Karin Fossum - The Murder of Harriet Krohn

He creeps toward the wall. He lies there tossing and turning, remembering that no one has seen him, that he’s an insignificant person. He’s left no clues. He hasn’t, has he? He digests this first little sprouting of hope. He’s the one who’ll get away with it; not everyone gets caught. Slowly he gives the thought a chance. It’s fragile and he’s frightened of losing it. He concentrates hard, opens his eyes again, gazes at the wallpaper. Lilies, stripes. He puts the money to his nose and sniffs. Never has the smell of dry paper given him such blissful happiness.

He sits up slowly, perches on the edge of the bed, and pulls the curtains aside and looks out. He needs some everyday object to rest his eyes on, some assurance that the street out there is the same as ever. It has stopped snowing at last, and a line of cars is parked along the pavement. He looks closely at the cars. His face tenses with the strain: a Mercedes, an Opel, a Ford. I’d better keep tabs on the cars outside, he decides, in case they’re watching me. Why should they watch me? No one knows I was in Harriet’s house. Once again he plants his feet on the floor, then summons all his willpower and walks slowly across the room. It’s only a few steps to the bathroom. He’ll seek shelter in there, under the hot water. Thaw his frozen body, become soft and supple once more. He drops the money on the kitchen table. Then everything closes down inside him again and he glances over his shoulder. Nobody is sitting in the living room looking back at him. He pulls off his pajama bottoms a little more clumsily than usual. He keeps losing his balance. He thinks: Relax now, get into the shower, Charlo. There’s no cause for panic. She certainly won’t have been found yet. People have lives to lead in Fredboesgate. They go to work as usual, the ones that have work to go to. The ones that aren’t in the same sort of mess as I am.

Of course she’s been found, a voice within him says.

No, it’s much too soon. It’s only nine o’clock.

Someone could have come to her door early. Presumably all hell has broken loose.

Don’t get me worked up; it’ll happen soon enough. I’m trying to keep calm.

You don’t deserve to be calm. You’re never going to feel calm again as long as you live. This is going to torture and trouble you every minute of the day, and when the time comes for you to die, you won’t dare to let go because you’ll be headed straight for hell.

He pushes the voices away. He moves in front of the mirror, unwilling and curious at the same time. Perhaps his pupils are round again; perhaps it was just his imagination. He leans forward and stares. No, in his opinion they’re still elongated. He turns on the tap and stands under the hot water for a long time. Just shower now, he thinks. Relax, forget. He moves toward the wall and feels the water running. He wants to become completely clean. It feels as if he could stand there until nightfall, washing everything away. Everything that’s been, everything that’s to come.

He glances down at himself. It’s the same body as always: the stomach, the fairly sturdy thighs, the skin white from lack of sun. His chest is powerful with a slight suggestion of breasts. Suddenly he feels very giddy and has to steady himself against the wall. He leans against the wet tiles and places a hand on his heart. He thinks there’s a flickering in front of his eyes. Is it really possible that I went out there, he thinks, or is it just an evil dream? The collision leaves him in no doubt. The big crunch and the jolt through his body. He must tear himself free, get into the rut again and not ask questions. It’s too late now, it’s happened. He’s got to think ahead and not dwell on the past. With his back to the mirror, he dries himself. He guides the towel distractedly over his body, and his spirit flounders. It’s like treading water; he’s afraid he’ll drown in his own despair, his own fear.

He gets out clean clothes. Carefully buttons his shirt, does up his belt, and goes to the mirror again. He’s keeping himself under observation, as if searching for cracks. He thinks his face looks flat and immobile. Will he remember who he was? Will he remember his facial expressions? Can he find them when he needs them, so that people will recognize him, his smile, his laugh? When he does occasionally laugh.

He goes to the desk and dials Bjørnar Lind’s number. Hopping from one foot to the other, he is bursting with the good news that he can pay his debt. But no one answers. He bites his lip, phones the local radio station where Bjørnar works, and finally gets through to a woman there. No, he’s traveling on business; he’ll be away for a while. She gives him a mobile number, and he hangs up and then frantically taps in the digits. The person you’re dialing is not available. Full of frustration, he retreats to the kitchen. He takes the coffee tin out of the cupboard, fills the jug with water, flicks the switch, the light glows red.

Afterward he sits by the kitchen window, slowly drinking his coffee. Halfway through the cup he has to fetch some sugar. This need for sugar irritates him; he never usually takes it. But it’s only a trifle, he thinks. Would anybody ask, is there something up with Charlo? Is something troubling him because he’s suddenly putting sugar in his coffee? He steals a sidelong glance at the radio. He wants to switch it on but hesitates. He doesn’t know if he dares. What kind of words will they use? No, I’ll do it later, he thinks. Perhaps Harriet hasn’t even been found yet; she doesn’t get many visitors, and it’s early in the day.

He looks around the kitchen. He’s lived in this house for a long time, and yet in a strange way, he feels like a guest. This is day one. He needs to get acquainted all over again. The objects around him — the furniture, the ceiling light — all seem familiar, but they’re not his anymore. It feels as if someone has cut his moorings, and that he’s drifting in the room like a sorry shipwreck. He thinks, I’ll never come home again. He stares out into the street, his gaze watchful. Just then a large, dark car appears. It looks like an Audi. He follows it with his eyes, gripping his coffee cup. He wonders why it’s moving so slowly, as if the driver’s looking for something. For him, perhaps. There’s a momentary catch in his breast. It doesn’t belong to any of his neighbors, as he knows all the vehicles in the street. Erlandson drives an Opel, and Gram directly opposite has a Mazda. There, it’s stopping. His heart pounds. Are they after him already? The courtesy light comes on, and a man sits there leafing through something, a map maybe, or a book. Charlo stares with aching eyes.

He gets up and goes into the hallway. Takes out an old quilted jacket. He bends down and ties up his bootlaces, glancing occasionally at the door. Retrieves the bag of bloody clothes from the cupboard. For a long time, he stands there psyching himself up. He’s going outdoors, and it’s important to seem natural, relaxed, to stroll along. Move around, insignificant and gray, just as he’s always done. He opens the door a crack. He wouldn’t be able to face any of the neighbors, but the street is quiet. He walks the few steps to his car and notices the dent in the front fender. It makes him shudder. He unlocks the door with trembling fingers and throws in the bag. Oh, how that dent haunts him! He backs out into the street and changes into first gear. He wishes he had another car, a gray car. He feels that the Honda is giving off something, an angry red revealing glow.

Surely it’s not possible that she’s survived?

That she’s crawled all the way into her living room on her elbows, and then phoned for help? That she’s already reported and described him in the minutest detail? No, he says to himself, marshaling some common sense. That can’t have happened!