The Murder of Harriet Krohn

by Karin Fossum

  So, is he allergic to himself? He shakes his head and reads on.

  The symptoms are muscle stiffness and poor control of movement, especially in the legs. Impaired or double vision is also very common. Muscle tightening and reflex twitching can be very troublesome. As yet there is no treatment that can cure the disease. Hormone treatment, especially with ACTH and similar products, appears to shorten the acute attacks of the illness. There are multiple sclerosis associations in countries across the world, including Norway.

  He slams the book shut.

  No, he’s not joining any association; he’s not acknowledging this. He doesn’t want to know about other people who are suffering from the same thing. He doesn’t want to talk to them. He goes to the window and stands there with his hand in front of his mouth. Lays his brow against the cool glass. It’s happening now, inside his body. His nerve coverings are being eaten up, and he can’t prevent it. It’s happening as he stands here, breathing into his hand, and it will go on for the rest of his life. Oh, God, now he’ll have to pay. He glances quickly up at the sky. It’s just the same damn blue. Terrifying images appear in his mind’s eye. Him, sitting in a chair with a rug across his knees. A catheter partly hidden beneath the rug. Useless, white uncoordinated feet. His face and body distorted by cortisone, an unpleasant whiff of disease, a vanishing physique. An onlooker of life. Watching while others live, do, and work. Or even worse, he’s bedridden. One morning he wakes and can’t get up. He must go to a nursing home and wither away in a corner with a bunch of geriatrics. Pale, dry people with distant, glassy eyes. Drinking red juice through a straw and not allowed to smoke. He can’t tear himself away from the window, from this position. His mouth is as dry as sandpaper. He’s vibrating like a cymbal. Someone has struck him hard, and there’s a singing in his ears. Here comes his neighbor Erlandson, who raises a hand and waves. He can’t wave back. He can’t make any decision. The next step is impossible. Easy does it. Go into the shower. You must get air into your lungs, Charlo. There’s plenty of time left. Maybe.

  He goes into the bathroom. Stands in the shower for a long time under the stream of water, soaping his sick body. He looks down over his thighs, arms, and hands and feet. He sees everything in a different light. Are there more secrets inside his body? Is there more lying in wait, soon to break out and knock him to the ground? Inga Lill, you don’t know it, but I’ll have to go through hell. Why you and me? What about Julie? What horrors are lurking in her genes? Are we a blighted family? What’s the point of living an honest life, when everything’s ordained from the start and can’t be altered? What’s the point of sweating for Møller, when I may end up in a wheelchair? He steps out of the shower, feeling his diagnosis like a severe increase in weight. It lies particularly over his shoulders and breast. The diagnosis clings to him like something clammy that can’t be washed away. The minutes spent in the shower give him no sensation of being cleansed. He dries himself hard with his towel. His movements are defiant. But the rage, which is beginning to smolder inside him, finds no vent. He takes a few quick breaths in the steamy room.

  He’ll have to call Julie. But first he must prepare himself. He can’t tell her the truth; he’ll have to sidestep it and come up with something that sounds harmless. Something curable that can’t be inherited and isn’t contagious. He goes to the phone and dials her number. The voice at the other end makes tears come to his eyes, and for an instant he wants to blurt out the whole thing. Receive some care and comfort and sympathy. Everything he needs so badly. But he pulls himself together, gets back on track, and is strong once more.

  “Well,” he says, “it’s all over now, I’m back at home again, thank goodness.

  “What did they say? Well, there’s not a great deal to tell. Some sort of virus, that’s all, inside some nerves. It’ll get better by itself, presumably. And if it doesn’t, I’ll get some medicine.

  “No, I’m not off sick now. I’m ready for work, no restrictions at all. Just keep on working.

  “No, they don’t know how I got it. It’s a mystery, they say, but people manage fine for years. There’s nothing to worry about. It could have been worse. You know, I’m feeling great, not at all downcast.”

  “Will you pick me up?” she asks now.

  “Yes, I’ll fetch you. Where would you like to eat? Shall we go to Hannah’s Kitchen?”

  “But it’s so expensive.”

  “I couldn’t care less about that,” he blusters.

  She laughs. He relaxes a bit. Perhaps with willpower he can keep the disease at bay. He’s heard of such things. He believes that anything’s possible. He can steel himself and force the illness to retreat. Make himself immune.

  “I’ll be with you in half an hour,” he says into the receiver, “just got to change my clothes.” He puts down the phone and goes into the bathroom. Stands before the mirror buttoning a shirt. He finds a pair of gray pants and examines himself. He looks good. He doesn’t look like a sick man, so he needn’t behave like one, either. But even so. Pain, decay. Helplessness. In and out of the hospital. What sort of life can he expect? Help with everything. A body that gradually goes downhill and ultimately becomes useless. The remainder of his life on Social Security. He bustles around the house, wrestling with a jumble of thoughts. He starts at the sound of the doorbell.

  Sejer is standing on the doorstep, dressed in a newly pressed light blue shirt, suave and authoritative.

  “Good to see you again, Mr. Torp.”

  His gray gaze is sharp. Charlo backs into the hallway, defiance swelling in his breast. Why can’t they leave him in peace! He’s got so much else to worry about now. He’s a sick man and he’s got to meet Julie. He glowers at Sejer.

  “What’s the problem?” Charlo snaps.

  He fills the doorway, his eyes hard. He’s not available today, not at any price. His mind is already full of catastrophes, of putative outcomes for what has befallen him. He gasps for breath and plucks up courage.

  “I’m busy.”

  Sejer holds his gaze.

  “We’d like you to accompany us to the station, Mr. Torp.”

  He glances in the direction of the road. Charlo comes to the doorstep again. Now he glimpses the patrol car. A uniformed officer is at the wheel.

  “No,” he says angrily, “you’ll have to excuse me. It’s just not convenient!”

  Sejer produces a thin smile.

  “I see, but I’m afraid it is convenient for us.”

  He’s standing there as firmly as ever, just as powerful and authoritative. Charlo shakes his head determinedly and moves back a couple of paces.

  “The thing is,” he says impetuously, “I was discharged from the hospital an hour ago. I’ve had a lot going on, and on top of that I’ve got an appointment. In fact, I’m running late.” He looks at his watch demonstratively. He’s simmering, quivering. He’s frightened he’ll lose his temper and shout.

  “We know you’ve been at the hospital, Mr. Torp. I’m sorry if we’ve turned up at an inconvenient moment,” Sejer says. “But you’ve got no option this time. We want to interview you down at the station. Now.”

  An interview. Not a chat. Charlo folds his arms and gives the policeman a bitter look. He remembers that he must appear innocent. This isn’t happening, he thinks. This is just one of my dreams. It seems familiar.

  “Surely it’s possible to do it another day,” he says, waving his hand irritably. “My daughter is waiting for me, and we’re going out to dinner. I’m just leaving.”

  Sejer takes a step forward. “Phone your daughter right away and cancel the engagement.”

  His voice is now a resonant command.

  “How long will it take? I could call and postpone it for an hour or two. Would that do?”

  “No. You must call and cancel, and then come with us.”

  Charlo gasps for breath. This persecution infuriates him so much that sweat beads on his brow. He turns on his heel and goes into the living room, lifts the handset, and dials Julie�
��s number. He crushes the spiral of telephone cord between his fingers.

  “Hi there, it’s Dad again. I’m going to be a little late. Something’s cropped up that I have to deal with first. Yes, I will explain. Just wait for me and I’ll be along in a while. No, you don’t need to worry. It’s just some stupid detail, but it can’t wait. I could phone when I’m ready to leave if you want. I’ve got to go now; someone’s waiting. No, he’s not a friend of mine. It’s just some mess from long ago that I’ve got to clear up. Right away. I’ll call as soon as I’m finished. See you soon.”

  He cradles the phone and stays there brooding. He feels he’s standing beside himself, that everything is unreal. But he knows this is no dream. The blow has fallen; they’ve come for him.

  He gets into the back of the patrol car.

  He thinks about the thing that’s stricken him. His central nervous system will slowly let him down. Everything outside the windows seems distant. He’s a tourist on his own street, in his own life. He’s lived on this street for years, but now he sees it all for the first time: the low, brown timber houses; the neat hedges; the occasional ornamental shrub by a house wall, soon to flower and decorate the whole street. A young officer with curly hair is driving the car. Charlo meets his gaze in the mirror and looks away resentfully. He won’t give them anything—not a thought, not a word. They don’t know what he’s made of, how composed he can be. He lowers his head and contemplates the zipper of his jacket. He curls his toes and they feel spry. My God, what toes I’ve got. They obey his smallest command! The doctor has made a mistake. Sejer is taking a shot in the dark. He’s gambling everything now, and he’s going to lose. I won’t break, he thinks. I must just keep a clear head. I mustn’t give myself away.

  The officer drives slowly. The car is a Ford Mondeo. The short drive to the police station takes an eternity. He has the constant feeling that he’s seeing the town for the first time, in a sort of sudden attack of clear-sightedness. There’s Cash & Carry, there’s Tina’s Flowers. There’s the model on the billboard in her skimpy lace underwear, smiling prettily as always. There’s the church on the hill above the town and the fire station with its splendid towers. He sees the courthouse looming up on the right.

  Sejer opens the door for him and Charlo steps out. He straightens up in the sunshine, filling his lungs with air. He’s struggling with a kind of numbness, and he mustn’t let it take hold. He must tense every muscle in his body and be alert. Stay ahead. Like playing chess, he thinks. He was a good player at one time. He stands there awhile, drinking it in. The sun glittering on the windows, a beautiful tree with bare branches, people strolling in the streets. This is what they want to take away from him. But it’ll cost them dear, he thinks as he walks through the door and into the dim reception area. The building envelops him.

  14

  HIS IRRITATION AND nervousness act as a strong curb on his body. They make his movements abrupt and irascible. He can’t help it, even though he’d like to be leisurely, lithe, and aloof. He’d like to saunter into the office and seat himself with exquisite languor. Be confident and secure and on top of things. He isn’t confident. He jerks the chair out from the desk, causing it to make a loud scraping noise. He pushes his illness out of his mind, plants his feet firmly on the floor, and concentrates on his innocence. It’s the thing he must put across during the interview. He feels entitled to it because he didn’t want events to turn out so. It just happened and he must make the man with graying hair understand this.

  He notices the dog, Frank. He’s been lying near the wall. He comes ambling over on his large paws to say hello. Charlo can’t resist the temptation to bend and stroke the wrinkled dog. His fingers vanish in his coat, which feels peculiar, like sandpaper. He looks into his black eyes. One moment he thinks there’s the reflection of a gentle soul; the next, he sees nothing. They just shine like buttons. Sejer walks around the room, and Charlo looks at him sideways on. He appears purposeful and comfortable. He retrieves some documents from a shelf, glances swiftly at his watch, and takes his place in his chair. It’s all accomplished with slow movements, a tardiness that irritates Charlo.

  “Well, I think you owe me a good explanation at least,” Charlo says severely.

  He tries to sound determined, but doesn’t quite pull it off. Sejer glances up at him. His eyes are at first deadly earnest, but then they soften.

  “Well,” he says, resting his elbows on the desk, “there are a number of things I need to clarify. You know how it is. We work slowly and methodically. Investigation takes time. Occasionally we have to pester people with questions about what they’ve been up to. I’m sorry you feel hounded, but it’s very important work.”

  He looks at Charlo across the desk.

  “Let’s make a start. Let’s take the seventh of November again, from the beginning.”

  Charlo meets his eyes.

  “I’ve said all I have to say about that day, and you’ve made notes. I’ve said a lot more than I needed to. I can’t be bothered to beat around the bush anymore. You must ask definite questions, and I’ll answer to the best of my ability!”

  His outburst resonates in the room. Sejer nods seriously.

  “In that case, I’ll simply ask you to repeat what you’ve previously said.”

  “But what is all this fuss about the seventh of November?”

  “It concerns the murder of Harriet Krohn. We’re building up a picture of the traffic; it’s important for us. Every small movement in the area.”

  “Really?”

  Sejer glances at his documents.

  “I’ve got a suggestion. Let’s talk about that trip to Kongsberg, Mr. Torp. It interests me.”

  “There’s nothing interesting about it.”

  “Quite the opposite. According to your previous explanation, you went to Kongsberg. You walked around the town for an hour. Tell me about that hour.”

  Charlo shakes his head uncertainly.

  “Are you joking?”

  “I never joke. This is deadly serious, Mr. Torp. I want you to be clear about that.”

  Charlo feels a wave of resignation. He clutches the arms of his chair.

  “There’s not much to say about that hour. I walked around looking at shop windows. My feet were frozen.”

  “What did you see in those windows?”

  Again Charlo shakes his head. “What a ridiculous question. And you wonder why you need a long time to solve a murder?”

  “Can you name anything, Mr. Torp?”

  “Name what I saw? In the shop windows? What’s the point of that?”

  He folds his arms and sticks out his jaw.

  “I need an outline of that hour. Those sixty minutes spent at Kongsberg. We can talk about the reason later. What did you see in the windows?”

  Charlo wonders if he’s being serious. It certainly looks like it.

  “Most of it was probably clothes and stuff. But to be honest . . .”

  “Clothes. OK. I’m making a note. What else did you look at?”

  “Well, there was some sports equipment. I can’t remember that well; I wasn’t paying much attention. I was just mooching around.”

  Sejer nods. “You were mooching around for sixty minutes. You looked at shop windows, but you weren’t paying much attention. And your feet were cold. So why did you keep walking for an hour?”

  “I had nothing else to do. Surely a man can walk around the town without it signifying anything untoward?”

  “Where did you park the Honda?”

  He shrugs helplessly. “At the railway station,” he says quickly. It just pops out. He knows nothing about Kongsberg. He’s only been there a couple of times. He realizes that he’ll have to conjure up an entire city out of lies. Lie about streets he doesn’t know, thoughts he hasn’t thought, people he hasn’t seen.

  “And you went from the railway station and into town on foot?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Were there many people around?”

 
“No. The weather was too bad.”

  “Did you go in anywhere? To a café?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you want to go to Kongsberg?”

  “It was just a whim. As I said, I was quite down at that point. I drove around to kill time; you’ve got so much spare time when you’re unemployed. I can’t sit watching television all day, and I enjoy driving. Being on the move. My God, things were hard sometimes.”

  He speaks tensely, clenching his teeth. Disease is waiting out there in the shadows, threatening him. He moves his feet beneath the desk and tries to collect himself.

  “Did you walk over the whole town, or just in the streets of the town center?”

  “I stayed mainly in the town center.”

  “Kongsberg’s a small place. Didn’t you walk around the same streets several times?”

  “Quite possibly, I can’t remember.”

  “So, it’s somewhat hazy in your memory, this hour spent in Kongsberg?”

  “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  “It’s hazy because you weren’t feeling good?”

  “Presumably.”

  “Did you buy any fuel on the way?”

  “No, I had a full tank.”

  “Did you speak to anyone at all that evening?”

  “No, I didn’t meet anyone I knew. I hardly ever do. I mostly keep to myself.”

  “So, that entire evening, from the time you left Blomsgate at six o’clock, until the time you returned at eleven, you didn’t speak to anyone. Apart from the young man who collided with you?”