Karin Fossum - The Murder of Harriet Krohn

“I’ve just come to look, mainly. But I am thinking about it. A bit later on. I was wondering what kind of money we’d be talking about.”

Møller dips the pail into a sack of pellets and walks to the nearest box. His jacket crackles as he moves around and his boots smack against the cement. He empties a liter measure of feed into the manger, and the chubby pony dives in.

“I’ve sold horses for twenty thousand kroner,” he says, “and I’ve sold them for a hundred and fifty thousand. It depends what you want.”

Charlo watches Møller as he does the feeding. It looks like nice work, bringing food to the animals.

“Well, let’s say I could manage something in between,” he says. “But I’ve got to sell some things first, and that could take time. And I need a horse that knows a bit. I couldn’t take a young horse that had to be trained right up from nothing.”

“I know,” he says, and digs into the pail of pellets.

“And preferably not a mare,” Charlo adds.

“Bad experience?” Møller asks. He’s not a terrifically accommodating man. His voice is a little terse, but he’s not unfriendly. He’s just sounding Charlo out.

“I’d probably go for a gelding,” he says. “What about the bay in the stable up the way? I hear he belongs to you.”

Møller glances at him.

“My daughter’s riding him.”

Charlo loses courage for an instant.

“Are you interested in him?” Møller asks in surprise. “He’s large. Not many people dare to get up on that one.”

Charlo shrugs defensively, attempting to curb his enthusiasm.

“Yes, he’s large all right, but he makes an impression. But I’ve no idea what he’s really made of. He’s probably expensive. Good build. Lots of muscle.”

“One meter eighty high,” Møller says. He places the pail on the floor and wipes his brow with the sleeve of his jacket. His boots are caked with wood shavings and horse manure, and thick black stubble forms shadows on his jowls.

“If I got an offer, I might possibly consider it,” he says, and scrutinizes Charlo more closely. He won’t sell to just anybody. “He’s a bit much for the girl; she’s only thirteen. But we haven’t found anything else for her. It’s mainly so that he gets some exercise.”

Charlo feels a flutter of excitement.

“Shall we go up and take a look?” Møller suggests. Charlo is surprised. He thanks him and stands there watching the man while he finishes his feeding. He parks the pail and the wheelbarrow in a corner and buttons up his jacket. Then he walks quickly out of the stable, and Charlo scoots after him. Two small girls with their legs sticking out ride up on ponies and a couple of cars with trailers drive in. The riding center is starting to hum with life. They go into the upper stable.

“I’ll bring him into the passage,” Møller says, “so you can see him better.” Charlo nods gratefully, feeling a quiver of elation inside. He can’t believe that he’s standing in here, admiring a beautiful horse. That this man listens to him and takes him seriously. Møller ties the horse to the ring.

“This chap’s pretty heavy to ride,” he admits, and begins stroking the horse’s neck. “But on the plus side, he knows a lot. He’s well trained, doing well in dressage, and can clear one meter thirty. He’s always been in good health. Even temperament. Strong-willed but never any trouble. A fine, steady canter. He requires a lot of warming up because he’s large. But if he’s given the time he needs, you’ve only got to give him the word and he’ll go for hours.”

Charlo listens, enthralled. He believes every word that Møller says.

“What’s his name?”

“Call Me Crazy.”

“Didn’t you say he had an even temperament?”

“Oh yes.” Møller strokes the horse’s muzzle. “He must have got the name before he was gelded,” he replies, chuckling.

“Breed?” Charlo asks.

“Holstein. Good pedigree. A dependable horse.”

“He’s beginning to sound expensive.”

“I wouldn’t take less than fifty thousand for him. That much I can say.”

“Fifty?”

Charlo chews his lip, thinking of what he owes. He thinks about the silver and tries to do a mental calculation. You can bargain with a horse’s owner, he’s sure of it. At any rate, down to forty-five. He thinks, he hopes. The horse is absolutely lovely. People would stop to look at him.

“Would you like me to saddle him so you can try him out?”

He shakes his head emphatically at this. “I hadn’t given it a thought; I haven’t ridden for years. But would it be annoying if I came out a couple of times to look at him? Could I take some photos?”

Møller nods his assent.

“Yes, just come along. The stables are open to the public. I can arrange for my daughter to put him through his paces in the ring, so you can see how he moves. If you’re interested, that is. She wants something a bit smaller and lighter, so I’m pretty sure she won’t mind.”

Charlo nods gratefully. “And another thing. What are your stabling costs? If I wanted to keep him here?”

Møller runs a hand under his nose.

“Three thousand eight hundred kroner. That includes mucking out weekdays. We put them into the paddock, and sometimes we can arrange for people to look after them.”

“Well, that’s what it costs then,” Charlo says, engaged in febrile mental arithmetic yet again. But he can no longer make sense of the figures without paper.

He lays his hand on the horse’s rump and feels the firm muscles. Runs his hand down his long, powerful leg. He looks closely at the pasterns; they look fine. Searches for the ribs. He can feel them, but not see them, and he knows that’s how it should be.

“Ten years old, did you say?”

Møller nods. “I think ten is the best age. They’re out of puberty, properly grown up, and old age is a long time off. Satisfied?”

“Yes, thanks,” says Charlo. He feels ecstatic. He’s standing here with a stranger and a beautiful bay, and his voice is steady. Standing here in an old quilted jacket with his nasty, slit-shaped pupils, and no one notices them.

“Well, I’ll think about it and come back to you,” he says, and watches Møller leading the horse back to his box. Then he lays a horse blanket over his back and tightens the straps.

Charlo leaves the stable. He feels mildly intoxicated. He gets into his car and checks himself in the mirror, keeping his features under observation. Each time he looks again he sees that watchful expression. A man stares back at him, a man he has to get to know. It’ll take time, he thinks. Time is a great healer. Just drive now and take it easy. He drives slowly down the forest track, and soon he’s back on the main road. He stops off at a shopping center to buy food. Takes a quick look at his watch, presses the button on the radio. Waits. A couple of minutes pass. There’s the fanfare heralding the news. His heart beats faster again, because now it’s broken. They’re talking about the murder at Hamsund. A few words force their way in and stick in his memory. Particularly brutal. Elderly and alone. She probably let him in. Objects of value are missing from the house.

Charlo lays his forehead on the steering wheel, listening, his entire body tense. Particularly brutal. Was it? He doesn’t see it that way. He hit her until she lay still, and that took time. The woman was found by a neighbor. The police have some clues. They’re encouraging people who were in the vicinity of Hamsund last night to get in touch if they saw any suspicious vehicles near Fredboesgate.

The words seem to come from far away. He doesn’t recognize himself or the crime; it’s become a case. As dry as all other cases, stripped of all drama. It’s so strange, he thinks. It has nothing to do with me. Well it does if I let it, but I won’t let it. I must push it away. I was in that room for only a few minutes, and now I’m in another room. I’ve closed the door and locked it, and I’ll never go back there.