The Murder of Harriet Krohn (7 page)

Five minutes later, he halts at a Shell station. He sits in the car for a while, hardly daring to go in. He runs his fingers through his hair and squints furtively through the windshield; he can’t see anyone. But at the end of the building he spies a large, green container. A dumpster. He reaches down and picks up the bag of bloody clothes. Then he grits his teeth, leaves the car, and walks as coolly as he can to the dumpster, which has a lid. He looks over his shoulder, puts the bag in, covers it as best he can, and bangs the lid shut. Then he goes into the shop. He wanders across to the counter and sees some large hot dogs browning on an electric grill. He chooses one with bacon and squeezes plenty of mustard on top. The young man who’s serving watches him as he eats. He moves away, stops in front of the magazine rack, and reads all the headlines. The crisply cooked skin crunches between his teeth, and the mustard burns his tongue. He drinks half a bottle of Coke, says goodbye, and goes out again. The food does him good. Gradually he relaxes. He drives on, studying the road signs and the traffic in his rearview mirror. There’s a green Scorpio behind him. For all he knows, the car might have plainclothes police in it. He doesn’t seriously think it does. He’s only considering the possibility that they’re all over the place, that they’re looking for him, that they won’t give up.

After half an hour, he turns left at Møller’s Riding Center. He finds himself on a narrow, bumpy forest track and shifts down into second, trying to drive carefully to spare the Honda. Soon he catches sight of the paddocks. Several horses are grazing the damp, half-frozen grass. Small patches of snow are lying here and there; it’s still mild for November and the air is pleasant and clear. He sees low red-painted buildings, the riding ring, the stables, the parked cars and horseboxes. The place is idyllic, lying in a hollow in the landscape like so many toy blocks in a bowl, surrounded by gently undulating hills and forest. He glides into a free parking space. He needs to sit in the car for a bit first. It’s still early in the day. Only a couple of young girls are leading their horses for a ride across the fields. They’ll plow through the flecks of snow together, screaming with pleasure. Again he thinks of Julie. He thinks of her with longing and hope, and dreams of what the future may hold. The girls don’t even glance at him. He stays in the car. He watches the horses’ rumps and their flicking tails, and soon they’re out of sight. Diffidently he gets out of the car and stands for a while looking around. Now he’s there for all to see in his blue quilted jacket. But no one pays him any attention. He walks to the first stable. Opens the heavy door and stands there listening to the noises within. He breathes in the strong tang of the animals. He hears the soft sound of horses chewing, a rhythmic munching. He recognizes the heady scent of dry hay, leather, and horse muck. On his right is a bulletin board. He reads the messages and smiles.

“Please tidy up after yourself!!” “Keep the area in front of your box swept.” “Don’t leave tack in the passage.” “Keep the door shut, or the water will freeze!” It’s all so familiar, so dear. With a kind of devotion, he begins walking down the stable passage. Inside this building, he’s safe. This is a special space where no one can touch him. He is filled with emotions, smells, and tranquility; they permeate his body instantly. The great animals pay him no heed. Undisturbed, they chomp on, tugging at the hay in long snatches and concentrating deeply on their food. A few sparrows circle beneath the roof. Occasionally they land in the passage and find odd pieces of corn, which they pounce on with energetic eagerness.

There are ten horses in all, and he looks at each one with care. Two are ponies, which interest him less: a pony is, and remains, a pony and can never become a horse. He sees a very overweight Fjord horse and a dapple gray he’s not so keen on, partly because of its build, but also because it’s thin. But he studies the other six with considerable interest. Walking up and down the passage, he reads the names on the box doors. Konstantin, born ’92, owner: Grete Valen. Superman, born ’96, owner: Line Grov. One of the horses stands out because of its impressive height, and also because of its color. It’s a bay. Charlo stops dead and stands there, staring. The bay is his favorite. The bay is the one he’ll dream of, its deep, coppery color shining in the light from the window. A pretty arrow-shaped blaze on its forehead. A good, thick tail and a powerful neck. Its liquid and black eyes observe him with stoic composure. Charlo holds out a hand and lets the horse sniff. Its muzzle feels like fine, expensive velvet. He leans forward and blows into the horse’s nostrils, wanting to implant his own smell. The horse is inquisitive; its ears tilt forward positively and its tail swishes from side to side. The horse really is big. Six hundred kilos, he guesses, with powerful legs and supple hindquarters. Definitely a dressage horse. It has the muscle mass typical of an animal that has done a lot of groundwork. It looks newly shod and well tended, with oiled and shiny hooves. He stands at the box door completely wrapped up in a daydream. There’s no name on the door. But obviously someone owns the horse.

His musings are disturbed by the sound of the stable door slamming and footsteps approaching. Immediately he pulls himself together. Gets ready for a conversation. He looks down the passage and glimpses a young girl. She sends him a bashful glance, registers that she doesn’t know him, and gets on with her task. He calls out a greeting and watches with interest. Perhaps the bay is the very horse she’s taking out. No, she’s come for the Fjord horse. She places a halter over its head and leads it out into the passage, and ties it to a ring. Then she disappears and returns almost immediately with a saddle. Charlo knows what a saddle weighs, but she’s toting it on one arm as if it were a mere nothing. The horse’s bridle is over the other. They’ve got muscles, these girls, after years on horseback, after forking tons of horse manure out of the box and down the hatch. Heavy, wet horse muck and stalwart, tough girls.

“Nice Fjord,” he says, even though he doesn’t mean it. It’s been far too well fed but is attractive despite that. It’s champagne-colored with a pretty black-and-white mane. He likes Fjord horses very much, but not for riding. They’re precise in dressage but lack a certain elegance. The Fjord horse has such short legs, he thinks, and looks at the girl. She places the saddle on the horse’s back, tightens the girth with impressive strength, and starts scraping out the hooves. Her trim bottom sticks up in the air, filling her tight riding breeches, and he looks at her rounded body and powerful thighs. That’s how they ought to look, he thinks. Buxom and bursting as ripe plums. But as always, whenever he looks at a young girl, he starts making comparisons with Julie. He never finds anyone to match her. Julie with her resolute chin and her mane of red hair. Julie with her firm, green eyes.

“What’s his name?” Charlo asks, taking a few steps toward the girl. He’s a friendly man. Even though he’s just killed someone, even though he’s just destroyed an old woman, he finds his voice again. He finds his good nature. He knows how to talk to people and make conversation. It gives him an odd kind of pleasure that he can still interact with people as if nothing has happened.

Just then a cat slips in, followed by a Rottweiler puppy who finds some hoof trimmings and begins to chew greedily.

“Champis,” she replies, smiling shyly. Now that’s apposite, he thinks, savoring the name.

“Would you know anything about the bay?” He looks over at the big horse. Its head is hanging over the door and it’s chewing.

She pulls the Fjord horse’s forelock over the brow band and arranges it perfectly.

“He belongs to Møller,” she says, and goes to fetch a broom. She sweeps the passage clear of wood shavings and dung. She opens the hatch in the floor and sweeps it in with practiced strokes.

“Møller?” Charlo inquires.

“The man who owns the riding center.”

Charlo nods. “I’m only having a look,” he says in extenuation. “He’s lovely. That’s all I meant.”

“Yes,” she replies, and looks at him curiously. “He’s really lovely. But he’s quite a handful.”

“Have you ridden him?”

He moves closer to her, enjoying the conversation.

“Sort of.” She replaces the broom. “He’s a big animal and takes a lot of riding. But he knows a thing or two.”

He nods, goes to the bay again, and strokes its muzzle.

“D’you know what age he is?”

“Ten,” she says. “A gelding.”

She puts on a riding helmet. Then, finally, a high-visibility vest.

“And do they sell horses here?” he asks. She shrugs.

“Occasionally,” she replies. “But you’ll have to speak to Møller about that. He’s feeding in the stable down there.”

Charlo thanks her and goes out. He walks down a steep slope, turns the corner, and enters the lower stable. This houses ten animals, too. Several are small, fat Shetland ponies, hardly his favorite. Sweet but unpredictable and as stubborn as mules, he thinks. But excellent for really young girls. At the far end are a couple of good-looking animals, a palomino and a rather small piebald. Just then, a man appears in the door and catches sight of him. Something about the way he moves makes Charlo suspect that he’s the owner. He’s short and broad, with a wiry lock of dark hair hanging down over his brow. He continues his work without pausing, seemingly filled with a special serenity. He’s at home here among the animals.

“Are you the owner?” Charlo squirms slightly, feeling awkward.

“That’s right.”

He looks quickly at Charlo but doesn’t interrupt his work. The animals are more important; it’s a matter of sticking to the feeding routines. His work is even and methodical. Just watching him gives Charlo a sense of peace. The man grabs a zinc pail from a shelf, then turns around and holds out his hand.

“Møller,” he says, nodding.

“Torp,” says Charlo, and presses the hand. “Do you have horses for sale?” He tries to keep his voice light.

Møller studies him thoughtfully. Møller’s eyes are dark and deep-set, but his gaze is firm. He’s wearing a green oilskin jacket and long lace-up leather boots.

“Occasionally.”

The lock of dark hair falls across his brow. “Is that why you’re here?” He works all the time he’s talking. Charlo thrusts his hands into his pockets, wanting to hide an almost childish embarrassment. Eventually he gets the better of it.

“I’ve just come to look, mainly. But I am thinking about it. A bit later on. I was wondering what kind of money we’d be talking about.”

Møller dips the pail into a sack of pellets and walks to the nearest box. His jacket crackles as he moves around and his boots smack against the cement. He empties a liter measure of feed into the manger, and the chubby pony dives in.

“I’ve sold horses for twenty thousand kroner,” he says, “and I’ve sold them for a hundred and fifty thousand. It depends what you want.”

Charlo watches Møller as he does the feeding. It looks like nice work, bringing food to the animals.

“Well, let’s say I could manage something in between,” he says. “But I’ve got to sell some things first, and that could take time. And I need a horse that knows a bit. I couldn’t take a young horse that had to be trained right up from nothing.”

“I know,” he says, and digs into the pail of pellets.

“And preferably not a mare,” Charlo adds.

“Bad experience?” Møller asks. He’s not a terrifically accommodating man. His voice is a little terse, but he’s not unfriendly. He’s just sounding Charlo out.

“I’d probably go for a gelding,” he says. “What about the bay in the stable up the way? I hear he belongs to you.”

Møller glances at him.

“My daughter’s riding him.”

Charlo loses courage for an instant.

“Are you interested in him?” Møller asks in surprise. “He’s large. Not many people dare to get up on that one.”

Charlo shrugs defensively, attempting to curb his enthusiasm.

“Yes, he’s large all right, but he makes an impression. But I’ve no idea what he’s really made of. He’s probably expensive. Good build. Lots of muscle.”

“One meter eighty high,” Møller says. He places the pail on the floor and wipes his brow with the sleeve of his jacket. His boots are caked with wood shavings and horse manure, and thick black stubble forms shadows on his jowls.

“If I got an offer, I might possibly consider it,” he says, and scrutinizes Charlo more closely. He won’t sell to just anybody. “He’s a bit much for the girl; she’s only thirteen. But we haven’t found anything else for her. It’s mainly so that he gets some exercise.”

Charlo feels a flutter of excitement.

“Shall we go up and take a look?” Møller suggests. Charlo is surprised. He thanks him and stands there watching the man while he finishes his feeding. He parks the pail and the wheelbarrow in a corner and buttons up his jacket. Then he walks quickly out of the stable, and Charlo scoots after him. Two small girls with their legs sticking out ride up on ponies and a couple of cars with trailers drive in. The riding center is starting to hum with life. They go into the upper stable.

“I’ll bring him into the passage,” Møller says, “so you can see him better.” Charlo nods gratefully, feeling a quiver of elation inside. He can’t believe that he’s standing in here, admiring a beautiful horse. That this man listens to him and takes him seriously. Møller ties the horse to the ring.

“This chap’s pretty heavy to ride,” he admits, and begins stroking the horse’s neck. “But on the plus side, he knows a lot. He’s well trained, doing well in dressage, and can clear one meter thirty. He’s always been in good health. Even temperament. Strong-willed but never any trouble. A fine, steady canter. He requires a lot of warming up because he’s large. But if he’s given the time he needs, you’ve only got to give him the word and he’ll go for hours.”

Charlo listens, enthralled. He believes every word that Møller says.

“What’s his name?”

“Call Me Crazy.”

“Didn’t you say he had an even temperament?”

“Oh yes.” Møller strokes the horse’s muzzle. “He must have got the name before he was gelded,” he replies, chuckling.