Karin Fossum - The Murder of Harriet Krohn

The newsreader turns to politics. That was all it was, just a few seconds, before being jostled aside by other news. He turns off the radio and ponders. The police have some clues, but what could they be? Suspicious vehicles, he thinks next. Could one describe the collision and his uncontrolled outburst as suspicious? Obviously. A grown man doesn’t lose his temper like that over a dent. Harriet Krohn is discovered now, and her house is full of photographers and technicians. Minute examination, tiny brushes, chemicals. With an effort, he pulls himself together, gets out of the car, and locks it. Walks away with his head down and his hands thrust deep into his pockets.

The shopping center consists of four or five shops. He’s just about to turn into the grocery store when he catches sight of something. A slot machine. A Twin Runner with flashing lights. He stands staring at it. Automatically he feels in his pockets for coins. His arm jerks as he sees all the glitter of the machine: its colors, the great pull it exerts. He’s got a twenty-krone piece in his pocket. His fingers tighten around it. No, a voice inside him says. It’s over now, finished. But he hears the familiar sound of coins cascading into the tray. He’s feeling lucky; this is his day. No! He turns his back on the machine and walks into the grocery store, striding around the shelves. Call Me Crazy, he thinks. What a beauty.

He phones Bjørnar Lind again. Still no reply. Brimming with irritation, he stands staring at the bundle of notes. It almost seems to be burning in the drawer. He wants to be rid of it, to get them off his back. In the evening, he settles down in front of the television to watch the news. Before it starts, he’s flustered and nervous. He rushes around the living room killing time, because soon the bombshell will burst. He imagines that the murder will be the lead news item, that the old woman will precede all international conflicts. And he’s right. He strains forward in his chair, staring goggle-eyed. There is her house and the street. He sees the technicians swarming everywhere in their white caps. He thinks of all the machinery that’s been set in motion. They interview a policeman. He notices the name on the bottom left of his screen, Inspector Sejer. He notices the acute gaze and hears the deep, authoritative voice. He sees the lion with its crown and axe on the man’s shoulder. Charlo puts his hands in front of his eyes and rocks back and forth in his chair. He knows it will pass. So he finds it odd when they suddenly move on to other things, his own crime so quickly making way for the problems of the Middle East. He feels strangely devalued. It cost him so much, in terms of courage and dread and despair.

Then he remembers that there’s something he’s got to do. He goes down to the cellar and finds a large hammer, then comes back up and roots around in a drawer where he keeps his socks. He begins taking out socks and pulling them over the head of the hammer. He carries on until it has become a ball of material, both hard and soft at the same time. He picks it up, goes to the window, and looks out. He can’t see anyone in the street, so he slips out of the front door. He approaches the Honda with the hammer and then wriggles under the car.

The ground is icy against his back. He feels along the dented fender. He can’t bear the ghastly mark, the reminder. He attempts to hammer the metal, but can’t get a proper swing at it. He uses more strength, striking again and again. If he could just remove this dent. It’s dangerous for him, telltale. Occasionally he rests with his eyes shut and his back on the gravel. He’s wet and cold, but he carries on beating as hard as he can. It’s heavy work and wasted effort. He can’t get at it, can’t get enough force on the hammer. He’d like to give up and just lie there on the sodden ground until someone finds him and carts him away. He has to rest again; he can barely believe he’s lying there thumping away in sheer desperation.

He tests the metal with his hand and feels that he’s done a little good. He crawls back out to take a look. It’s almost as bad as it was before. He can see the white streaks from the other car and recalls that car paint can be identified and traced. He rushes indoors for a penknife, runs out again, and begins scraping. He draws the knife blade across the metal. It makes a hard, screeching sound and he uncovers the matte layer beneath. Later on he can rub it down with sandpaper and buy some enamel paint; then the dent will be less obvious. There’s nothing criminal about having a smash, he thinks, and is grateful for the chance to buy something, do something and make the time pass. He keeps going until he’s exhausted. The clean-scraped metal glints at him, but that’s enough for the moment. He goes in and sits down to rest.

There is an alien emptiness in the house. A sort of echo in the room he hasn’t noticed before, as if there’s no furniture in it. He wants time to pass and night to come. Then people will turn in, and nobody will think about him or search for him. He hears the ticking of the wall clock and the incessant thudding of his own heart. Now that the bombshell has exploded and everyone has heard about Harriet, why is it all so quiet? Are they sitting whispering in corners? Dully he chews his nail and tries to work out what he’s feeling. A bad habit from the past reasserts itself, and he sits running his finger across his broken tooth.

He stands in the kitchen with one hand over his face. He feels the ridge of his nose and his dry lips, the wide chin that he knows so well, or used to know. He opens his fingers a crack and peers through them, taking in the room in small portions. The walls, the furniture. He sees his own feet. He feels his chest rise and understands so clearly the throbbing mass that is his body, tainted now. Guilt is everywhere: in his right hand, in his head, in his heart. No, not in his heart. He never wanted this, never dreamed of being here. No human being ever does; they simply slide into perdition. He stands breathing silently, holding his face as if it’s been reduced to a mask that will fall away if he lets go. Beneath there is only raw flesh and empty, black eye sockets. He feels his chest rise again. Although he doesn’t deserve it, he’ll get oxygen, he thinks. My heart is working in spite of everything. It doesn’t fail even though I’ve done this terrible deed.

His goal is to wrench himself free from this mindset. He wants to go out and pick up the newspaper, but just then he catches sight of his neighbor, Erlandson, walking back from his car in his bluff, hearty manner. Charlo has no desire to talk to anyone. Not now that he’s feeling exposed. He can’t assume the right expression, a thing that’s never been difficult before. And it strikes him that from now on he’ll have to relearn everything. Daily tasks, meeting people, being the same person he’s always been. But he isn’t the same anymore.

His next objective is to make himself some food. But he just stands there, struggling with his thoughts, locked inside a confined space. He feels an enormous need to pull himself free, to find more room. Here I am in the spotlight, he thinks. My cheeks are burning. I’m Charlo, the murderer. I’m standing in my own kitchen, leaning against the kitchen unit, and I could stand here till nightfall. Apathy protects me from all evil; no emotion can take hold while I stand here frozen. It all feels insurmountable: the next hour, tomorrow, the remainder of my life. Here I am, doing my small chores — no, I’m not doing anything. I’m standing paralyzed by the kitchen unit, my hand to my face. I can’t bring myself to take it away. I imagine that the light will burn like acid. This will soon pass. It comes and goes; I know that. I must live with it.