The Murder of Harriet Krohn

by Karin Fossum

  “That’s right.”

  Sejer looks down at his papers again.

  “Do you think you’re temperamental by nature?”

  “I thought you wanted to chart the traffic?”

  “Yes. And you were a part of that traffic. Let me repeat the question. Are you an excitable man, Mr. Torp?”

  “Not at all. I’m actually quite placid. Ask Julie.”

  “But you weren’t that evening. You say it’s rare for you. So why did you lose control on the seventh of November at half past ten?”

  “I’ve explained all that.”

  “I want to hear it again.”

  “I was out of sorts, as I said. For many reasons.”

  “Tell me what they were again.”

  Charlo props his head on his hands.

  “I told you that I had debts. That people were after me. I wasn’t sleeping at night and I couldn’t make ends meet.”

  “But now the debts are paid?”

  Charlo bites his lip.

  “Yes.”

  “How did you manage that, Mr. Torp?”

  “As I said before, I won some money.”

  Sejer nods slowly.

  “What sort of gambling?”

  Charlo’s brain tries to work rapidly.

  “On the lottery,” he blurts out. And regrets it immediately. He can’t think fast enough. Reduced neurotransmission is affecting me already, he suddenly realizes, and it’ll get worse.

  “So, you got lucky?”

  “I do actually get lucky sometimes. But it isn’t the norm. God knows, I’ve had my fair share of misery.”

  “And you rushed off and paid your debts, got a job at the riding center, and were reconciled with your daughter?”

  “Yes, things are much better now.”

  He moistens his lips and tries to parry Sejer’s words, get a bit of perspective. He’s uncertain about where all this is leading.

  “How much did you win, Mr. Torp?”

  “It was a tidy sum.”

  “Is the amount a secret?”

  A chill runs through Charlo. He tries to cling on, but realizes that he’s sliding into confusion.

  “I just can’t see the point of all these questions. Surely what I win on the lottery is my own business.”

  “That’s all right, Mr. Torp,” Sejer says brusquely. “We can get that information ourselves; it’s the least of our worries.”

  His heart sinks.

  “It was a syndicate,” he interjects. “Which divided up a large win.”

  Sejer leans back comfortably. “And I suppose you can’t remember the name of the person who bought the ticket?”

  “No, I bet through a friend, on an impulse.”

  “Well that’s all right, then. I’m sure you know the name of your friend?”

  “I don’t go around shopping my friends. You people will only start plaguing him with questions.”

  “But it’s entirely innocent, Mr. Torp. A lottery win. A name, a date, and an amount are all we require. I’m sure he’ll help us if we ask him nicely.”

  “No. Let’s get to the point now. What’s all this about? My daughter Julie is waiting for me. We’re going out.”

  “It’s about the seventh of November, as I’ve already explained. It concerns a murder, and I need a murderer.”

  “Yes, you said that the last time I was here. But that’s got nothing to do with me.”

  “You were in Fredboesgate at a very interesting moment.”

  “No, I wasn’t. I was just driving through. It only took a few seconds.”

  “You have to leave the main road to drive through Hamsund. Why did you want to go to Hamsund?”

  “No special reason. I’ve explained why. I like driving.”

  “Even when the road conditions are appalling?”

  “The road conditions don’t matter.”

  “Were you dressed for that sort of weather?”

  “I was as a matter of fact.”

  “What were you wearing?”

  “I can’t remember. I’ve got several jackets.”

  “Could it have been a green parka?”

  “It could have been. Don’t ask me questions when you already know the answers.”

  “So you have got one?”

  “I had one.”

  “You’ve got rid of it? Why, Mr. Torp?”

  “Because it was old and worn out.”

  “What did you do with it?”

  “I chucked it in a dumpster. The seams were coming apart. The pockets had worn through and several buttons were missing.”

  Sejer begins making notes again. Charlo tries to read them but can’t. He’s not seeing too well either. His vision is blurred. He blinks in bewilderment. He looks at his watch and feels the despair growing as he thinks of Julie waiting. He’s not doing that well. Lying to Julie is easy. This feels impossible. He rubs his face with tired hands. Sits there with his eyes hidden behind his palms. Surely they aren’t allowed to send sick people to prison, he thinks. Automatically he reaches for his back pocket, where he keeps his tobacco.

  “May I smoke here?”

  Sejer nods. “Of course. I’ll get you an ashtray. Are you thirsty, Mr. Torp?”

  “Yes.”

  He gets out a bottle of Farris mineral water. Charlo attempts to roll a cigarette, and his fingers are trembling slightly.

  “Are you feeling threatened, Mr. Torp?”

  “Threatened? By you? No. But I don’t like the way this conversation is going.”

  “Then let’s go another way. There’s a lot to choose from—an entire evening, several hours. Let’s stay here in town.”

  He pours out some water and sits down again.

  “Before you left for Kongsberg, you walked around the town here. For about two hours. According to your first account. Tell me about those two hours.”

  Charlo lights his cigarette and inhales greedily.

  “Christ, you’re fond of repetition. I walked around looking at shop windows. I looked at underwear and shoes and furniture. I looked at people. I looked at advertisement billboards, at women, and at cars. I looked at the boats on the river. I looked at one of your cars, out on patrol.”

  “For two hours?”

  “Yes. And then I went on the jetty.”

  “What did you do on the jetty?”

  Charlo looks at him across the desk.

  “I thought about jumping in.”

  “Jumping into the river? Drowning yourself?”

  “Yes. That’s it. The truth is what you want, isn’t it? That’s the truth.”

  “So you weren’t just out of sorts. You were practically suicidal?”

  “You could say that.”

  “So on the evening of the seventh of November, you didn’t just feel a bit down. You were mentally unstable?”

  “If that’s the way you want it, it’s fine by me. Unstable. That’s right. It was like being put through a wringer.”

  Charlo draws the ashtray toward him and taps the ash off his cigarette. He drains half his glass of Farris and dries his mouth.

  “Hardly surprising you got so worked up about the collision,” says Sejer.

  “Yes, I went completely berserk. I was wound up to the breaking point. There’s a limit to what you can put up with in one evening.”

  “That young man, was he frightened?”

  “He sat there shaking like a leaf. His face was as white as chalk. I regret behaving so badly.”

  “Back to that long stroll of yours. Did you go in anywhere?”

  “No.”

  “With all that bad weather, you didn’t succumb to the temptation of going into a shop and warming yourself up?”

  “No, I stayed outdoors.”

  “Were you wet?”

  “I think we can safely say I was pretty damp. My boots were letting in water.”

  “Even so, despite all this, you drove to Kongsberg and continued to wander the streets there? While the sleet fell on you?”

 
“Yes, strangely enough.”

  “So you think it was strange?”

  “When I think back on it now or, rather, when I have to explain it, it does sound rather pathetic.”

  “Did you feel pathetic?”

  “That too. I think I can safely say I went through most emotions that evening. The entire gamut.”

  “So, even though you weren’t especially concerned about what you could see in the shop windows, your thoughts were in high gear?”

  “They were. My head was about to burst, searching for a solution.”

  “A solution to your financial problems?”

  “Yes. I considered robbing a bank.”

  At this, he sends Sejer a challenging look.

  “And why didn’t you turn this idea into action?”

  “I’m not a criminal,” he says curtly, and fixes his eyes on the detective.

  “What are your thoughts on this Hamsund murder we’re investigating?”

  Charlo places his hands on the desk, clasps them, and twiddles his thumbs.

  “I haven’t given it all that much consideration. But it’s made an impression, naturally. She was elderly, lonely, and ill. Not that age makes any difference. Murder is still murder. I mean, legally. But for some reason people get so worked up when it’s an old person. Well, in a way they’re more vulnerable than someone younger. That’s probably why we think it’s so bad. But nobody knows what really happened in that kitchen.”

  Sejer glances up at him.

  “So it took place in the kitchen, Mr. Torp?”

  Charlo catches his breath.

  “That was what it said in the papers. She was found there—everyone knows that.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you. That detail has never been in the newspapers.”

  “Then it was on the radio. I know I’ve heard it!”

  Sejer doesn’t reply. For a long time, he makes notes, and Charlo starts sweating at his hairline. He can’t afford mistakes like that. Think, a voice inside him says. Think before you answer!

  “What did you mean when you said ‘what really happened’?”

  “The details. The lead-up. What caused her to die.”

  “That’s why we’re searching for the culprit. And if we don’t find him, he won’t be able to explain or defend himself.”

  “Quite so,” says Charlo. “The question is whether he thinks it’s worth the trouble. There’s always a chance that he won’t be believed. Won’t be understood. If you know what I mean.”

  “You haven’t got a very high opinion of our legal system, have you?”

  “No, not really.”

  “But your record is clean. You’ve never been in contact with the police before.”

  “No, but I read the papers. And if the perpetrator really believed that a confession would be in his best interests, he’d turn up, naturally.”

  “What about you?” Sejer says. “Do you think a confession would benefit the culprit in any way?”

  “That depends on how he’s placed. What sort of man he is. If he’s got family or others around him who are important to him, he’ll get separated from them. For a long time.”

  “Most people who’re in prison get visits. Mail and email. Telephone calls.”

  “Well, that sounds nice.”

  “No, not nice, but reasonable.”

  Just as he relaxes, he feels the proximity of disease in his body. It seems instantly paralyzing. He attempts to concentrate on the murder, which he did commit, but not with intent or premeditation or malice. He finds it hard to believe that he’s still sitting there, that he hasn’t run out in frustration. He’s caught up in this conversation, this duel. He rolls himself another cigarette and drinks some Farris. Opens a button on his shirt. The dog is sleeping by the wall.

  “What about you, Mr. Torp? Did you grow up here?”

  “Yes, I was born over on the east side of town. Never lived anywhere else. I grew up close to the Methodist church. We used to muck around down by the river. I know this town like the back of my hand. A lovely town—a bit of a mess, perhaps. Unplanned. But you have to put up with that. Have you ever stood by the railway line at night and looked across to the brewery? All those bridge spans and glittering lights. It’s fantastic.”

  Sejer nods. Charlo glances at the pictures on his wall.

  “Is that your beautiful young wife?”

  Sejer follows his gaze. “That’s my daughter, Ingrid. And my grandson, Matteus.”

  “He’s black. Adopted?”

  “From Somalia.”

  Charlo scrutinizes the photos.

  “The civil war, eh?”

  “Yes, there are lots of orphans there. What about you. You’ve got a daughter.”

  “She’ll be seventeen soon. A clever young woman. She keeps me on the straight and narrow.”

  “You need that? You need someone to keep you on the straight and narrow?”

  Charlo nods wearily. “I was a gambling addict in the past. She’s frightened I’ll revert to my old ways. She hasn’t had an easy time. I brought a great deal of shame on my family.”

  “But it’s not going to happen again?”

  “No, that I’m certain of. I feel deep down that it’s over.”

  “A lottery win and, hey presto, you’re no longer hooked on gambling?”

  “I’d long decided to kick the habit. It was no good anymore; I was a nervous wreck. There were rumors that someone would be coming to get me. I couldn’t sleep at night, and it was totally impossible to relax. Life was hell, to be brutally honest.”

  Charlo coaxes the dog. He walks over to him and sits down by his chair.

  “How long have I got to sit here? Time’s getting on. Julie’s waiting.”

  “We don’t need to hurry, Mr. Torp. We’ll take whatever time we need. It’s not in my interests to keep you sitting here feeling nervous or mistreated.”

  Charlo lets go of Frank. The dog sits there a little despondently and looks at him. Then he returns to his place by the wall.

  “Let’s move on,” says Sejer. “Perhaps now it’s time to establish what you actually wanted to do in Hamsund. What errand you had there.”

  Charlo sits up in his chair.

  “As I said before. I didn’t have any errand. Turning off the main road was an impulse. I remember seeing the floodlit church and turning off automatically. I just wanted to pass the time, so that I could go home and turn in. That’s what it was all about. Making the days pass.”

  “What was the time when you turned off toward Hamsund?”

  “It was probably almost ten-thirty.”

  “I see. And then you drove around a bit?”

  “Yes, I passed the railway station and drove up the street there.”

  “Up Fredboesgate?”

  “Yes. I just drove through it and looked at the nice old houses. They’re really quite charming; I’ve heard they’re listed. I drove to the end of the street and then turned around.”

  “What made you park the car and get out?”

  “I didn’t.”

  Sejer bends over his documents.

  “Didn’t you park your red Honda Accord behind the old hotel?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “No, but someone else noticed and recalled it.”

  “It must have been a different car. No, I never got out of the car. I’m quite certain of that.”

  “You weren’t going to visit someone?”

  “I don’t know anyone in Hamsund.”

  “So, it was after your little trip through Fredboesgate that you had your accident?”

  “Yes.”

  “You were mentally unstable, intermittently suicidal, soaking wet, worried about the future, but despite all this you still wanted to look at some listed buildings?”

  “Yes. You see, I was a bit up and down, slightly confused. But as I said, it was all about trying to pass the time.”

  “Perhaps you sat in your car, behind the old hotel, and had a rest?”

 
“I really can’t remember about the hotel. That I parked there.”

  “If you were down in the dumps as you say, it may be hard to remember details. But I’m sure they’ll gradually return. That’s why we’re sitting here. And the time, Mr. Torp? Are you quite sure it was ten-thirty when you got to Hamsund?

  “I remember that I looked at the time.”

  “But your car was parked behind the hotel at ten o’clock.”

  “That can’t be right.”

  “It’s right according to my documents. Perhaps you’re mistaken?”

  “It was dark and all that, and filthy weather. If someone saw a car similar to mine behind the hotel, I don’t think that means much. People get things wrong all the time. And I’m not the only person who drives a Honda.”

  “Its reliability will appear in the long run. I’m sure you’re wrong about the time. That’s hardly a crime, but I need to have it exactly. Did you sit there, perhaps, wondering if you ought to visit someone?”

  “I’ve already said that I don’t know anyone there.”

  “But the flowers, Mr. Torp. Who were they for? You had a large bunch of flowers with you.”

  Charlo slowly blanches. He clenches his teeth.

  “Now you’re completely on the wrong track,” he says.

  “A large mixed bouquet. Really nice. A lot of work had been put into it.”

  “I never buy flowers. This is all nonsense.”

  “Try to think back, Mr. Torp. To the flower shop.”

  “Which flower shop?”

  “Tina’s Flowers, next to Cash & Carry.”

  “I’ve never been there.”

  “The seventh of November, just before eight in the evening. They close at eight, and you only just made it. Who were the flowers for?”

  “I’m telling you—you’re on the wrong track!”

  “They were for a woman, weren’t they?”

  “I don’t know any women in Hamsund.”

  Silence. Sit there, feel the other’s strength, weigh your words, think. Plan the next move, remember. Save your skin and get out of this room. Oh, God! You’re not going to get out. Sejer interrupts his thoughts.

  “The bouquet cost two hundred and fifty kroner. You spent a lot of money, so it must have been important to you.”

  Charlo lowers his head and is silent. He drums his fingers on the desk.

  “You’ll have to find another angle because I can’t go with this one.” He stares doggedly at the desktop.