The Murder of Harriet Krohn

by Karin Fossum

  “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.

  “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.