Karin Fossum - The Murder of Harriet Krohn

They’ve arranged to meet at the railway station, at the far end of the long-term parking lot. Charlo’s heart is pounding. He gets out the silverware and the gold watch and places it in a bag. The jewelry is worth very little and no one would give anything for it, so it remains in Julie’s gym bag at the bottom of the chest. He halts in front of the mirror and looks at the face he must now reveal. His nose seems to be sticking out, and his ears are burning. Exposing himself like this is abhorrent, but he has no choice. He forces his face to relax because the muscles around his eyes and mouth have a tendency to twitch in a creepy, revealing manner.

He puts the bag in the car and sets off. He constantly checks his mirror; it’s become a habit. He crosses the bridge. At the railway station, he turns to the left, his gaze raking the parked cars. At the far end, he sees a man leaning up against a BMW. The man watches Charlo’s Honda and comes over as soon as he’s parked. Charlo hardly dares to look at him. He sits in the car with his head lowered and waits for the other to take the initiative. And he does. The man taps on the window and looks in. He’s surprisingly young, just a stripling, but shrewd enough for all that. A gangly boy with a long blond mop of hair and listless gestures. He asks no questions. They avoid making eye contact. They’re there to do business. He gets into Charlo’s Honda. The silver makes an impression, as does the gold watch. Charlo holds his breath as the man studies the hallmarks. He’s got a loupe with him; he’s left nothing to chance. He pulls out a pocket calculator and begins to add up. Charlo waits patiently. He doesn’t want to haggle or try to force the price. He just wants to get it over with.

“The watch is engraved,” he says and looks skeptically at Charlo.

“But you’ll melt it down, won’t you?”

The young man weighs the watch in his hand and screws up his eyes for an instant. It’s obvious he’s tempted. Then, finally, it disappears into his pocket and Charlo breathes more easily.

“I’m only a middleman,” says Charlo. He ventures a smile. The young man sneers, displaying yellow teeth.

“That’s what they all say.”

Charlo lowers his head again, feeling a bit naive. The fence continues to study the silver. He appears to have all the time in the world and doesn’t seem to be nervous at all.

“I think it’s antique,” Charlo says, “a pattern that’s maybe gone out of production. What do you think? I only mention it because it affects the price. Doesn’t it?”

Still no reply. The man is holding a fork, examining the design. Charlo looks over his shoulder, but few people are around and everything’s quiet. The man delves into the bag once more; he works on imperturbably. Now he weighs the candlesticks in his hand.

“You can take these back home with you,” he says. “They’re only silver plate.”

“Silver plate? I’d rather not. I mean, surely you’ve got more contacts than me. Can’t you just get rid of them?”

The other shrugs and taps his calculator with agile fingers. Charlo looks down at his hands and wrings them hard. A small eternity seems to pass. The man adds, weighs, examines. He’s got an acute, appraising eye.

Then, finally, he comes to his decision. He looks down at the display, catches Charlo’s eye, and announces authoritatively.

“Forty thousand for the lot.”

Charlo sits there gawking.

“Forty?” he stammers. “But the watch alone is worth seventy for sure. Perhaps even eighty.”

“In the shops, yes. This isn’t a shop.”

“No, no, I realize that.”

“I’ve got to take my cut, of course; you realize that. And then I’m taking a risk, so you’ve got to pay for that as well.”

“Naturally.” Charlo nods mechanically. He’d hoped to make fifty or sixty, but he doesn’t dare push it. The man takes the money from his inside pocket and begins counting it out.

“I’ll throw in the bag as well,” Charlo says.

Once more he attempts a smile. It isn’t reciprocated. He feels tense and needs to lighten the mood. It’s a relief to be rid of the silver. All he wants is his money. He gets it. He counts it and nods that it’s right.

The fence opens the door, sets one foot on the ground, and sends him a sharp glance.

“We need each other, so keep your mouth shut.”

Charlo nods and returns his gaze. The man goes off to his own vehicle, revs up the engine, and drives off. His car disappears. Charlo puts the money in his left inside pocket, close to his heart. Now at last he can do business.

The bay will greet him with great, dark eyes and ears laid amicably forward. Perhaps a small whinny of pleasure. He will lower his big head and lick his salty fingers, nuzzle his jacket a bit. He sets out for the riding center and slows down as soon as he approaches the paddocks. He parks his car and jogs over to the stable and enters. He walks to the last box and stops dead. It’s empty.

He stands there staring, stunned. Has someone beaten him to it? No, that’s impossible, the bay was for him! Just then he hears the door slam, and shortly after Møller comes up, his riding boots thumping the cement.

“My girl is working out in the ring,” he says. “Now’s your chance to see what the horse can do.”

Charlo breathes a sigh of relief. Møller stops in front of him, legs astride, manly in his green jacket.

“Are you still interested?”

“Absolutely,” Charlo says, nodding. “But what about your daughter? What does she think?”

“It’s fine by her.” He stands square and looks intently at Charlo. “If you can manage forty thousand, we’ve got a deal.” Charlo looks at him wide-eyed, his thoughts whirling around his head. Forty thousand. He can manage that. His heart pounds. He nods, smiling broadly.

“I’ll go and take a look.”

“Do that,” Møller says. “She’s not bothered by people watching her. She’s used to it, and she’s good.”

Ah, but not that good, Charlo thinks. He opens the heavy stable door again and trudges down to the riding ring. The wide door is open. He walks in slowly and immediately catches sight of the bay. His heart leaps. A teenage girl is sitting on the horse, appropriately dressed in white breeches and black polo-neck sweater. She gives him a quick look and then concentrates on the horse again. Charlo finds a seat. She steers the horse to the wall where a sound system has been installed, and he can see her rooting on the shelf for a CD. She wants to show what she can do. The horse stands patiently. She finds what she’s looking for, reaches up and inserts the CD, and then grips the reins again. A second later, music fills the great space. At first he can’t recognize it. The opening is unfamiliar to him, but then the drums come in and a choir of festive voices. It’s Vangelis’s “Conquest of Paradise.” It’s certainly loud enough. The music fills the entire ring, which he estimates must be around two thousand square meters. He feels the music centering on his breastbone. It numbs and suffuses him, makes him surrender completely. His eyes are wet and he’s got goose pimples. The girl puts the horse into a walk. Charlo takes in the sight as his pulse pounds at his temples. She’s riding with short, tight reins and tiny commands. A girl of fifty kilos is directing a horse weighing six hundred. She’s doing it with imperceptible tickles of her whip on the horse’s hindquarters, shifting her body weight almost indiscernibly from side to side, or backward and forward, and with small jerks on the reins. The horse can do most things. He takes small steps, trots on the spot, and does pirouettes and traverses and lead changes. His transitions are superb. He trots the length of the ring and does a collected working canter. Then he suddenly switches into an extended canter, foam frothing around the bit. Wood shavings swirl around the shiny hooves, and it doesn’t take long before the horse is damp with sweat and glowing like clean copper. Yes, you’re good, he says to himself about the young girl. You’re light on the reins, and you’ve got good contact. But you don’t ride the whole horse, he thinks. You don’t take his hindquarters with you. All at once she comes toward him. Her gaze is completely devoid of fear.