at the shopping center, where she and Mosse have dinner occasionally? Could it be someone who frequents the café? Is it some secret admirer, dreaming his dreams? Could this be happening at her age? Her thoughts cause her to pat her hair. She turns her back on him and goes into the kitchen, and Charlo follows her. His boots will leave wet marks on the lino, she thinks. I’ll have to mop up after him or I might slip and break my hip, and that mustn’t happen. I’ve enough problems as it is. Things have been bad for a long time, but now something delightful has happened. She feels excited in a new way. How quickly and unexpectedly her ears can begin to burn. She goes to fetch her glasses in the living room on the leaf of the desk.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, “but I’m afraid I can’t see a thing without my glasses.”

Charlo nods. He’s silent now and there’s a sudden seriousness in his face. A paralysis, as if everything is congealing within him. He looks around the kitchen with rapid, secretive glances, but Harriet can’t see them; she’s on her way to the living room. Charlo waits with his thudding heart. It feels as if he has several hearts and that each is trying to beat faster than the next. On the floor by the kitchen unit is a bowl. It’s as hot as hell in the kitchen; the heat courses through his cheeks. He knows what he has to do, but suddenly he feels bewildered. Harriet is shuffling across the floor. He pulls himself together, gets himself back on that track. It’s important to concentrate, to follow the plan he’s worked out. Harriet returns with her glasses. She’s wearing a plain green dress and her hair is unkempt. He doesn’t want to look at her too closely; he doesn’t want to remember her face. She may be old, but her eyes are sharp. He realizes that he’s inside now, and soon he must get to work. He goes out quickly into the hall. Harriet sees him disappear but doesn’t understand the significance of it. She hears a noise, a familiar click, and realizes that he’s locked the front door from the inside. She stares after him in disbelief, dumbstruck. She can feel the grain of wholemeal no longer; there’s the taste of blood in her mouth. He’s locked the door and now he’s returning. He looks at her with a sideways glance. He has such a hounded expression, she thinks, so strange. She sways slightly, leaning heavily on the kitchen table because she thinks she’s going to faint. Her head feels boiling hot and there’s a great rushing in her ears. Confused, she gazes down at the paper she’s supposed to sign. It’s blank. Harriet feels nauseated.

Suddenly she feels her meal repeating, the taste of pâté mixed with beetroot, and something else acidic. Her cheeks prickle as the color gradually leaves her face. Why doesn’t he say something? He’s just staring breathlessly at her. She opens her mouth to scream, but only a whimper emerges. Harriet is paralyzed. She won’t ask; she’ll pretend nothing has happened. She fumbles for the package of flowers. If she unpacks the flowers, time will pass and her hands will have something to do. She starts frantically tearing at the paper, feeling his eyes on her the whole time. If he’d just say something, explain. But he only stands there watching, like an unspoken threat. She needs something for the string and she keeps a pair of sharp scissors on a hook above the kitchen unit. It’s several paces from where she’s standing, but with a huge effort she pulls herself together and goes to the unit. It occurs to her that scissors are a weapon. But the idea of stabbing a living person with them is quite out of the question for her. She gets the scissors down and walks back to the table.

It’s November 7 and it’s snowing. It doesn’t matter. It’ll soon be over. She is thirsty and her tongue is dry as sandpaper in her mouth. She cuts the string and begins unwrapping the flowers. It’s a big, well-filled bouquet. She’s never seen anything like it, never been given anything like it. She’s lost control of her hands. They won’t do what she wants at all. Her arthritic fingers are like bent claws, the skin over her knuckles is smooth and shiny. These flowers, she thinks, mean nothing at all. He wants something from the house. I see that now. I opened the door because I was greedy, and this is my punishment. She begins to sway again. She can feel nothing at all from her waist down; her legs are like posts. She opens a cupboard and finds a vase. Fills it with water and puts the flowers into it, pushes the arrangement toward the wall. The light above the unit catches the blue anemones. She wants to say a prayer but can’t utter a word, and anyway she sees more clearly than ever that God doesn’t exist. No God, no other people, only the empty street outside and her terrified breathing. Only the silent man who’s behaving so oddly. She stands with her back to him and hears that he’s drawing out a chair, as if he wants to settle down in her kitchen. She half turns and sees that he’s sitting. He’s buried his face in his black gloves. He’s in despair about something and she doesn’t know what. She stands there in perplexity, her heart fluttering.

The bouquet, oddly beautiful, pink, blue, and white, fills the vase. It looks out of place on the shiny draining board, in her house with all its grays and browns. She crumples up the cellophane and fumbles with the paper. Folds it in half and in quarters, until it’s flat. As long as her hands have something to do, her heart will contract in ever-repeated spasms. This must be a dream. I’ll wake up soon. She puts it all in the garbage can in the cupboard under the unit. She doesn’t dare bang the door, because she wants to make herself invisible. This isn’t what I thought, she tells herself. He’s a deeply disturbed man, and soon he’ll explain. But he explains nothing. He gets up suddenly and composes himself, looking at her with tear-filled eyes, and Harriet thinks, he’ll go now. Go now!

But he doesn’t go. He opens his parka and begins to fumble around underneath it. His hand comes out holding a revolver.

She doesn’t understand about the revolver. Parts of her consciousness are no longer working. Everything turns black at the sight of the weapon, so she turns away and collapses over the counter, letting go of everything, wet and warm down her thighs.

“Where’s your silver? Jewelry? Cash? Quick!”

His voice barely holds. He feels like some farcical amateur and curses his cracking voice. He’s squeaking like a mouse, as he waves his revolver angrily. Harriet shakes her head distractedly. She doesn’t want to part with anything; she doesn’t want to move.

“Money,” he says again. “Have you got any money?”

She makes no answer. She’s standing with her back to him, pretending that none of this is happening. Charlo goes into the living room. There’s a large dark sideboard along the wall, and he opens the drawers. They’re full of silverware. He puts down his gun and begins to root around in the drawers. Harriet has turned now and can see him rummaging through her things, her family heirlooms. She can’t bear it. Something starts smoldering deep within her: a prodigious feeling of injustice, because it’s
her
silver. She’s fond of it and it’s worth a lot of money. Rage replaces fear. She follows him into the room and tugs at his shoulders, screaming hoarsely, her fury giving her unguessed-at strength. Charlo is thoroughly distracted. It’s so quiet outside that people may hear. He hates being disturbed and this old woman is completely deranged. He pushes her away, but she doesn’t stop. She charges at him again, her face blotched with red. Charlo loses all reason. He’s got to stop this screaming. He can’t do anything or think clearly while she’s standing there shrieking like this. He grabs his revolver by the barrel and lifts it like a hammer. Just one smack in the face and she’ll huddle into a corner and shut up. So that he can get on with what he’s come for. Harriet sees the raised arm and shuffles out to the kitchen, back to the counter, still screeching—a long drawn-out wail of lament. He runs after her and hits her hard with the stock. The first blow finds a neck vertebra and it breaks with a dry click. He thinks, Julie! Help me! Harriet sinks to the floor. Horrified, he sees that her body is jerking in appalling, cramp-like spasms. He can’t bear her being like this, so he strikes again as hard as he can, striking her head repeatedly. Suddenly a stream of blood wells up from her skull. He backs away in horror, gasping for air, looking at the thing lying on the floor. He thinks she’s still moaning and there are still spasms in her legs, so he lashes out again with even more force.

Then, suddenly, weakness comes over him. The hand clutching the weapon is lowered. He wipes his forehead and gazes at the bloody butt. He gives his head a hard shake so that he can think. Because he knows that he must think now; he can’t just let himself go. Deep down he realized this would happen. People don’t part with their things without a struggle. She might be as greedy as him, mightn’t she? He turns his back to the object on the floor, puts the weapon on the counter, and feels in the pocket of his parka. He pulls out a cotton bag with a string closure. It’s Julie’s old gym bag that Inga Lill made. He returns to the sideboard in the living room. Now that all is quiet he works quickly and efficiently. He places knives and forks and spoons in the bag. There’s a lot of silver of considerable value. He opens a cupboard next to the sideboard and pulls out the contents, searching for money. When the sideboard is empty, he turns and looks around the living room. He notices the letter that’s been started lying on the leaf of the desk, notices the little bowl of candy. For reasons he doesn’t understand, he goes over to it and peers at the assortment. Automatically, he picks one he likes—the brown one with caramel and licorice—and pops it into his mouth.

Then he goes into the kitchen. He doesn’t look in Harriet’s direction; she’s just something dark in the corner of his eye. He’s searching for a door that might open into a bedroom. It’s at the back of the kitchen, hardly bigger than a storage area. On the bedside table is a jewelry case. He digs into it with his gloved hand and puts the contents into his bag: brooches, rings, a bracelet, and a string of pearls. And a large, heavy pocket watch that’s certainly gold. He tears open the drawer of the bedside table; it’s full of tablets, coins, and hair clips. He opens a wardrobe and yanks out the clothing. He has a hunch that this is where she hides her money. That she likes having it close by when she’s asleep. He finds a pink washing bag and opens the zipper. Pleasure floods through him, for there it is. A staggeringly fat wad of money. He stuffs it into the pocket of his parka, feeling tremendously elated.

He re-enters the kitchen. Harriet is lying like a slaughtered animal on the floor. She is so thin and her body is strangely twisted. He sees her gold bracelet but can’t bear touching her. He’s glad he can’t see her face because right now his life is hideous: all that’s been before, and what he’s done now. He is repulsive. His tongue feels the missing corner of his front tooth as a nasty, sharp edge. He shoves the revolver under his parka and takes a few paces to the side. Then he puts his foot in the wrong place. The heel of his boot goes into the puddle of blood and he slips. He flails wildly, trying to keep his balance. He stands for a few moments to allow his heart to calm down. Now he must go out among people again, so it’s important to be self-possessed. Relaxed, assured, and purposeful. He walks into the hallway, turns the lock, holds the door ajar, and stands listening. A shadow streaks across the floor, something black and noiseless. He starts. She’s got a cat, he realizes. It’s been waiting outside, and now it wants to come in to the warmth and light. He goes back in again to see what it will do. The cat stops and looks at the ruined body. It gives several long mews. Then it goes straight to its bowl to drink. He stands nonplussed, watching the cat. It raises its head and looks at him with half-closed yellow eyes. How extraordinary, he thinks, that the cat is behaving as normal. He leaves the kitchen again, and the cat follows. He can’t understand it. It sits on the steps watching him. He pulls the front door closed and goes down the steps, the cat keeping pace with him like a shadow. He begins to walk toward the gate. There’ll be no one around now, he thinks. I won’t meet a soul, and if I do, all they’ll see is a silhouette in the snowy night. The cat follows him for a few meters, and then it stops. Quickly he steps out onto the road.

He looks over his shoulder constantly as he wades through the slush. But he doesn’t see anyone. Not a single person is out in Fredboesgate this evening. He sees television screens flickering blue in living rooms and silhouettes behind curtains. Everyone is minding their own business. He reaches the hotel and makes his way around to the courtyard. He brushes the mushy snow off his car’s windshield. There are so many footprints everywhere. Surely it wasn’t like this when he arrived?

He gets into the car. Throws the bag with the silverware on the seat and drops the bloody revolver on the floor. His right arm is weak and he’s pulled his shoulder. He rubs the tender spot and pants, knowing that he must get away from Hamsund. But he sits there just the same. His heart is laboring, but he can’t get it to slow down. It’s pumping away at a terrific rate and he feels the heat rising to his head. He tries to breathe freely. Lays his head back, opens his mouth wide. Air down into my lungs, he thinks, air around my entire body. If he can only get out of Hamsund, if he can just get home, everything will be fine. My own home, he thinks despairingly. My own chair, my bed. The cool pillow against my face. The things that are mine, just as before. Can he do it? Can he manage to live with this? How could she carry on like that. She could have let him work away in peace and saved her own skin, couldn’t she? Deep down he knows that this is where he was headed. He’s known it all the time. It’s lain there like a blot on his consciousness.