The Murder of Harriet Krohn

by Karin Fossum

  “Don’t tense up, he’ll sense that right away. Look at the jump, be with him, but don’t let him go too far out!”

  She puts him into an easy canter. Turns and finds the track, sits hunched up in the saddle, and stares intently at the jump. Charlo sees the determination in her eyes. She must clear the jump and get both of them over, five hundred and fifty kilos. And they must clear it with style and elegance. Charlo’s stomach muscles clench. He steels himself and trembles. She’s never jumped so high. But Crazy has, he knows. He hears his hooves thundering on the ground, sees the dust swirling around his legs, sees the yellowish-white foam at the horse’s mouth. She closes in and shortens the stride, counts, measures the distance, and now they’re taking off. It’s a terrific takeoff, and Charlo gasps as they fly over in one great leap. Crazy lifts his hooves and lands on his forelegs, with Julie leaning against his neck. They’re over. Right away she steers him to the right. The turn is too sharp and she’s a bit on the back foot, but makes up for it again. She takes him down to a trot and takes the next jump with an almost apathetic air. Charlo begins running. His shirttails flap around him.

  “Perfect!” he shouts, coming up to her. Julie takes a deep breath, stroking the horse’s neck.

  “It certainly wasn’t,” she says, but her face is radiant. “I was a bit too frightened and he sensed it. But he did what I asked him to.”

  “My God, Julie,” he shouts, “if only your mother had seen that! One meter thirty!”

  She puts the horse into a walk again, peony red with pride.

  “I’ll do a little groundwork to finish off,” she tells him coquettishly over her shoulder.

  Charlo goes back to the fence. Leans against it and shuts his eyes. Stands there for a long while. He feels the sun warming his neck. He smells the scent of grass and animals, and tar softening in the warmth. The mild wind caresses his face. He stands in total tranquility, his body safe and solid and completely well. He’s sure of it. His thoughts turn to the past, flying waywardly from him like horses through an open gate. But he brings them under control and thinks forward. Of all the good things to come. He opens his eyes again and looks at Julie practicing pirouettes. It’s a miracle to him what she can do with that big animal.

  Into all this brightness and warmth a shadow falls. He becomes aware of it in the corner of his right eye, a slow gray shadow. It’s of no interest to him. He’s looking straight ahead, watching the horse marking time on an incredibly small spot. The way he gathers all his weight into such a small area is beyond belief. The shadow comes closer, eating its way into his field of vision. He glances to the side and sees it’s a car. It’s a Volvo, a gray one. There’s something familiar about it. It’s moving very slowly, crawling hesitantly down the road. He watches the car until it stops. There’s no reaction within him; he’s only observing it, thinking no thoughts. He only wants to keep tabs on what’s happening around him. Nobody gets out. So he turns to Julie again and watches her rein back and walk forward, practicing transitions. It’s as if the horse is swaying over the ring, right, left, right, left, in some graceful ballet.

  A car door slams. Charlo feels an impulse to turn and see who’s coming, but he doesn’t do it. He chooses to shut the world out. It’ll just be a father coming to collect one of the girls. He has no idea who it is. He stands foursquare on the sand, enjoying the sight before him in the ring. Soon he hears footsteps. There’s the faint crunching of gravel. Only now does he feel the first prick, the first stab of fear that something’s happening. Something that could prove dangerous to him. But no, he thinks then, it doesn’t happen like this. They’d come to the house and stand on the doorstep—a couple of them probably. He’s seen it in his mind’s eye. He’s dreamed about it at night. This is a lone man. He’s only come to look at the horses, like many others. There, a shadow on his right, surprisingly tall. He doesn’t want to turn his head, so he leans heavily against the fence and folds his arms. It’s no concern of his if the inquisitive want to drop in to take a look, is it? He’s interested in Julie, after all. She has his full attention.

  He has the feeling, as he stands there, that the man’s got a dog. He can hear whining. He heaves a sigh of relief. A walker with his dog. There are plenty of those at the center. Charlo takes a clandestine look at the dog. He’s a funny-looking creature, small, the color of lead, and full of folds and wrinkles. Short legs, large paws. Deep-set eyes, ears thick and small. Perhaps he’s a puppy. Now he’s seated himself next to his master, waiting for further commands. Although Charlo’s watching Julie, he feels the man’s eyes on him. But he carries on looking straight ahead, at the same time counting his breaths without knowing why. Three, four, five, six.

  “Charles Olav Torp?” The voice is very deep.

  He nods mechanically by way of reply.

  It’s so muddy where he’s standing. A few days of wind would do it good, dry it out, he thinks. And there’s too much gravel on the lot after the winter’s gritting; he ought to sweep it up. There are so many jobs to be done. He’s become almost indispensable to Møller, which was what he wanted. Charlo can’t control his thoughts. They’re running in all directions. He sees the man hold out a hand. He really is very tall, perhaps just under two meters. He’s broad-shouldered and neatly dressed in a leather jacket and black pants.

  “Sejer,” he says. “Police.”

  It’s as if Charlo has been sewn up too tightly. Now he unravels stitch by stitch. It’s not supposed to be like this, not here with other people present. Not in front of Julie. He puts his hands in his pockets. His face feels rigid.

  “Yes?” he croaks hoarsely, his voice already betraying him. The landscape around him quickly recedes into the distance. He’s jolted back in time, and all that’s happened in recent months has been nothing but a glimpse into a future he’s destined never to enjoy.

  Sejer remains silent. Charlo pulls himself together. He must shake off this paralysis and behave politely.

  “What’s this about?” he asks with an attempt at a smile. He has to moisten his lips with his tongue. Møller’s apple trees need pruning, he thinks. Twigs are sprouting everywhere. Presumably it hasn’t been done for two or three years. And the grass hasn’t been cut all that well. There really are so many things that need doing: if he wanted to, he could run around here from morning to night. A ticking has begun inside his head, small, sharp stabs.

  “I’d be very grateful if you’d come to the station for a chat.”

  Charlo inhales. His head dips up and down without his willing it to. It doesn’t occur to him to refuse. He must appear innocent. He must be cooperative and amicable, and do his civic duty.

  “What for?” he inquires weakly. He curses his feeble tone. Sejer holds back, considering.

  “We’re working on a difficult case,” he says, “and various circumstances have led us to you. We’re treating you merely as a witness. It’s purely routine.”

  This last remark is said in a reassuring tone. Charlo realizes that his mouth is open, but he can’t bring himself to close it. He can’t get enough air and his eyes feel dry. His eyelashes seem to be sticking together, causing him to stand there blinking like an idiot. He nods and listens to the words, placing a hand on the fence. He’s got to hold on to something.

  “I’ve got to drive my daughter home,” he explains, and nods in the direction of the ring. “But of course I’ll drop in. I could stop by tomorrow.” He attempts to emphasize his words, to seem willing and at the same time taking the initiative, making his own decisions. But he isn’t making his own decisions. He’s all over the place. He’s running away like the dirty water beneath his feet.

  Sejer’s face is still impassive. Charlo looks at the marked dent in his chin and his broad, determined jaw. He sees the sharp edge of the man’s nose. His eyes are dark and scrutinizing.

  “It’ll only take a couple of minutes,” he says calmly. “I’ll drive you back, of course.”

  It sounds like an order. The voice allows no room for pr
otest. Protest would be an admission. If he’s going to deal with this, he must pay attention and be helpful. Charlo nods once more, feeling like a puppet on a string.

  “Couldn’t we do it in the car?” he suggests, nodding over his shoulder at the gray Volvo and his own dented Honda. He rues the idea instantly. Sejer smiles patiently. He’s got very strong features; his gray hair is cut very short. He is ten years older than Charlo. The nice leather jacket and pressed black pants seem out of place in this environment where everyone walks around in riding breeches and long mud-caked boots.

  “Unfortunately we have to follow certain procedures,” he says, looking at him. Charlo gives way immediately, cursing himself and his own lack of composure. It is just routine. He’s prepared. He thought he was prepared. He gives Julie a final glance. She hasn’t noticed what’s going on.

  “Well,” says Charlo, trying to seem magnanimous, “I’m sure I can spare a couple of minutes.” Helplessly he shrugs as a lump grows in his throat. Can no one save him now? Can no one see what’s taking place? Sejer begins to walk toward the Volvo with long, firm strides. Charlo follows. He’s struggling with his legs a bit. They seem strange and wobbly. His feet are just appendages dangling from the ends of them.

  Everything I say can, and presumably will, be used against me, he thinks.

  Every movement of my face, every twitch of my mouth, every wavering gaze will give me away. That special light in my eyes that signifies unspeakable guilt. No, for God’s sake, he can’t see my guilt. Only words count now, what I actually say. I’ll say no, no, that’s not right. I can’t remember. It’s so long ago and the days blend into one another, like drops of water. Try to take control. Try to remember all you say. He’ll ask you to repeat things, maybe endlessly. Be friendly now. Be calm. You mustn’t lose your cool.

  “I’m going to trample a whole lot of horse muck into your office.”

  He looks down at his boots and gives a humiliated shrug. Sejer has opened the door. Charlo peers into the large room.

  “Ah, I’ve had all sorts in this office,” Sejer says with a sudden, charming smile. It makes Charlo relax. We’re only going to have a little talk, he thinks. I’ll make out all right; it’s just a case of being strong. Sure and steady and determined. He enters and stands in the middle of the room. The office is light and airy, full of small, private things and pictures on the walls. Plants, which look well tended, on the windowsill. A desk and a large window with a view of the river. A green filing cabinet and a fridge, perhaps containing cold drinks. A PC. Piles of documents and books on shelves.

  “Sit down, Mr. Torp,” Sejer says, waving a hand.

  He goes to the fridge and gets out a bottle of Farris mineral water. Charlo watches him furtively. Sejer moves around with serenity. There’s nothing hurried in his manner. Now he owns both time and space. Charlo is on his guard. This isn’t an interview, he thinks, just a chat. The dog has gone to lie down by the wall and now resembles a gray coat with black buttons that someone has chucked in the corner. He is handed a glass, and Sejer uncaps the bottle and pours some water into it. Charlo tries to sit up in his chair. He braces himself, concentrating hard. Nothing must strike home. Nothing must get to him. What must Julie be thinking? He should have said something to her. No, she’d only be anxious, and Julie must be spared all worry. Julie must never be part of this; she must live out the whole of her life in blissful ignorance.

  Sejer has returned to his chair. He takes off his leather jacket and hangs it meticulously over the back of the seat. There’s a plastic blotting pad on the desktop. It’s a map of the world, and Charlo automatically searches for Norway, which is reproduced in pink. He wishes he were far away. So his gaze travels down Europe and arrives in Italy. From Italy he sets out for the port of Piraeus. And keeps on to one of the Greek islands.

  Nothing is said. Perhaps he ought to babble away, the way innocent people do. They speak without thinking, of this and that. But he can’t break the silence. If he begins to say something, he may lose control. The words will come out helter-skelter and perhaps end in a trap. If this man is the sort who lays traps. Of course he is, it’s his job. He’s learned a whole series of techniques. There’s a rushing noise in his head as Charlo waits. Sejer looks at him gravely and leafs through a wad of papers. It’s just the two of them now and the ticking seconds. Charlo crosses one leg over the other, then uncrosses it. There’s a slight hiss in the silence, which slowly gets louder. He wonders if it’s the sound of blood coursing through his brain.

  “Obviously you’ve got a right to know why you’re here,” Sejer begins. He sits twiddling a pen. “I’m very grateful that you were prepared to cooperate, by the way.”

  Again that deep voice: so pleasant to the ear, taking some of the edge off the gravity. Charlo begins to think. Maybe he should have refused. Is that how things stand? Has he fallen straight into the first pitfall? No, he’s innocent after all. Of course he wants to help. He doesn’t know what would be wise. Should he be indignant and slightly exercised about being picked up like this, when he’s actually got other things to do? He’s a man who’s working. He’s got responsibilities.

  “Of course,” he says, and adjusts himself in his seat. “Please explain. You see, I’ve got to fetch my daughter. She’ll be finished fairly soon.”

  Sejer glances at his wristwatch.

  “I quite understand. We’ll get going, then. First, just for the record. Your name is Charles Olav Torp, born the second of April, nineteen sixty-three?”

  “Yes.”

  “Address, Blomsgate number twenty?”

  “That’s right.”

  Sejer looks at his papers.

  “And you’ve got a daughter, Julie Torp, born the twenty-seventh of May, nineteen eighty-eight?”

  Charlo’s alarmed. He doesn’t like this mention of Julie—she mustn’t get involved with this at any price.

  “Correct,” he answers loudly. His eyes are wavering already. He searches for some fixed point and chooses the dog by the wall. He’s asleep.

  “And she lives in the student apartments at Oscarsgate 2. A pupil at Allsaker Prep?”

  “Yes.”

  Sejer makes notes and glances up. “Have you got any form of ID? It’s just a formality.”

  Charlo hesitates, finding this incomprehensible. But he gets out his tattered brown wallet. He almost feels ashamed of its poor condition, its broken zipper and worn leather. The blood donor sticker is yellow with age. He doesn’t give blood anymore, since they stopped paying. He takes out his driver’s license and pushes it across the desk. Sejer examines it carefully and then looks at the wallet. Charlo feels ill at ease. The smell of the stables clings to his clothes and starts to suffuse the room. The license is handed back, and he replaces his wallet in his inside pocket.

  “I want to go back to the month of November.”

  Sejer puts down his pen. Clasps his hands in front of him on the desk.

  “And I know it’s not easy remembering exactly where you were or what you were doing on any particular date. I know it’s hard to remember times. It’s human to forget. But I’ve got reasons to believe that there are certain things you will remember. That’s why you’re here. I believe you can help us with a difficult case. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  The inspector pauses.

  “We have good reason to believe that you were involved in a car accident, on exactly the seventh of November, in the vicinity of Hamsund.”

  Charlo chews his lip as if he’s trying to recall. He screws up his eyes and finally starts nodding slowly.

  “Yes,” he says reflectively. “I did have an accident in the car. In the autumn sometime,” he says, “but I can’t remember the date. It was indeed at Hamsund. That’s right, it was an exasperating incident.” He nods once more. Looks Sejer in the eyes, which takes a certain amount of effort. He hopes to God his pupils look normal.

  “This collision interests me,” says Sejer. “So I’d like to go through it
point by point.”

  Charlo shakes his head, bemused.

  “There’s not much to tell.” He feels the sweat in his armpits. “It was a youth who didn’t observe the right of way. He was driving a small Toyota. I was on a priority road,” he explains, “and he hit my right front fender.”

  Sejer leans back. He stretches his long body, looking comfortable and relaxed.

  Charlo can’t help himself. “How did you know I was involved?”

  Sejer keeps silent and just looks at him with those gray eyes. He ignores the question. Charlo has the sneaking feeling that he’s lost control already. He has no authority in here; he’s just some poor sod. The man on the other side of the desk has the upper hand in everything.

  “This junction,” Sejer says, “let’s take a close look at it.” He gets up and rummages among some documents on a shelf, and returns with a map. Charlo can see that markings have been made on it with a felt-tip pen.

  “D’you recognize this junction?”

  He pushes the map over to him. Charlo studies the roads and the arrows.

  “Yes, just about,” he says. He doesn’t want to go back there. The thought of it is repellent.

  “There’s the railway station,” Sejer says, pointing. “Can you show me where you came from?”

  “It’s difficult to remember after all this time.”