Karin Fossum - The Murder of Harriet Krohn

“Unfortunately we have to follow certain procedures,” he says, looking at him. Charlo gives way immediately, cursing himself and his own lack of composure. It is just routine. He’s prepared. He thought he was prepared. He gives Julie a final glance. She hasn’t noticed what’s going on.

“Well,” says Charlo, trying to seem magnanimous, “I’m sure I can spare a couple of minutes.” Helplessly he shrugs as a lump grows in his throat. Can no one save him now? Can no one see what’s taking place? Sejer begins to walk toward the Volvo with long, firm strides. Charlo follows. He’s struggling with his legs a bit. They seem strange and wobbly. His feet are just appendages dangling from the ends of them.

Everything I say can, and presumably will, be used against me, he thinks.

Every movement of my face, every twitch of my mouth, every wavering gaze will give me away. That special light in my eyes that signifies unspeakable guilt. No, for God’s sake, he can’t see my guilt. Only words count now, what I actually say. I’ll say no, no, that’s not right. I can’t remember. It’s so long ago and the days blend into one another, like drops of water. Try to take control. Try to remember all you say. He’ll ask you to repeat things, maybe endlessly. Be friendly now. Be calm. You mustn’t lose your cool.

“I’m going to trample a whole lot of horse muck into your office.”

He looks down at his boots and gives a humiliated shrug. Sejer has opened the door. Charlo peers into the large room.

“Ah, I’ve had all sorts in this office,” Sejer says with a sudden, charming smile. It makes Charlo relax. We’re only going to have a little talk, he thinks. I’ll make out all right; it’s just a case of being strong. Sure and steady and determined. He enters and stands in the middle of the room. The office is light and airy, full of small, private things and pictures on the walls. Plants, which look well tended, on the windowsill. A desk and a large window with a view of the river. A green filing cabinet and a fridge, perhaps containing cold drinks. A PC. Piles of documents and books on shelves.

“Sit down, Mr. Torp,” Sejer says, waving a hand.

He goes to the fridge and gets out a bottle of Farris mineral water. Charlo watches him furtively. Sejer moves around with serenity. There’s nothing hurried in his manner. Now he owns both time and space. Charlo is on his guard. This isn’t an interview, he thinks, just a chat. The dog has gone to lie down by the wall and now resembles a gray coat with black buttons that someone has chucked in the corner. He is handed a glass, and Sejer uncaps the bottle and pours some water into it. Charlo tries to sit up in his chair. He braces himself, concentrating hard. Nothing must strike home. Nothing must get to him. What must Julie be thinking? He should have said something to her. No, she’d only be anxious, and Julie must be spared all worry. Julie must never be part of this; she must live out the whole of her life in blissful ignorance.

Sejer has returned to his chair. He takes off his leather jacket and hangs it meticulously over the back of the seat. There’s a plastic blotting pad on the desktop. It’s a map of the world, and Charlo automatically searches for Norway, which is reproduced in pink. He wishes he were far away. So his gaze travels down Europe and arrives in Italy. From Italy he sets out for the port of Piraeus. And keeps on to one of the Greek islands.

Nothing is said. Perhaps he ought to babble away, the way innocent people do. They speak without thinking, of this and that. But he can’t break the silence. If he begins to say something, he may lose control. The words will come out helter-skelter and perhaps end in a trap. If this man is the sort who lays traps. Of course he is, it’s his job. He’s learned a whole series of techniques. There’s a rushing noise in his head as Charlo waits. Sejer looks at him gravely and leafs through a wad of papers. It’s just the two of them now and the ticking seconds. Charlo crosses one leg over the other, then uncrosses it. There’s a slight hiss in the silence, which slowly gets louder. He wonders if it’s the sound of blood coursing through his brain.

“Obviously you’ve got a right to know why you’re here,” Sejer begins. He sits twiddling a pen. “I’m very grateful that you were prepared to cooperate, by the way.”

Again that deep voice: so pleasant to the ear, taking some of the edge off the gravity. Charlo begins to think. Maybe he should have refused. Is that how things stand? Has he fallen straight into the first pitfall? No, he’s innocent after all. Of course he wants to help. He doesn’t know what would be wise. Should he be indignant and slightly exercised about being picked up like this, when he’s actually got other things to do? He’s a man who’s working. He’s got responsibilities.

“Of course,” he says, and adjusts himself in his seat. “Please explain. You see, I’ve got to fetch my daughter. She’ll be finished fairly soon.”

Sejer glances at his wristwatch.

“I quite understand. We’ll get going, then. First, just for the record. Your name is Charles Olav Torp, born the second of April, nineteen sixty-three?”

“Yes.”

“Address, Blomsgate number twenty?”

“That’s right.”

Sejer looks at his papers.

“And you’ve got a daughter, Julie Torp, born the twenty-seventh of May, nineteen eighty-eight?”

Charlo’s alarmed. He doesn’t like this mention of Julie — she mustn’t get involved with this at any price.

“Correct,” he answers loudly. His eyes are wavering already. He searches for some fixed point and chooses the dog by the wall. He’s asleep.

“And she lives in the student apartments at Oscarsgate 2. A pupil at Allsaker Prep?”

“Yes.”

Sejer makes notes and glances up. “Have you got any form of ID? It’s just a formality.”

Charlo hesitates, finding this incomprehensible. But he gets out his tattered brown wallet. He almost feels ashamed of its poor condition, its broken zipper and worn leather. The blood donor sticker is yellow with age. He doesn’t give blood anymore, since they stopped paying. He takes out his driver’s license and pushes it across the desk. Sejer examines it carefully and then looks at the wallet. Charlo feels ill at ease. The smell of the stables clings to his clothes and starts to suffuse the room. The license is handed back, and he replaces his wallet in his inside pocket.

“I want to go back to the month of November.”

Sejer puts down his pen. Clasps his hands in front of him on the desk.

“And I know it’s not easy remembering exactly where you were or what you were doing on any particular date. I know it’s hard to remember times. It’s human to forget. But I’ve got reasons to believe that there are certain things you will remember. That’s why you’re here. I believe you can help us with a difficult case. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

The inspector pauses.

“We have good reason to believe that you were involved in a car accident, on exactly the seventh of November, in the vicinity of Hamsund.”

Charlo chews his lip as if he’s trying to recall. He screws up his eyes and finally starts nodding slowly.

“Yes,” he says reflectively. “I did have an accident in the car. In the autumn sometime,” he says, “but I can’t remember the date. It was indeed at Hamsund. That’s right, it was an exasperating incident.” He nods once more. Looks Sejer in the eyes, which takes a certain amount of effort. He hopes to God his pupils look normal.

“This collision interests me,” says Sejer. “So I’d like to go through it point by point.”

Charlo shakes his head, bemused.

“There’s not much to tell.” He feels the sweat in his armpits. “It was a youth who didn’t observe the right of way. He was driving a small Toyota. I was on a priority road,” he explains, “and he hit my right front fender.”