Karin Fossum - The Murder of Harriet Krohn

“Yes,” she says at last, grudgingly. “I read a bit. Go to the cinema now and again with friends, a whole load of us.”

He leans forward, wanting to catch her, wanting to see her pupils dilate and turn black when he tells everything.

“You’ve got some spare time then?”

She doesn’t understand what he’s driving at. She sizes him up and turns defensive.

“Yes,” she says tentatively, “I suppose so.”

The voice is less unwilling now, but it isn’t soft like it used to be when she was happy and completely relaxed with him.

“What about stamina?” he asks. “Have you got plenty of that, too?”

She can’t follow his drift, but she is listening now, with her mouth half open.

“You’ve become so thin,” he says. “There was much more of you before.”

She looks down at herself.

“That’s because I don’t ride anymore,” she replies.

“But those muscles will come back quickly enough if you start again, won’t they?” He rummages in his jacket pocket, quivering with excitement. Feels the photograph between his fingers. “Because this chap’s strong,” he says, holding out the picture.

For a moment, she stands there transfixed, staring. Then she moves right up to him. She takes the picture, examines it, and shakes her head. Unable to understand what he means or what he’s telling her.

“Who’s that girl?” she asks, looking at Møller’s daughter.

“That’s the previous owner,” he says, “but now the horse has been sold. It was sold yesterday, in fact. After a thorough veterinary examination.” He gets ready to drop his bombshell. “And the new owner is someone I know, too. Her name is Julie Torp.”

She stares at the photo again, unable to take it in. Her face is still deadpan.

“You’re kidding me,” she says weakly. But he notices her eyes begin to shine. Even so, she holds back. She knows him too well.

“I’m not kidding you,” Charlo says, turning his palms up to show that they’re clean. Then he remembers that they definitely aren’t clean and lets them fall again. “But I quite understand that you need some proof,” he says, and reaches into his inside pocket. He takes out the contract of purchase and holds it out. She takes the document and reads it, wide-eyed. Reads it several times and looks at the picture again. Stands there with these two things. Her voice is needle-thin.

“Call Me Crazy? You’ve really bought him?”

Charlo laughs: “Yes, I’ve really bought him. The money’s been handed over. He’s stabled at Møller’s Riding Center. A Holstein,” he says. “Six hundred kilos. You’ll have quite a job on your hands, I promise you.”

She drops onto the chair by the desk and leans across its top. She caresses the photo between her fingers and shakes her head once more. She remains like this for a long time. Even now she won’t show her pleasure. She doesn’t dare; she has doubts.

“But how did you manage it?” she asks, staring at him in disbelief.

Charlo sits up and prepares, and then delivers the carefully constructed and highly plausible account he’s concocted.

“The thing is that your grandmother had a lot of family silver,” he says. “She gave it to me as an advance on her estate. You know how old people begin tidying things up at the end of their lives. And, of course, she wasn’t getting any pleasure from it in the nursing home. Oh, I know I should have saved it for you and for future generations. But your life is now, and I wanted so much to make amends. So I got a good price for it. I’ve paid off my debts, and I’ve put all that nonsense behind me now. I’ve got work, too, a little job at the stables.”

“Family silver?”

“Valuable old cutlery,” he tells her, “a pattern that’s gone out of production, quite sought after. But, Julie, don’t mention it to Grandma when you’re there. She’s so muddled, and I don’t want to run the risk of her regretting it all and demanding to have the silver back again.”

She nods and glances at the photo again.

“But you owed two hundred thousand. Was the silver worth that much?”

“Yes. There was a gold watch as well. Candlesticks and that sort of thing. So it was just enough.”

“Call Me Crazy?”

“He’s as gentle as a lamb. Don’t let the name frighten you.”

She clutches the picture. She’s still dumbfounded and keeps glancing at him, wanting to check that he’s being truthful.

“Julie,” he begins, “you’ve no idea how lovely he is. You can’t see his color properly in the photo. I took it in the ring, you know, and there wasn’t enough light.”

At this something subsides in her, some of the suspicion and doubt.

“Have you ridden him?” she asks suddenly.

“Just briefly.” He smiles at the memory.

“Did you give him a canter?”

“Yes, I rode in a volte,” he answers. “But I didn’t dare try a jump.”

“Cowardly custard,” she teases. She gets off her chair and goes over to him. She sits down beside him on the edge of the bed. And they sit there close together. Charlo can smell the scent of shampoo on her hair. He’d like to give her a big hug, but he doesn’t.

“When can we go and look at him?” she asks.

“As soon as you’ve finished your homework,” he jokes.

She leaps up and starts emptying her dresser.

“D’you read my letters?”

“Yes.”

He sits on her bed with his hands clasped in his lap. She’s suddenly in a great hurry, and he recognizes that old enthusiasm, which he hasn’t seen for so long. She’s looking for some riding breeches. “You know, the checkered ones,” she says. “D’you remember them?” It’s a delight to sit here like this watching her, with all sorts of things come flying out of the dresser. Sweaters, blouses, underwear, and at last the breeches. She goes into the bathroom to change into the breeches. “They’re a bit big perhaps, but I haven’t got any others.”

“You’ll soon grow into them again,” he says. “Just you wait. I’ve bought you a monster. I hope you realize that?”

She laughs at him and dives into the closet for her riding boots.

“The leather’s scuffed and dry; they need some polish. I’ll do it later.”

She pulls them on. Stands in the middle of the room in her checkered breeches with their leather-reinforced seat, and stares down at the long boots.

“It’s been so long since I’ve worn this stuff,” she comments, looking at him.

Charlo is dumb with admiration. Now he recognizes his own Julie again. He’s no longer alone. He’s got a family like other people. She stands before him, ready. They walk into the street together.

“Dad,” she says, “you’ve dented the car.”

Charlo lowers his eyes to the asphalt for a moment, thinking of all the things he must be careful about.

“Yes,” he says, “it was some numbskull who didn’t know when to give way.”

“You’ve been trying to repair it,” she declares. “That’s the worst repair I’ve ever seen. Why didn’t you take it to a garage? If it was someone else’s fault, didn’t he have to pay?”

Charlo gets into the front seat, mulling it over.

“I got the damage assessed and the money paid out,” he lies, “but I used it for something else. Something more important.”

She gets in, accepting his explanation. She finds a scrunchie in her pocket and gathers her hair at the nape of her neck. He can see her hot breath inside the dark car. I’ve got her, he thinks. Now it’s a case of not losing her; I mustn’t make mistakes.

“Dad,” Julie says suddenly. “You know what I’d like to do? Before we go to the stables?”

He changes gear and drives down the street while he waits for her wish, which he will naturally fulfill. That’s what he’ll do from now on. It’ll be his mission for the remainder of his life.