Karin Fossum - The Murder of Harriet Krohn

He’s promised to take Julie to Øvrevoll.

“Europe’s most beautiful racecourse,” he says and looks at her with excitement. Inga Lill listens with a stern countenance.

“You’re not to gamble there,” she says firmly, and Charlo laughs out loud. For goodness’ sake, gambling couldn’t be further from his mind. They’re going to take in the superb horses and look at the people, that’s all. Have a soft drink in the sunshine and enjoy themselves. Because he thinks he’s in control.

Slot machines were the first small rise in temperature, soon to develop into a fever that gripped him day and night. It made him happy and it brought him despair. He’s pleased Inga Lill doesn’t know what’s happening now, that she died when he was still an honest man. Was he ever honest? Wasn’t there something rotten at the core of him the whole time, and now he’s wilting? Isn’t that why his knees are weak? Then he’s there again, in Harriet’s kitchen. He sees her back, close to the kitchen unit, a few wisps of gray hair around her ears. He hits her as hard as he can, hits her as the thunder booms in his ears. Dazed, he rushes to the window and stands staring out, gripping the sill hard. Again he has that sensation of weakness. It only lasts a few seconds, and then he’s strong again. He tears himself away and sits down at his desk. He gets out the phone book and turns to the Yellow Pages, looking for a vet.

She’s a slender woman, vaguely boyish, with thick bangs and freckles on her nose. She’s wearing a worn pair of jeans and a windbreaker with a cord at the waist. She’s keen and enthusiastic. Her head moves around a lot as she speaks, and her hair dances around her face. She drives up in a station wagon and lifts her heavy case out. She walks ahead into the stable. Charlo follows her. On the case’s lid he reads the inscription: “A horse is the lady’s best friend.”

“Well,” she says, looking at the bay, “he’s a grand-looking chap.”

Charlo nods proudly and Møller agrees. He stands, arms folded, watching Charlo and the vet like a hawk. He’s well prepared and is vouching for the horse, but now the expert has taken over and he must defer to her. He puts a halter on Crazy and leads him out into the passage.

His hooves give a hollow ring as he treads the concrete. The horse is going to be minutely examined. The vet runs through all his joints and muscle groups. She checks his symmetry, eyes, ears, and mouth. She rasps his teeth. She examines his pasterns and discovers a swelling. Møller says he was born with it, that it isn’t pathological. She leads the horse outside and runs with him in the snow, and then she gets Møller to run with him. She says he trots perfectly. She asks for his vaccination card, and Møller produces it from his pocket. She gives the horse a worming dose. She forces his great mouth open, sprays the yellowish-white stuff in, snaps his jaws shut, and holds them.

She asks questions about his feeding routine and previous injuries and illnesses. She asks to see his pedigree, which is excellent. Call Me Crazy out of Pericles and Adora Z. Born and raised at a stud in the Netherlands, sent to Denmark, then taken to Norway by ship in 2001. Road safe, experienced competitor, and obedient as a child. Cooperative getting in and out of a horsebox, easy to shoe. At last she smiles broadly and gives him a good pat on the neck. She whispers to Charlo: “How much is he asking?”

“Forty thousand.”

Her smile widens even more. She’s got a large gap between her front teeth.

“He’s a steal.”

Charlo has the money in his inside pocket. Blood money, it strikes him suddenly, but nobody knows. Nobody knows, because nobody saw him. It was dark on the evening of November 7, and people stayed indoors. He pays the vet seven hundred kroner, thanks her for her help, and accompanies Møller to his office on the floor above the boxes. It’s dim and snug beneath the coved ceiling, with a special smell of horses and painted wood. They are going to sign a contract, so it’s an important moment. Charlo is as excited as a child. He sits down in a chair and watches Møller fetch a fat sheaf of documents. The horse has had two previous owners; he hands the whole lot over to Charlo to study. Charlo takes the money out of his wallet and tells Møller to count it, which he does while Charlo reads. And as he sits in the comfy office and looks around, at cups and rosettes and pictures of horses, an idea comes to him. He glances furtively at Møller who’s writing the contract of sale. Should he chance it? It can’t do any harm; he can only say no.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any work going here?” he says, and regrets it immediately because Møller is looking at him in surprise. Suddenly Charlo feels like a beggar.

“Well,” he says, drawing out his answer, “I’ve run this place for years without much help. So not a job as such.” He pauses. “I’m not quite sure. Not a full-time job, at any rate.”

“But part-time, perhaps?” Charlo says. He smiles, wanting to maintain an easy tone.

“Well, I do sometimes feel I need a handyman,” Møller admits, “and there’s a lot of mucking out with twenty horses. There’s jobs in the ring, repairs, and such. Are you good with your hands?”

Charlo nods energetically.

“I’ve got a trucker’s license,” he adds. “If that’s any good. I’m looking for work and have been for some time. Time hangs heavy, you know.” Møller nods and understands. He pushes the contract over to Charlo.

“We may be able to come up with something,” he says. “Let me think it over. If you don’t mind starting with small stuff, at least to begin with. Here, you need to fill the rest out. The horse’s new owner and your signature.” Charlo picks up the pen and signs. On the dotted line marked “owner” he writes: Julie Torp.

He’s seated in his chair with a beer, looking at the contract. It’s on the table in front of him, a golden piece of paper. When he picks it up and reads it, his hands shake. He can hardly believe it, that he’ll be making amends at last. As he drinks, he dreams of beautiful images of Julie on the horse. But there’s also a knot of uncertainty inside him. He’s afraid she may slam the door in his face and turn him away before he’s had the chance to speak. The cost was high, but everything has a price. And sometimes you have to pay with blood.

He thinks about his heart. He can still see the notch in it, but now it’s covered in gray scar tissue. Everyone bears scars, he thinks, both inside and out. He settles back in his chair. He doesn’t want either the radio or television on because now he can take the silence. It spreads through the room and puts him at his ease. But it’s still fragile. He concentrates on sitting perfectly quietly, breathing deeply and rhythmically. Again he sees Julie; his thoughts have traveled back. She’s placing one foot in the stirrup and swinging herself up onto Mephisto. He holds her jacket, because she always gets so hot. Her riding teacher comes across to him, holding something out.

“The last four lessons haven’t been paid,” she says, handing him the invoice. He claps his hand to his forehead, saying, “Christ, I must have forgotten.” Julie keeps her eye on him. She sees what’s happening and drives the horse away, disappears. He takes out his wallet, which is empty. It’s the shame he remembers most of all, because this happens time and time again. Because money flows from his wallet and into slot machines in a constant stream. It’s as if he’s hemorrhaging money. Charlo shuts the images out. He wants to see something different, something nice.

But what comes to his mind is Inga Lill’s funeral. The organ, the whispering voices, and Julie squeezing his hand so hard that he thinks she’ll crush it. How are we going to manage now? he thinks, because Inga Lill has always been the corrective influence in his life. Now that she’s gone, it’s as if he’s lifting off and losing his last contact with the ground.