The Murder of Harriet Krohn (8 page)

“Breed?” Charlo asks.

“Holstein. Good pedigree. A dependable horse.”

“He’s beginning to sound expensive.”

“I wouldn’t take less than fifty thousand for him. That much I can say.”

“Fifty?”

Charlo chews his lip, thinking of what he owes. He thinks about the silver and tries to do a mental calculation. You can bargain with a horse’s owner, he’s sure of it. At any rate, down to forty-five. He thinks, he hopes. The horse is absolutely lovely. People would stop to look at him.

“Would you like me to saddle him so you can try him out?”

He shakes his head emphatically at this. “I hadn’t given it a thought; I haven’t ridden for years. But would it be annoying if I came out a couple of times to look at him? Could I take some photos?”

Møller nods his assent.

“Yes, just come along. The stables are open to the public. I can arrange for my daughter to put him through his paces in the ring, so you can see how he moves. If you’re interested, that is. She wants something a bit smaller and lighter, so I’m pretty sure she won’t mind.”

Charlo nods gratefully. “And another thing. What are your stabling costs? If I wanted to keep him here?”

Møller runs a hand under his nose.

“Three thousand eight hundred kroner. That includes mucking out weekdays. We put them into the paddock, and sometimes we can arrange for people to look after them.”

“Well, that’s what it costs then,” Charlo says, engaged in febrile mental arithmetic yet again. But he can no longer make sense of the figures without paper.

He lays his hand on the horse’s rump and feels the firm muscles. Runs his hand down his long, powerful leg. He looks closely at the pasterns; they look fine. Searches for the ribs. He can feel them, but not see them, and he knows that’s how it should be.

“Ten years old, did you say?”

Møller nods. “I think ten is the best age. They’re out of puberty, properly grown up, and old age is a long time off. Satisfied?”

“Yes, thanks,” says Charlo. He feels ecstatic. He’s standing here with a stranger and a beautiful bay, and his voice is steady. Standing here in an old quilted jacket with his nasty, slit-shaped pupils, and no one notices them.

“Well, I’ll think about it and come back to you,” he says, and watches Møller leading the horse back to his box. Then he lays a horse blanket over his back and tightens the straps.

Charlo leaves the stable. He feels mildly intoxicated. He gets into his car and checks himself in the mirror, keeping his features under observation. Each time he looks again he sees that watchful expression. A man stares back at him, a man he has to get to know. It’ll take time, he thinks. Time is a great healer. Just drive now and take it easy. He drives slowly down the forest track, and soon he’s back on the main road. He stops off at a shopping center to buy food. Takes a quick look at his watch, presses the button on the radio. Waits. A couple of minutes pass. There’s the fanfare heralding the news. His heart beats faster again, because now it’s broken. They’re talking about the murder at Hamsund. A few words force their way in and stick in his memory. Particularly brutal. Elderly and alone. She probably let him in. Objects of value are missing from the house.

Charlo lays his forehead on the steering wheel, listening, his entire body tense. Particularly brutal. Was it? He doesn’t see it that way. He hit her until she lay still, and that took time. The woman was found by a neighbor. The police have some clues. They’re encouraging people who were in the vicinity of Hamsund last night to get in touch if they saw any suspicious vehicles near Fredboesgate.

The words seem to come from far away. He doesn’t recognize himself or the crime; it’s become a case. As dry as all other cases, stripped of all drama. It’s so strange, he thinks. It has nothing to do with me. Well it does if I let it, but I won’t let it. I must push it away. I was in that room for only a few minutes, and now I’m in another room. I’ve closed the door and locked it, and I’ll never go back there.

The newsreader turns to politics. That was all it was, just a few seconds, before being jostled aside by other news. He turns off the radio and ponders. The police have some clues, but what could they be? Suspicious vehicles, he thinks next. Could one describe the collision and his uncontrolled outburst as suspicious? Obviously. A grown man doesn’t lose his temper like that over a dent. Harriet Krohn is discovered now, and her house is full of photographers and technicians. Minute examination, tiny brushes, chemicals. With an effort, he pulls himself together, gets out of the car, and locks it. Walks away with his head down and his hands thrust deep into his pockets.

The shopping center consists of four or five shops. He’s just about to turn into the grocery store when he catches sight of something. A slot machine. A Twin Runner with flashing lights. He stands staring at it. Automatically he feels in his pockets for coins. His arm jerks as he sees all the glitter of the machine: its colors, the great pull it exerts. He’s got a twenty-krone piece in his pocket. His fingers tighten around it. No, a voice inside him says. It’s over now, finished. But he hears the familiar sound of coins cascading into the tray. He’s feeling lucky; this is his day. No! He turns his back on the machine and walks into the grocery store, striding around the shelves. Call Me Crazy, he thinks. What a beauty.

He phones Bjørnar Lind again. Still no reply. Brimming with irritation, he stands staring at the bundle of notes. It almost seems to be burning in the drawer. He wants to be rid of it, to get them off his back. In the evening, he settles down in front of the television to watch the news. Before it starts, he’s flustered and nervous. He rushes around the living room killing time, because soon the bombshell will burst. He imagines that the murder will be the lead news item, that the old woman will precede all international conflicts. And he’s right. He strains forward in his chair, staring goggle-eyed. There is her house and the street. He sees the technicians swarming everywhere in their white caps. He thinks of all the machinery that’s been set in motion. They interview a policeman. He notices the name on the bottom left of his screen, Inspector Sejer. He notices the acute gaze and hears the deep, authoritative voice. He sees the lion with its crown and axe on the man’s shoulder. Charlo puts his hands in front of his eyes and rocks back and forth in his chair. He knows it will pass. So he finds it odd when they suddenly move on to other things, his own crime so quickly making way for the problems of the Middle East. He feels strangely devalued. It cost him so much, in terms of courage and dread and despair.

Then he remembers that there’s something he’s got to do. He goes down to the cellar and finds a large hammer, then comes back up and roots around in a drawer where he keeps his socks. He begins taking out socks and pulling them over the head of the hammer. He carries on until it has become a ball of material, both hard and soft at the same time. He picks it up, goes to the window, and looks out. He can’t see anyone in the street, so he slips out of the front door. He approaches the Honda with the hammer and then wriggles under the car.

The ground is icy against his back. He feels along the dented fender. He can’t bear the ghastly mark, the reminder. He attempts to hammer the metal, but can’t get a proper swing at it. He uses more strength, striking again and again. If he could just remove this dent. It’s dangerous for him, telltale. Occasionally he rests with his eyes shut and his back on the gravel. He’s wet and cold, but he carries on beating as hard as he can. It’s heavy work and wasted effort. He can’t get at it, can’t get enough force on the hammer. He’d like to give up and just lie there on the sodden ground until someone finds him and carts him away. He has to rest again; he can barely believe he’s lying there thumping away in sheer desperation.

He tests the metal with his hand and feels that he’s done a little good. He crawls back out to take a look. It’s almost as bad as it was before. He can see the white streaks from the other car and recalls that car paint can be identified and traced. He rushes indoors for a penknife, runs out again, and begins scraping. He draws the knife blade across the metal. It makes a hard, screeching sound and he uncovers the matte layer beneath. Later on he can rub it down with sandpaper and buy some enamel paint; then the dent will be less obvious. There’s nothing criminal about having a smash, he thinks, and is grateful for the chance to buy something, do something and make the time pass. He keeps going until he’s exhausted. The clean-scraped metal glints at him, but that’s enough for the moment. He goes in and sits down to rest.

There is an alien emptiness in the house. A sort of echo in the room he hasn’t noticed before, as if there’s no furniture in it. He wants time to pass and night to come. Then people will turn in, and nobody will think about him or search for him. He hears the ticking of the wall clock and the incessant thudding of his own heart. Now that the bombshell has exploded and everyone has heard about Harriet, why is it all so quiet? Are they sitting whispering in corners? Dully he chews his nail and tries to work out what he’s feeling. A bad habit from the past reasserts itself, and he sits running his finger across his broken tooth.

HE STANDS IN
the kitchen with one hand over his face. He feels the ridge of his nose and his dry lips, the wide chin that he knows so well, or used to know. He opens his fingers a crack and peers through them, taking in the room in small portions. The walls, the furniture. He sees his own feet. He feels his chest rise and understands so clearly the throbbing mass that is his body, tainted now. Guilt is everywhere: in his right hand, in his head, in his heart. No, not in his heart. He never wanted this, never dreamed of being here. No human being ever does; they simply slide into perdition. He stands breathing silently, holding his face as if it’s been reduced to a mask that will fall away if he lets go. Beneath there is only raw flesh and empty, black eye sockets. He feels his chest rise again. Although he doesn’t deserve it, he’ll get oxygen, he thinks. My heart is working in spite of everything. It doesn’t fail even though I’ve done this terrible deed.

His goal is to wrench himself free from this mindset. He wants to go out and pick up the newspaper, but just then he catches sight of his neighbor, Erlandson, walking back from his car in his bluff, hearty manner. Charlo has no desire to talk to anyone. Not now that he’s feeling exposed. He can’t assume the right expression, a thing that’s never been difficult before. And it strikes him that from now on he’ll have to relearn everything. Daily tasks, meeting people, being the same person he’s always been. But he isn’t the same anymore.

His next objective is to make himself some food. But he just stands there, struggling with his thoughts, locked inside a confined space. He feels an enormous need to pull himself free, to find more room. Here I am in the spotlight, he thinks. My cheeks are burning. I’m Charlo, the murderer. I’m standing in my own kitchen, leaning against the kitchen unit, and I could stand here till nightfall. Apathy protects me from all evil; no emotion can take hold while I stand here frozen. It all feels insurmountable: the next hour, tomorrow, the remainder of my life. Here I am, doing my small chores—no, I’m not doing anything. I’m standing paralyzed by the kitchen unit, my hand to my face. I can’t bring myself to take it away. I imagine that the light will burn like acid. This will soon pass. It comes and goes; I know that. I must live with it.

He tries to lift his mind, to move to somewhere else, but it’s quite an effort. My mother gave birth to me in 1963, he thinks, clutching at the images. I was a chubby baby, a nice child, a considerate boy, and later a pleasant young man. A good man as people used to say. Before I started gambling, before I borrowed money from all those people I never repaid. I met Inga Lill and we had Julie. But Inga Lill is dead now, and I can’t manage alone. At the thought of Inga Lill, he gets knotted up inside, he wipes an angry tear from his cheek. Miserable, he holds his face once more, wanting to force his hand back down where it should be, to become the same man he used to know, the one who could look candidly at the world. He grits his teeth and feels the rough stubble rasping beneath his fingers.

His gaze wanders around the room and fixes on a picture that Julie drew in her childhood. A mother and a father and a child, close together beneath a huge sun. That’s not how it is anymore, he thinks. I ruined it all and she hasn’t forgiven me. He recalls the first time he saw her, a well-formed infant fifty centimeters long. When she was a year old, Inga Lill started giving her porridge and she put on loads of weight and looked like a little pink doughnut. Six months later, when she began to walk, she slimmed down. At the age of five, she began riding, and all the hard work soon showed as small, hard muscles, particularly in her thighs and upper arms. She had biceps like a boy’s.

He clenches his fists. He thinks, if the police don’t harass me, I’ll hound myself, all the way to hell. He stares out of the window, bewildered, wishing the world were pristine. Wishing that November 7 had never been. His eyes move on. An old sea chest stands by the wall. He inherited it from his parents. Over the years, it has been painted so many times that an unknown number of colors lie hidden beneath the present dark green. The chest functions as a seat. It’s a roughly made piece of furniture, not especially elegant, but very spacious and solid. He used to sit on it as a child with dangling legs. Now the chest is full of footwear and other things. Brushes and cloths, wax and shoe polish. And the bag containing Harriet’s silver.

Charlo stares at the chest. He tears himself loose from the kitchen unit, crosses the room, raises the lid, roots among the boots and brushes, and takes out the bag. A green-and-white checkered bag with the initials “J.T.” embroidered in red. It’s heavier than he remembers. He tips the contents onto the kitchen table: knives, forks, and spoons. Cream jug and sugar bowl, candlesticks and vases. Because it’s all tightly packed in sealed bags, the silver is as bright as new. Maybe Harriet collected it as a kind of investment. Maybe it was handed down to her by her mother or someone else. He pulls a knife out of the plastic and holds it up to the light. Checks the hallmark. There’s not a scratch on the blade. He’s not familiar with the pattern, but it looks old and expensive. It’s worth a lot presumably.