The Murder of Harriet Krohn

by Karin Fossum

  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.

  5

  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.

  A fence, he thinks. The weak link, do I dare? Without someone to launder it, the silver is worthless. But, after all, a fence is in business, so we must be able to trust one another. He should call; he has a number in his wallet. But he puts it off. He wants everything to settle down. No, things will never be calm again. He must battle this storm for the rest of his life, and he has no stays anymore. It’s as if he’ll take off at any moment and fly away like an empty paper bag. His hands begin to shake. Another landslide is loosed inside him when he thinks back and remembers. He leans across the table and takes a few deep breaths. The things he took from her jewelry box have hardly any value: a string of pearls, imitation presumably, a couple of rings, a silver bracelet and some brooches, one an ugly old cameo. But the gold watch. He picks it up and weighs it in his hand. It’s as heavy as lead. Fifty thousand at least, perhaps seventy or eighty. He stands there a long time, looking at his spoils. He counts forks and knives and spoons, trying to ca
lculate mentally. Then he packs the jewelry and silverware away in the bag and replaces it in the chest.

  He goes to the kitchen unit and takes a loaf from the drawer. He begins to slice it, focusing on the concrete thought that he needs food. A good grasp of the loaf in the left hand, the knife in the right. I must concentrate on this now, he thinks. I must act, do the little things. I must behave like the living. The fact that I’ve killed makes me feel different. Other people can’t see it; I know that. And I can’t reveal it, either. I must carry this from now on, and yet it doesn’t feel like a weight. It’s more like a blaze-mark, a notch. He imagines a notch cut into his heart, and that when he dies and they open him up, they will lean over his corpse and see the vile stigma. His heart revealed. Disfigured. Ah! they’ll think, that’s how it is; he’s carrying a burden of guilt! His hands begin to shake again and the knife ceases its motion in the bread. For a while, he stands immobile, frozen in this position.

  At last silence falls within him, and he cuts some slices of Jarlsberg and lays them on the bread. As he picks up his plate, he feels his body behaving oddly. It has no coordination and is unpleasantly slack. The feeling is reminiscent of when he was a teenager and growing too fast. His joints feel weak and his thoughts wander. As if the link between body and soul has been severed. Yes, he thinks, contact has been broken. My soul is drifting alone in a dark place with whispering voices, and my heart has a notch in it. With some effort, he goes into the living room, seats himself in his comfortable chair, and presses his knees together. Puts the plate on his lap. He bites into the dry, hard crust. He hears the traffic outside, and it comes as a relief. He’s frightened of total silence—so much can grow out of it. From now on, he thinks of other people as far removed from himself. It’s not a guilty conscience that troubles him, nor the pangs of remorse. But an overwhelming feeling of loneliness.

  He phones Bjørnar Lind again and after the fourth ring it’s answered. This is his great moment; this is what he’s been waiting for and dreaming of.

  “Hi there, this is Charlo. It’s been a long time!”

  Silence at the other end, just as he’d anticipated. And then an irritated, wheezing sound.

  “You never stop trying, do you? The tap’s been turned off, Charlo. You’re not getting a single øre.”

  Charlo sits down in the chair at the desk and rests his elbows on the tabletop. He opens the drawer slowly and takes out the money, caressing the notes with his fingertips. The thin paper crackles.

  “Whereabouts are you?” Charlo’s voice is relaxed and low. He’s in no hurry at all, because he wants to draw the conversation out and enjoy it.

  “I’m back home,” Lind replies. “I’ve been in Sweden covering the harness racing. What have you got yourself into now?”

  “Nothing. I don’t need you for anything at all.”

  Again there’s that wheezing sound at the other end of the line.

  “So why are you calling me then?”

  Lind’s voice is hard and sullen, and Charlo’s head is as clear as crystal.

  “There’s something waiting for you here. I just wanted to let you know. You can come and get it anytime.”

  “Get what?” Lind asks. His voice still has a skeptical note, but now it’s rising, sounding hopeful.

  “Two hundred thousand,” says Charlo. “All beautifully bundled up.”

  There’s a long pause.

  “Pull the other one!” says Lind in disbelief.

  “You can drop that jokey tone,” Charlo says, bridling. “And make sure your people stay away from me. I haven’t had a proper night’s sleep for months. Are you coming or not?”

  Lind’s tone becomes livelier.

  “How did you manage it, Charlo?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Have you completely lost the plot?”

  “Don’t you worry about me. Come over right away so I can get this hell over and done with!”

  He slams down the phone. He’s swelling with pride; he’s on top of the world. He packs the money in a large envelope and settles down to wait. He glances out of the window and notices that the sun is about to penetrate the layer of cloud. He clutches the envelope. In less than fifteen minutes, he spies Lind’s Chrysler cruising down the street. He sits calmly, waiting for the doorbell. The moment is indescribable. The sound peals through the whole house. He rises languidly, strolls across the room, and opens the door slowly.

  Lind, tall and lanky, stands there with his hands in his pockets, looking at him.

  “Well, Charlo, things on the move, are they?”

  Charlo folds his arms. Looks up at the sky.

  “I think it’s going to clear up,” he says, nodding. Lind catches sight of the envelope.

  “Is there anything I need to know?”

  “Not a thing,” Charlo says evenly. “Take the money and keep your mouth shut, that’s all I ask.”

  “What about a little gratitude for the loan?”

  “Yes, thank you so much.” He holds out the envelope and bows exaggeratedly like a courtier. “Make sure that people know I’ve paid.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know perfectly well. I’ve heard the rumors.”

  Lind opens the envelope and begins counting. The notes are in bundles of ten.

  “My, this looks good.”

  A grin of satisfaction spreads across his face.

  “Naturally. I’m an honest man. And I’m done with every kind of gambling.”

  Lind gives him a tightlipped smile. “I won’t believe that until I’ve seen it. But, if you’ve really kicked the habit, good luck to you.”

  Lind nods curtly and walks to his car. Charlo watches him leave. Now the sun breaks through in earnest as the car slips out onto the road, and everything is gilded and bright. His head is completely quiet. He goes inside and opens a window. He weighs next to nothing and floats through the rooms. There’s twenty thousand kroner left in the drawer, enough for some small bills. Could that be birdsong he hears through the open window? Perhaps not now in November, but outside someone is whistling cheerily.

  The scraped fender seems to leap out at him when he walks toward his car. He drives to an auto accessories shop and goes to the shelf of enamels. He tries to find a shade of red that matches the Honda but can’t decide. Shakes the aerosol he’s holding, hears the pea rattling around inside it. Which is best? he wonders: one that’s too light or one that’s too dark? And what shade of red does he actually require? Plum red, scarlet. He doesn’t quite know, so he hesitates. He decides on the lighter shade. At the counter, he notices the newspapers and buys two different titles. On the front of Dagbladet is a photo of a large bunch of flowers. What a strange front cover, he thinks. There’s something about it that’s familiar; it rings a bell. He picks up the newspaper in horror.

  Did you make this bouquet?

  Instantly he feels his face stiffen. He can’t believe his eyes. Panicking, he scrambles in his wallet for money, snatches up the papers and the aerosol, and rushes out to his car. Slams the door hard. His heart pounds wildly. They’re already on his tail. No, that can’t be right. But the flowers, what does that mean? He reads the article feverishly.

  Look carefully at this bouquet, which was found in murder victim Harriet Krohn’s house at Hamsund. The flowers have obviously been arranged by a professional and were absolutely fresh when the body was found. The police assume that the bouquet was put together by one of the town’s florists, and hope that the person who made this particular bouquet will remember it, and possibly also the purchaser. Investigators are unwilling to go into further details about the significance of these flowers. The bouquet consists of one white lily, blue anemones, sweet peas, and roses. If you think it’s familiar, please get in touch with the police immediately.

  He lets the newspaper fall. Horrified, he stares through the window. I didn’t realize they had so much imagination, he thinks despairingly. A bunch of flowers on the counter—why did they
attach so much importance to it? He thinks about the young girl at the florist’s and he feels a nasty jolt pass through him. For some reason, he’s certain she remembers him. No. It’s not possible. She couldn’t give a precise description. I look so ordinary, he thinks, so anonymous. But the blood rushes to his head, and when a car pulls up beside him, he ducks down as if he’s searching for something. Perhaps, he thinks, it would be better if I stayed indoors until this blows over.

  He puts the car in gear and drives off. The aerosol can rolls around on the floor. His brain is working feverishly. He conjures up the florist’s assistant to see how much he can remember. Concentrates, narrows his eyes. She rises in his mind in all her youthful beauty, her fair braids and red sweater. Her hands, her mouth. The rings on her fingers, her sugary way of speaking. He parks outside the house and goes in. Seats himself at the kitchen table and rests his chin on his hands.

  Why should she remember me?

  Because you were nervous. Because you had a special glint in your eye.

  That’s silly. I was silent and sullen, maybe, but otherwise perfectly anonymous.

  Everyone has a distinctive feature. She’s quick-witted, young, and sharp; she’s taken everything in. She’ll obviously recognize the bouquet, because she’s an artist.

  But it was right at the end of the day. She must have been tired.

  Don’t kid yourself. It’s only a question of time and they’ll be at your door, Charlo. In a murder case, they never give up.