Karin Fossum - The Murder of Harriet Krohn

He approaches the counter hesitantly, his sturdy body moving with a rolling gait. He’s uncertain about his voice as he hasn’t used it for a while, so he puts some extra force behind it.

“I want a mixed bunch,” he says, and the loudness of his own words makes him start. My feet are wet, he thinks. My boots aren’t watertight. Cold perspiration is trickling down my back, but my cheeks are boiling hot. I’m not certain this is real. Shouldn’t it feel different? Shouldn’t I feel more present within myself? I’m having so many strange thoughts. Am I losing control? No, I’m focused; I’m secure. I’ve made a plan and I’m going to stick to it. His chain of thought is interrupted by the girl speaking.

“Is it a special occasion?” she’s asking.

The voice is sweet and childish, slightly put on; she’s making herself sound younger than she is, protecting herself, so that he’ll treat her gently. It’s what women do and he forgives her for it, but only because she’s young. Grown-up women should behave like grownups. He can’t abide the same affectation in older women, making the most of their reputation as the weaker sex, when they’re really tough, resilient, clever, and more calculating than men. It makes him think of Inga Lill. She did it frequently, especially in the beginning. She would make her voice sugary sweet, ingratiating herself and hiding behind all that femininity. It made him feel boorish because he was simple and direct. Inga Lill, you’re dead now. You don’t know what’s happening, and thank God for that. I’m losing the plot, he realizes; I’m getting hung up on details. I must get to the point soon. How old is she? he asks himself, studying the girl. Could she be eighteen? She’s older than Julie, who’s sixteen. It doesn’t matter. I don’t know her and we won’t ever see each other again. They’ve got so many customers here, and she’ll hardly remember any of them because she’s young and lives like all young girls, in a dream for much of the day, a dream of all the wonderful things in store for her.

She pulls up her sleeves and comes out to stand among the flowers.

Her sweater is tight-fitting and deep red; she’s like a flower, a slender tulip, fresh, taut, and vivid. Oh yes, it’s a special occasion all right. Good God, if only she knew! But he doesn’t want to speak, doesn’t want to reveal more of himself than necessary. Buying flowers is a normal daily activity and can hardly be linked to the other thing he’ll be doing later on. What is it he’s about to do? Where will it end? He doesn’t know. He’s heading for the edge of the precipice to find a solution. A transition to something else. He looks around the place. The business has a good reputation. A large number of customers come in every day; he imagines a steady stream of people in and out. An infinite number of faces, an infinite number of orders, bouquets of many colors. He’ll hardly stand out in his green parka. He’s careful to lower his eyes, drawing the girl’s attention away from himself. What blooms there are in the large buckets! He can barely believe they emerge from the damp, black earth. To earth shall you return, he thinks, and out of the earth come the flowers. Dandelions or nettles. It’s precisely the way it should be: death isn’t as bad as its reputation, on that point he’s quite decided. The girl waits patiently. She’s a floral designer and has professional pride. She’s an artist with flowers. She can’t just throw something together, any old mixture. It’s all about creating a composition, about shape and color and scent. She never makes two bouquets the same. She’s got her own signature, but she needs something to get her started. A little inspiration, an idea. It’s not forthcoming. Charlo is taciturn and uncooperative.

“For a lady?” she probes. She notes his unwillingness and can’t comprehend it. It makes her feel uncomfortable. He seems disinterested, as if he’s running an errand for someone. He seems awkward and nervy. He appears to be pouring sweat. His body sways gently and his jaw is clenched. Perhaps he’s going to visit someone who’s ill, she thinks. You never can tell.

Charlo nods without meeting her eyes. But then he begins to realize that if he’s helpful and pliant, he’ll be able to leave the shop sooner. He must clear his head now, he mustn’t become preoccupied; he’s got to see the plan through. My nerves, he thinks, are as taut as wires. He knew it would be this way. Once more he focuses on his objective.

“Yes,” he says, “for a lady.” Again his voice has too much of a bark about it, and on a sudden whim, which he feels is wise, he adds: “It’s her birthday.”

Relieved, the florist’s assistant begins working. Everything falls into place and the slight frame gathers itself. The shoulders relax, the delicate fingers pick up a pair of tongs, and she bends over the buckets and picks out the flowers, one by one. Her fingers hold the stalks so gently. She seems to have a plan; there’s no more hesitating, no uncertainty. Her eyes survey the buckets. It’s a professional gaze, self-assured now. White lilies, blue anemones, sweet peas, and roses. Slowly a plump, pastel spray takes shape in her hands. She begins in the center of the bunch with a lily, around which the other flowers cluster, nodding and dipping. But they are still held firm, each flower protecting and supporting the other. It’s an art. He watches this, becoming deeply fascinated and falling in love with what’s being created. But he shivers when he recalls that the flowers are to serve an evil purpose.

He stands waiting edgily. His heart is thudding hard under his parka. He wants to pacify it but can’t. His heart won’t listen to him anymore. Oh, well, he thinks, let it beat as much as it wants. I’ve still got a mind, and that’s working all right. I’m the one who decides; I’m the one who orders my body to do things. It’s still my decision. He sighs so heavily that she hears and glances up. She’s wise to him, knows that something’s afoot, but she can’t interpret the meaning of his behavior. Instinctively she retreats into her craft, the thing she knows. Arranging flowers. Charlo breathes easily again. Pull yourself together, says the voice inside him. Nothing has happened, not yet. Nobody’s got anything on you. You can still turn back. You can pull out and life will go on, go on until death. He throws quick glances at the bouquet. His thoughts wander far away again; he’s only half there. He’s a cipher, a nobody. Now at last he wants to set himself free. Mentally he thinks he knows something about how the whole thing will come off. He’s been through it again and again. He’ll take charge of the moment, direct all that takes place. There is no room for unforeseen circumstances, so he brushes them hastily aside. He stares out of the window, noticing that sleet is still falling fast. Tracks, he thinks, and feels in his pockets. He wants to check that he’s remembered everything. He has — he’s thought of the whole lot. He’s thought about it for weeks. He’s practiced mentally and, sometimes, in his sleep, he’s cried out in fear.

The bouquet grows.

The shop bell chimes brightly in the silence, and he starts. A woman enters, dressed in a green coat with a black fur collar, her shoulders covered in sleet. She brushes it off with a hand in a beige-colored glove and regards him with hard, painted eyes. She’s weighing him up, isn’t she? A sharp old trout who takes everything in, Charlo thinks. All the details, a personal trait that she may later be able to describe. But he has no personal traits — he’s sure he hasn’t — and he simmers down again. She leans over one of the buckets, draws out a rose, and studies the stalk intently. He quickly turns his face away. The face that feels so large, as if it’s hanging there, proclaiming itself like a pennant. He stands looking out at the sleet. It’s most visible under the streetlights, a thick, grayish-white drift cutting across the darkness. He feels miserable. Because of his terrible destiny. I don’t deserve this, he thinks. I’m a kindhearted man. But dread destroys the soul. He’s in the process of losing himself. The girl works on. Will she never be finished? The bouquet is big and becoming expensive. He thinks about the time that’s passing, how he’s standing in here exposed and susceptible. About how it could be dangerous for him. From now on, everything will be dangerous. He’s prepared for this fear. It’s physical, but he can keep it at bay if he can control his breathing.