Karin Fossum - The Murder of Harriet Krohn

“I’d like to visit Mom.”

He nods in complete agreement.

“We’ll do that,” he says emphatically. “We’ll go at once. Is it long since you were there last?”

“I don’t find it all that easy,” she says quietly.

No, Charlo ponders, visiting the dead doesn’t provide much sense of peace. He always has a feeling of helplessness when he stands by the headstone, a feeling of being superfluous. But now there are the two of them. He turns in by the church. They walk between the graves silently. A shyness has interposed itself between them. Then they arrive and stand hushed with bowed heads. They each read her name: “Inga Lill Torp.” The grave doesn’t need much tending in early December. Charlo notices that the erica is frozen; its reddish-mauve has turned to brown.

“Anyway, the gravestone’s nice,” Julie says, and he nods, thinking that he made the right choice.

“Next time we’ll bring a candle,” he says.

They stand awhile, thinking their own thoughts. Then they shake off the solemnity and return to the car.

“Are you excited?”

She nods and blows on her hands. Then for a joke, she pinches her own arm. Again Charlo has to laugh. It’s heartfelt laughter from deep within him as if he’s slightly drunk. He turns the car and joins the main road. They are still slightly shy in each other’s company, but, Charlo thinks, that doesn’t matter. That’ll pass. We need time.

“We should have brought a bag of carrots,” she says.

He nods. “There’s a shop not far from the stables; we can stop there. Of course we must have carrots.”

They buy carrots and a couple of Cokes. Out of habit, Charlo looks at the newspaper headlines while he’s at the checkout, but Harriet Krohn has been forgotten. He imagines her file buried in a drawer, because there are so many other killings. So much else to spend time on than an old woman from Hamsund. But he knows it isn’t true. The investigation will be plodding along, and they’re presumably working behind the scenes. He pushes these thoughts away, as they drive the last bit to the stables. They park the car and emerge into the cold air. Julie has gone quiet.

“Well,” Charlo says, “here we are. Let’s get into the warmth.”

He plucks up courage and puts an arm around her shoulder. He opens the heavy door. Just then, a black cat darts out, and Charlo jumps. The cat brings back memories. For one mad second, he imagines it’s the same cat and that it’s following him. He shakes off the eerie thought and points down the passage.

“The last box on the left.”

Julie walks up to the bars. Charlo stands next to her and watches. The hairs on the back of his neck rise.

She had just been born.

Lying trembling on Inga Lill’s stomach, naked and curled up like a pink frog. A velvety down covered her head. I’ll never forget this moment, Charlo thought. It etched itself into every cell of his body and suffused every part of him. It’s the same with this moment. Julie standing next to Crazy, cradling his great, heavy head and stroking him gently on the muzzle. The horse lets himself be stroked and closes his eyes now and again, looking sleepy. Then she must feel him all over, his ears, his mane. She runs her hand down his legs and looks at the powerful hooves. Rises again and looks the horse in the eyes. Her voice, when she speaks, is soft.

“Want to go for a run, boy?”

Charlo is taken back to that first time she sat on Snowball and couldn’t be dislodged. He reminds her about that now, and she gives him a broad smile. He helps her saddle up, and together they walk down to the ring. Charlo lays a rug over the horse’s hindquarters. She mounts, puts the horse into a walk, and disappears down the long side.

“Bye, Dad,” she says. “See you in a couple of hours!”

Charlo is so moved that he stands there staring, breathless. Joy leaps in his breast. This is his doing. He’s sacrificed himself for this. He shakes his head in astonishment and looks around for a chair. Finds one and begins rolling a cigarette. He lights it, inhaling greedily. He follows Julie with his eyes.

His thoughts begin to wander again. It’s bad luck that they’re already searching for a red Honda. Maybe he needn’t be too concerned about it, but still, it’s worrying. He crosses his legs and shivers a little; it’s quite cold in the ring and he hasn’t got a lot on. That knee giving way under him is a bit suspicious. It’s not easy to relax, not easy to concentrate on what’s happening in front of his eyes. He should be happy and satisfied, now that he’s reached his goal. The horse is moving at a free walk with his head up and slack reins. I’d like to sit here for years and watch Julie and Crazy. I don’t ask any more of life. I just want to be left in peace. Don’t I deserve that? I’ve gone so far and sacrificed so much. He feels chilly and shuffles his feet, but notices that Julie is riding toward him. She lifts the rug off the horse and hands it to him.

“Here, you poor, frozen old man,” she says, laughing.

She looks so buoyant. She’s shining like a beacon, and her hair is exactly the same color as the horse. They are a pair. Charlo packs the rug around himself, and Julie puts Crazy into a trot. There, he thinks, there goes my daughter. Riding her own horse. He’s large, certainly, but really he’s just the right size. Her main interest is dressage, and she’s quite good at it, too. I reckon she’ll improve a lot now that she’s got her own horse. But she jumps as well, one meter twenty. Pretty good for a sixteen-year-old. It’s a Holstein. I’ve always had a weakness for bays. I’m absolutely certain that those two will make their mark.

Møller comes into the ring. He stops next to Charlo, thrusts his hands in his pockets, and tilts his head in acknowledgment.

“Well,” he says, “they make a fine pair. Going well?”

Charlo nods. “I think they’ve hit it off. It happened so quickly, too. The horse does what she asks; there’s no doubt about that. His traverses are lovely. So very precise, when you consider his size. And he’s got long legs, too. It all looks very promising.” He pauses. “Are you ready to put me to work?”

“Yes, I am actually,” Møller says, and kicks laddishly at the sawdust. “Now that you’re available, I’ve lined up various things. I’ve bought some new mangers that have got to go up, and the windows in the stables need to be better insulated. The water has a tendency to freeze in winter; we’ve had to carry in buckets of water before now. In the summer, I might get some painting done, including the fence around the outside ring and the stables. Maybe the garages, too. They’re blistered, especially on the west side.”

Charlo nods enthusiastically.

“Let’s make a start,” Møller says, “then we’ll see how many hours it comes to. It’s difficult to say anything about your wages now, but I’m sure we’ll come to an agreement.” He stands there a bit longer, watching Julie. Now she’s reining back very elegantly, and the horse steps back correctly with straight legs and lowered head.

“Well, I never,” Møller says, shaking his head. Charlo is soon warm beneath the rug. Julie rides for two hours, until her bangs are damp and the horse is sweating.

It’s morning, and he’s up early.

The kitchen table has become his observation post. He sits by the window, eating and keeping an eye on the passing cars. He sees a Ford and shortly afterward a Volkswagen Beetle. He puts two spoonfuls of sugar in his coffee and marvels at this new habit acquired so late in life, but it does him good. A taxi for hire drives past. The bread is stale, so he leaves the crusts. They’re hard and hurt his gums. Buying bread for one is impossible, he thinks. Inga Lill was always so clever about that. She’d cut up the entire loaf and then pack the individual slices in a container. The container went in the freezer. She’d thaw them in the toaster, and then she always had fresh bread. Dear Inga Lill. It isn’t easy. But things are going better now. I’m in a different place. I’ll do the right things from now on, I promise. I want Julie to feel proud. I want her to point me out to others and say, that’s my father. Cool, isn’t he?