Karin Fossum - The Murder of Harriet Krohn

He’s been looking for half an hour when suddenly he finds himself in front of her grave. Harriet Asta Krohn is lying here, right below his feet. I could have brought some flowers, he thinks. It would have been the decent thing to do, another mark in the reckoning. But I didn’t think that far. I only considered the new image I could take away with me. An old woman in a beautiful coffin, her hands clasped on her breast. Not the horrible one from the kitchen that has tortured me for weeks: that twisted, ravaged body and the unattractive green dress. He tries to corner his emotions. That her life ended in such a manner and how it was all his doing. He can’t quite link the images that flash through his head. Of the revolver butt in her skull, of her collapsing and turning into this wooden cross. Is it really true?

He stands before her grave a long time, standing straight, thinking the whole thing through. Trying to put a defense together. You got in my way; you scared me with all your screeching. And it didn’t take much, either. You were old, brittle as a reed. Afterward I was in shock. This has marked me for life, you know. It’s not just something I can forget. But the fact is, I have a daughter, and I have to be there for her for the rest of my life. So I can’t dwell on this tragedy. It mustn’t be allowed to destroy me; it’s bad enough as it is. Things are still fragile between Julie and me. We’ve a long way to go. So if it were up to me, Harriet, I would stifle the memory of you from now on. I can see that everything here is nice. It’s neat and tidy, and presumably you’ll soon be getting a handsome headstone. Harriet Asta Krohn. A fine name with a good ring to it. I’m working out your age — you were almost seventy-six. A respectable age. I probably won’t live that long. Maybe it’s of little comfort, but you reached your average life expectancy.

He bows his head and feels at peace, standing with clasped hands and enjoying the sensation of calm that finally settles on him. He can put this calamity behind him now and move on. At last he really is moving on. Suddenly he’s aware of a noise behind him, a sort of crackling.

“Wasn’t it terrible?”

He starts at the sound of the voice and turns and finds himself staring at a woman. His mouth opens in surprise. She’s standing on the path behind him with a shopping bag in her hand. Brown coat, black booties, and a small crocheted cap that resembles an old tea cozy. He glimpses some snow-white curls beneath the cap.

He mumbles a flustered reply, something unintelligible.

“I’ll never rest easy unless they’re caught. I live in the house next to hers, number 6 Fredboesgate. Are you a relative, by any chance?”

She moves closer. “I don’t remember you from the funeral. But that’s hardly surprising. I wasn’t at all myself that day.”

She falls silent now and examines him closely. Charlo is dumbstruck. His first impulse is to flee, but something holds him back. He must keep cool, so he listens to what she’s saying and clenches his fists in his pockets.

“Mosse Maier,” she says, stretching out a brown-gloved hand. He takes it automatically, squeezing it carefully. “I was the one who found her. I noticed the lights on in her house at three in the morning, and that frightened me. So I got up and looked through the window. At first I wanted to phone and find out if everything was all right, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’ve thought since how cowardly that was. But I’m elderly and live alone; I hadn’t the courage.”

Charlo listens and nods. Her outpouring holds him there. He can’t bring himself to leave.

“But when I got up at seven, the lights were still on. That was really strange, too, because Harriet never got up before nine. She had arthritis, you know. Lots of aches and pains. I hung back for as long as I could, but eventually I went over. Her front door was open, and then I found her in the kitchen. And that was a sight I shall never forget, I can tell you. They hadn’t just hit her — they’d beaten her to a pulp.”

The shopping bag crackles in her hand again, and he suspects she has a plant in it.

“I didn’t know her,” he puts in, turning toward the grave once more. “I was just passing.”

“Ah, I see. I thought you were her nephew. She’s got a nephew who lives abroad and she used to talk about him a lot. But it’s terrible, isn’t it?”

He nods again, searching for some escape route. But she hasn’t finished yet; she holds him there. Fragile she may be, but her eyes are blue and intense.

“The worst thing is that one gets so scared.”

She walks the final few steps to the grave and scrambles around in her bag. Her hand emerges with a small green wreath. “Everything’s been ruined. I don’t sleep well at night anymore. For some reason, it’s good to come here. It calms me down. Now at least she’s at peace.”

She bends with some difficulty and places the wreath in front of the cross. “And the police have been a great comfort. They call and ask how things are going. And drop in now and again. I can tell you one thing; they won’t give up on this case. Those responsible will be found.”

“Were there several of them?” he asks, looking at her intently.

“Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that. But the way her house looked, it wouldn’t surprise me. The strange thing is that she seems to have opened the door herself. Harriet uses a door chain, and she’s most particular about it. But they probably spun some good story. In any case, she let them into her house. I’d like to know how it was done. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all this, it’s that you can’t trust anybody.”

He nods again and takes a couple of steps. He wants to go off and get away.

“Oh, I’m sorry to have burdened you with all this. But I thought you were a relative, as I said.”

“I was just passing by,” he says, “but I remember the case; of course I do. It was in all the papers. This is a beautiful spot, by the way. This church and churchyard. One of the loveliest I’ve seen.”

He talks away but his cheeks are burning red and he can’t stop them. He runs his hand through his hair and finally stammers something about the weather, that it’s delightful walking in the churchyard.

“Yes,” she says, “this is where we’ll end up. It’s like coming home. But life is too difficult to comprehend sometimes. How things like this can happen.”

“There’s a reason for everything,” Charlo says, and glances down at the wreath.

She shakes her white head. “Not for this. This is pure madness.”

He’s filled with an uncontrollable desire to explain to her. That he’s most definitely not mad, that he’s as much a human being as she is. It’s almost bursting out of him. There’s a rushing inside his head. But her eyes have become searching, as if she can see him clearly now. Her blue gaze is acute enough — it’s obvious she’s coming to her own conclusions. The meeting disturbs him just as the collision did. He gives her a curt nod and disappears as fast as he can. He hurries back to his car and sits inside, worrying. It troubles him deeply that she discovered him there, by the grave.

There she is!

Julie’s running toward him. He sees her right away, because her red hair stands out in the crowd of youngsters. There’s a new spring in her step. She chucks her bag in the back seat and jumps in, and the car rocks on its suspension. She’s hot and breathless. Now he’s able to relax again. He’s concentrating on Julie. He’s still uncertain about his new role, and whether now, at last, he can be Dad again. Does she really want to spend time with him? She fastens her seat belt and glances at him from the side. Her voice is lively and cheerful.