Karin Fossum - The Murder of Harriet Krohn

“Please tidy up after yourself!!” “Keep the area in front of your box swept.” “Don’t leave tack in the passage.” “Keep the door shut, or the water will freeze!” It’s all so familiar, so dear. With a kind of devotion, he begins walking down the stable passage. Inside this building, he’s safe. This is a special space where no one can touch him. He is filled with emotions, smells, and tranquility; they permeate his body instantly. The great animals pay him no heed. Undisturbed, they chomp on, tugging at the hay in long snatches and concentrating deeply on their food. A few sparrows circle beneath the roof. Occasionally they land in the passage and find odd pieces of corn, which they pounce on with energetic eagerness.

There are ten horses in all, and he looks at each one with care. Two are ponies, which interest him less: a pony is, and remains, a pony and can never become a horse. He sees a very overweight Fjord horse and a dapple gray he’s not so keen on, partly because of its build, but also because it’s thin. But he studies the other six with considerable interest. Walking up and down the passage, he reads the names on the box doors. Konstantin, born ’92, owner: Grete Valen. Superman, born ’96, owner: Line Grov. One of the horses stands out because of its impressive height, and also because of its color. It’s a bay. Charlo stops dead and stands there, staring. The bay is his favorite. The bay is the one he’ll dream of, its deep, coppery color shining in the light from the window. A pretty arrow-shaped blaze on its forehead. A good, thick tail and a powerful neck. Its liquid and black eyes observe him with stoic composure. Charlo holds out a hand and lets the horse sniff. Its muzzle feels like fine, expensive velvet. He leans forward and blows into the horse’s nostrils, wanting to implant his own smell. The horse is inquisitive; its ears tilt forward positively and its tail swishes from side to side. The horse really is big. Six hundred kilos, he guesses, with powerful legs and supple hindquarters. Definitely a dressage horse. It has the muscle mass typical of an animal that has done a lot of groundwork. It looks newly shod and well tended, with oiled and shiny hooves. He stands at the box door completely wrapped up in a daydream. There’s no name on the door. But obviously someone owns the horse.

His musings are disturbed by the sound of the stable door slamming and footsteps approaching. Immediately he pulls himself together. Gets ready for a conversation. He looks down the passage and glimpses a young girl. She sends him a bashful glance, registers that she doesn’t know him, and gets on with her task. He calls out a greeting and watches with interest. Perhaps the bay is the very horse she’s taking out. No, she’s come for the Fjord horse. She places a halter over its head and leads it out into the passage, and ties it to a ring. Then she disappears and returns almost immediately with a saddle. Charlo knows what a saddle weighs, but she’s toting it on one arm as if it were a mere nothing. The horse’s bridle is over the other. They’ve got muscles, these girls, after years on horseback, after forking tons of horse manure out of the box and down the hatch. Heavy, wet horse muck and stalwart, tough girls.

“Nice Fjord,” he says, even though he doesn’t mean it. It’s been far too well fed but is attractive despite that. It’s champagne-colored with a pretty black-and-white mane. He likes Fjord horses very much, but not for riding. They’re precise in dressage but lack a certain elegance. The Fjord horse has such short legs, he thinks, and looks at the girl. She places the saddle on the horse’s back, tightens the girth with impressive strength, and starts scraping out the hooves. Her trim bottom sticks up in the air, filling her tight riding breeches, and he looks at her rounded body and powerful thighs. That’s how they ought to look, he thinks. Buxom and bursting as ripe plums. But as always, whenever he looks at a young girl, he starts making comparisons with Julie. He never finds anyone to match her. Julie with her resolute chin and her mane of red hair. Julie with her firm, green eyes.

“What’s his name?” Charlo asks, taking a few steps toward the girl. He’s a friendly man. Even though he’s just killed someone, even though he’s just destroyed an old woman, he finds his voice again. He finds his good nature. He knows how to talk to people and make conversation. It gives him an odd kind of pleasure that he can still interact with people as if nothing has happened.

Just then a cat slips in, followed by a Rottweiler puppy who finds some hoof trimmings and begins to chew greedily.

“Champis,” she replies, smiling shyly. Now that’s apposite, he thinks, savoring the name.

“Would you know anything about the bay?” He looks over at the big horse. Its head is hanging over the door and it’s chewing.

She pulls the Fjord horse’s forelock over the brow band and arranges it perfectly.

“He belongs to Møller,” she says, and goes to fetch a broom. She sweeps the passage clear of wood shavings and dung. She opens the hatch in the floor and sweeps it in with practiced strokes.

“Møller?” Charlo inquires.

“The man who owns the riding center.”

Charlo nods. “I’m only having a look,” he says in extenuation. “He’s lovely. That’s all I meant.”

“Yes,” she replies, and looks at him curiously. “He’s really lovely. But he’s quite a handful.”

“Have you ridden him?”

He moves closer to her, enjoying the conversation.

“Sort of.” She replaces the broom. “He’s a big animal and takes a lot of riding. But he knows a thing or two.”

He nods, goes to the bay again, and strokes its muzzle.

“D’you know what age he is?”

“Ten,” she says. “A gelding.”

She puts on a riding helmet. Then, finally, a high-visibility vest.

“And do they sell horses here?” he asks. She shrugs.

“Occasionally,” she replies. “But you’ll have to speak to Møller about that. He’s feeding in the stable down there.”

Charlo thanks her and goes out. He walks down a steep slope, turns the corner, and enters the lower stable. This houses ten animals, too. Several are small, fat Shetland ponies, hardly his favorite. Sweet but unpredictable and as stubborn as mules, he thinks. But excellent for really young girls. At the far end are a couple of good-looking animals, a palomino and a rather small piebald. Just then, a man appears in the door and catches sight of him. Something about the way he moves makes Charlo suspect that he’s the owner. He’s short and broad, with a wiry lock of dark hair hanging down over his brow. He continues his work without pausing, seemingly filled with a special serenity. He’s at home here among the animals.

“Are you the owner?” Charlo squirms slightly, feeling awkward.

“That’s right.”

He looks quickly at Charlo but doesn’t interrupt his work. The animals are more important; it’s a matter of sticking to the feeding routines. His work is even and methodical. Just watching him gives Charlo a sense of peace. The man grabs a zinc pail from a shelf, then turns around and holds out his hand.

“Møller,” he says, nodding.

“Torp,” says Charlo, and presses the hand. “Do you have horses for sale?” He tries to keep his voice light.

Møller studies him thoughtfully. Møller’s eyes are dark and deep-set, but his gaze is firm. He’s wearing a green oilskin jacket and long lace-up leather boots.

“Occasionally.”

The lock of dark hair falls across his brow. “Is that why you’re here?” He works all the time he’s talking. Charlo thrusts his hands into his pockets, wanting to hide an almost childish embarrassment. Eventually he gets the better of it.