Karin Fossum - The Murder of Harriet Krohn

They sit together in the waiting room. Suddenly Julie takes his hand.

“Nervous?” she whispers.

He laughs and says he isn’t. “No, sweetie, it’s only a routine checkup. I’ve been overplaying it, and I feel a bit silly.”

“So you’re feeling quite all right?”

He looks down at his boots with their brown laces. His feet are firmly planted on the floor and he’s got complete control over the pair of them.

“Yes,” he says firmly. “And now I feel ridiculous. Going to the doctor just because I tripped over a wheelbarrow. What must he be thinking, Julie. Have you ever tripped over a wheelbarrow?”

She smiles and nods. “Yes. Or rather, it was worse than that. I’d got a full load and I’d opened the hatch. I tipped it up to empty all the droppings, and the whole wheelbarrow went through the hatch and got stuck. You know how heavy those wheelbarrows are. It took three of us to haul it out again.”

“Yes,” says Charlo, “and you didn’t go to the doctor because of that. No, I’m probably just getting old,” he remarks with a sad smile. “Old and anxious. There, now I’m being called. No flowers, please,” he laughs, and gets up from his chair.

Dr. Graff is waiting in the doorway, tall and dark and thin. He holds out a dry, white hand. It’s the same ceremony as last time. They shake hands and go into his consulting room. The doctor closes the door. Points to a chair and sits down at his desk. Charlo examines him carefully, but his face gives nothing away. It’s a calm, pensive mask. First he brings up Charlo’s records on his computer. There, Charlo thinks, lie the answers. It’s only a matter of seconds and the axe will fall. Leukemia, he thinks. Diabetes.

“Well,” the doctor says at last, looking at Charlo. “How have you been since we last met?”

“I’m feeling in great shape,” says Charlo. “So if there is anything wrong with me, it can’t be all that serious. No, I haven’t noticed anything. My vision’s been all right. My legs, too,” he adds. Then he stops talking and waits.

The doctor looks at the blood test results and scratches his chin.

“The symptoms you described to me last time haven’t recurred? Is that right?”

Charlo nods fervently. He wants to go back out to Julie and put this behind him.

“I think I must have been unlucky,” he says. “I can’t put my feet in the right place. I’m just clumsy. It’s winter after all, with slush on the pavements. My boots haven’t got much grip; I’ll get some new footwear. I’m sorry about all this fuss, but I was worried there for a moment. You never quite know, but I feel fine.”

The doctor listens and nods.

“Well,” he says, looking at his screen, “we did a number of tests. And we haven’t got any abnormal readings. But let me put it this way: come back if it happens again, and we’ll investigate further. You’re feeling perfectly well?”

“Absolutely,” Charlo replies happily.

“What about your vision? Anything to report there?”

“Nothing serious. Presumably I need glasses.”

“Yes, it might be an idea to visit an optician. Is there a family history of glaucoma?”

“Only cataracts. But I’m a bit young for them, aren’t I?”

“Probably,” says the doctor. “As things stand, I can’t see any reason to start major investigations. Let’s see how it goes. Don’t hesitate to come back if you feel in doubt about anything. Just give us a call.”

Charlo springs up from his chair. He’s never felt better.

Things are good now.

But they’re fragile. He’s skating on thin ice. He tiptoes through the days, looking over his shoulder and starting each time the phone rings. But nobody comes, nobody asks for him. There are no strange cars parked in the street.

It’s the tail end of winter. Everything is lighter, easier, milder. The snow is melting on slopes and in ditches. Puddles of ice water glitter in the sun, and water trickles vernally. Huge cotton wool cloud formations pile up in the blue sky in a white, noiseless roar. Julie and Crazy work hard and purposefully. They’re well acquainted by now, and the horse hasn’t produced any unpleasant surprises. But he doesn’t like wind. Trees and bushes move in a frightening way, and there’s a nasty howling around the corners of the building. The occasional plastic bag comes flying in between his hooves, and he starts and rears, thrashing his forelegs angrily. Julie hangs on hard. She sticks to his neck like a burr. Apart from that, he’s a great, friendly copper-colored giant.

Charlo prepares the outdoor ring. He drives the tractor slowly in circles, working the sand until it’s as fine and even as a beach. He enjoys driving the tractor. It’s almost like a toy to him, and it doesn’t feel like work at all. He’s at home on the great green machine. There’s always something to do at Møller’s Riding Center. He paints the fences white and picks up litter, which he later burns in the incinerator by the parking lot. He hangs new rope around the paddocks and gathers up the biggest stones and the odd rusty horseshoe. He clears away the girls’ drink bottles and picks up clothing they’ve cast off in the indoor ring and places it in a box in the tack room.

Julie is riding out in the sunshine in just a T-shirt. The hair beneath her helmet is damp and her cheeks are red. Charlo runs to and fro, plying her with drinks and trying out his hand as a coach. He takes up position at the bottom of the ring, leaning against the fence. He stands in sunlight glittering from the melt water.

“A bit shorter on the reins,” he calls. “Be clear, stay a little ahead all the time. Don’t forget his hindquarters — he’s got to move with all four legs. His neck’s too long, try to pull him in. That’s it, yes. That’s good. D’you want to try a jump?”

He takes a few steps into the ring.

“You want to try one thirty?”

She rides the horse in a volte. The horse is well collected. All four legs are there, working together in one great organism. A fabulous monster.

“Yes. Why not, I’ll have a go.”

Charlo walks to the jump in the middle of the ring. He moves the bar up, takes a few steps back, and then realizes just how high it is. He takes a quick glance at Crazy and sees his long legs, his muscles and his strength. Presumably he’ll fly over. But only if Julie is confident and determined, and only if he trusts her. The balance must be perfect, and the landing must be soft. After the jump, he has to turn to the right toward the next jump, which is only one meter high. Nothing for Crazy. Can they do it? Is it safe? She wants to improve, so she’s got to push herself. She’s got to make Crazy do as she wants. She must dare. Charlo walks back, throws off his jacket, and hangs it over the fence. Waits on tenterhooks. But then he can’t keep silent, so he begins shouting.

“Don’t tense up, he’ll sense that right away. Look at the jump, be with him, but don’t let him go too far out!”

She puts him into an easy canter. Turns and finds the track, sits hunched up in the saddle, and stares intently at the jump. Charlo sees the determination in her eyes. She must clear the jump and get both of them over, five hundred and fifty kilos. And they must clear it with style and elegance. Charlo’s stomach muscles clench. He steels himself and trembles. She’s never jumped so high. But Crazy has, he knows. He hears his hooves thundering on the ground, sees the dust swirling around his legs, sees the yellowish-white foam at the horse’s mouth. She closes in and shortens the stride, counts, measures the distance, and now they’re taking off. It’s a terrific takeoff, and Charlo gasps as they fly over in one great leap. Crazy lifts his hooves and lands on his forelegs, with Julie leaning against his neck. They’re over. Right away she steers him to the right. The turn is too sharp and she’s a bit on the back foot, but makes up for it again. She takes him down to a trot and takes the next jump with an almost apathetic air. Charlo begins running. His shirttails flap around him.