Karin Fossum - The Murder of Harriet Krohn

“Perfect!” he shouts, coming up to her. Julie takes a deep breath, stroking the horse’s neck.

“It certainly wasn’t,” she says, but her face is radiant. “I was a bit too frightened and he sensed it. But he did what I asked him to.”

“My God, Julie,” he shouts, “if only your mother had seen that! One meter thirty!”

She puts the horse into a walk again, peony red with pride.

“I’ll do a little groundwork to finish off,” she tells him coquettishly over her shoulder.

Charlo goes back to the fence. Leans against it and shuts his eyes. Stands there for a long while. He feels the sun warming his neck. He smells the scent of grass and animals, and tar softening in the warmth. The mild wind caresses his face. He stands in total tranquility, his body safe and solid and completely well. He’s sure of it. His thoughts turn to the past, flying waywardly from him like horses through an open gate. But he brings them under control and thinks forward. Of all the good things to come. He opens his eyes again and looks at Julie practicing pirouettes. It’s a miracle to him what she can do with that big animal.

Into all this brightness and warmth a shadow falls. He becomes aware of it in the corner of his right eye, a slow gray shadow. It’s of no interest to him. He’s looking straight ahead, watching the horse marking time on an incredibly small spot. The way he gathers all his weight into such a small area is beyond belief. The shadow comes closer, eating its way into his field of vision. He glances to the side and sees it’s a car. It’s a Volvo, a gray one. There’s something familiar about it. It’s moving very slowly, crawling hesitantly down the road. He watches the car until it stops. There’s no reaction within him; he’s only observing it, thinking no thoughts. He only wants to keep tabs on what’s happening around him. Nobody gets out. So he turns to Julie again and watches her rein back and walk forward, practicing transitions. It’s as if the horse is swaying over the ring, right, left, right, left, in some graceful ballet.

A car door slams. Charlo feels an impulse to turn and see who’s coming, but he doesn’t do it. He chooses to shut the world out. It’ll just be a father coming to collect one of the girls. He has no idea who it is. He stands foursquare on the sand, enjoying the sight before him in the ring. Soon he hears footsteps. There’s the faint crunching of gravel. Only now does he feel the first prick, the first stab of fear that something’s happening. Something that could prove dangerous to him. But no, he thinks then, it doesn’t happen like this. They’d come to the house and stand on the doorstep — a couple of them probably. He’s seen it in his mind’s eye. He’s dreamed about it at night. This is a lone man. He’s only come to look at the horses, like many others. There, a shadow on his right, surprisingly tall. He doesn’t want to turn his head, so he leans heavily against the fence and folds his arms. It’s no concern of his if the inquisitive want to drop in to take a look, is it? He’s interested in Julie, after all. She has his full attention.

He has the feeling, as he stands there, that the man’s got a dog. He can hear whining. He heaves a sigh of relief. A walker with his dog. There are plenty of those at the center. Charlo takes a clandestine look at the dog. He’s a funny-looking creature, small, the color of lead, and full of folds and wrinkles. Short legs, large paws. Deep-set eyes, ears thick and small. Perhaps he’s a puppy. Now he’s seated himself next to his master, waiting for further commands. Although Charlo’s watching Julie, he feels the man’s eyes on him. But he carries on looking straight ahead, at the same time counting his breaths without knowing why. Three, four, five, six.

“Charles Olav Torp?” The voice is very deep.

He nods mechanically by way of reply.

It’s so muddy where he’s standing. A few days of wind would do it good, dry it out, he thinks. And there’s too much gravel on the lot after the winter’s gritting; he ought to sweep it up. There are so many jobs to be done. He’s become almost indispensable to Møller, which was what he wanted. Charlo can’t control his thoughts. They’re running in all directions. He sees the man hold out a hand. He really is very tall, perhaps just under two meters. He’s broad-shouldered and neatly dressed in a leather jacket and black pants.

“Sejer,” he says. “Police.”

It’s as if Charlo has been sewn up too tightly. Now he unravels stitch by stitch. It’s not supposed to be like this, not here with other people present. Not in front of Julie. He puts his hands in his pockets. His face feels rigid.

“Yes?” he croaks hoarsely, his voice already betraying him. The landscape around him quickly recedes into the distance. He’s jolted back in time, and all that’s happened in recent months has been nothing but a glimpse into a future he’s destined never to enjoy.

Sejer remains silent. Charlo pulls himself together. He must shake off this paralysis and behave politely.

“What’s this about?” he asks with an attempt at a smile. He has to moisten his lips with his tongue. Møller’s apple trees need pruning, he thinks. Twigs are sprouting everywhere. Presumably it hasn’t been done for two or three years. And the grass hasn’t been cut all that well. There really are so many things that need doing: if he wanted to, he could run around here from morning to night. A ticking has begun inside his head, small, sharp stabs.

“I’d be very grateful if you’d come to the station for a chat.”

Charlo inhales. His head dips up and down without his willing it to. It doesn’t occur to him to refuse. He must appear innocent. He must be cooperative and amicable, and do his civic duty.

“What for?” he inquires weakly. He curses his feeble tone. Sejer holds back, considering.

“We’re working on a difficult case,” he says, “and various circumstances have led us to you. We’re treating you merely as a witness. It’s purely routine.”

This last remark is said in a reassuring tone. Charlo realizes that his mouth is open, but he can’t bring himself to close it. He can’t get enough air and his eyes feel dry. His eyelashes seem to be sticking together, causing him to stand there blinking like an idiot. He nods and listens to the words, placing a hand on the fence. He’s got to hold on to something.

“I’ve got to drive my daughter home,” he explains, and nods in the direction of the ring. “But of course I’ll drop in. I could stop by tomorrow.” He attempts to emphasize his words, to seem willing and at the same time taking the initiative, making his own decisions. But he isn’t making his own decisions. He’s all over the place. He’s running away like the dirty water beneath his feet.

Sejer’s face is still impassive. Charlo looks at the marked dent in his chin and his broad, determined jaw. He sees the sharp edge of the man’s nose. His eyes are dark and scrutinizing.

“It’ll only take a couple of minutes,” he says calmly. “I’ll drive you back, of course.”

It sounds like an order. The voice allows no room for protest. Protest would be an admission. If he’s going to deal with this, he must pay attention and be helpful. Charlo nods once more, feeling like a puppet on a string.

“Couldn’t we do it in the car?” he suggests, nodding over his shoulder at the gray Volvo and his own dented Honda. He rues the idea instantly. Sejer smiles patiently. He’s got very strong features; his gray hair is cut very short. He is ten years older than Charlo. The nice leather jacket and pressed black pants seem out of place in this environment where everyone walks around in riding breeches and long mud-caked boots.