Karin Fossum - The Murder of Harriet Krohn

Sejer takes a step forward. “Phone your daughter right away and cancel the engagement.”

His voice is now a resonant command.

“How long will it take? I could call and postpone it for an hour or two. Would that do?”

“No. You must call and cancel, and then come with us.”

Charlo gasps for breath. This persecution infuriates him so much that sweat beads on his brow. He turns on his heel and goes into the living room, lifts the handset, and dials Julie’s number. He crushes the spiral of telephone cord between his fingers.

“Hi there, it’s Dad again. I’m going to be a little late. Something’s cropped up that I have to deal with first. Yes, I will explain. Just wait for me and I’ll be along in a while. No, you don’t need to worry. It’s just some stupid detail, but it can’t wait. I could phone when I’m ready to leave if you want. I’ve got to go now; someone’s waiting. No, he’s not a friend of mine. It’s just some mess from long ago that I’ve got to clear up. Right away. I’ll call as soon as I’m finished. See you soon.”

He cradles the phone and stays there brooding. He feels he’s standing beside himself, that everything is unreal. But he knows this is no dream. The blow has fallen; they’ve come for him.

He gets into the back of the patrol car.

He thinks about the thing that’s stricken him. His central nervous system will slowly let him down. Everything outside the windows seems distant. He’s a tourist on his own street, in his own life. He’s lived on this street for years, but now he sees it all for the first time: the low, brown timber houses; the neat hedges; the occasional ornamental shrub by a house wall, soon to flower and decorate the whole street. A young officer with curly hair is driving the car. Charlo meets his gaze in the mirror and looks away resentfully. He won’t give them anything — not a thought, not a word. They don’t know what he’s made of, how composed he can be. He lowers his head and contemplates the zipper of his jacket. He curls his toes and they feel spry. My God, what toes I’ve got. They obey his smallest command! The doctor has made a mistake. Sejer is taking a shot in the dark. He’s gambling everything now, and he’s going to lose. I won’t break, he thinks. I must just keep a clear head. I mustn’t give myself away.

The officer drives slowly. The car is a Ford Mondeo. The short drive to the police station takes an eternity. He has the constant feeling that he’s seeing the town for the first time, in a sort of sudden attack of clear-sightedness. There’s Cash & Carry, there’s Tina’s Flowers. There’s the model on the billboard in her skimpy lace underwear, smiling prettily as always. There’s the church on the hill above the town and the fire station with its splendid towers. He sees the courthouse looming up on the right.

Sejer opens the door for him and Charlo steps out. He straightens up in the sunshine, filling his lungs with air. He’s struggling with a kind of numbness, and he mustn’t let it take hold. He must tense every muscle in his body and be alert. Stay ahead. Like playing chess, he thinks. He was a good player at one time. He stands there awhile, drinking it in. The sun glittering on the windows, a beautiful tree with bare branches, people strolling in the streets. This is what they want to take away from him. But it’ll cost them dear, he thinks as he walks through the door and into the dim reception area. The building envelops him.

His irritation and nervousness act as a strong curb on his body. They make his movements abrupt and irascible. He can’t help it, even though he’d like to be leisurely, lithe, and aloof. He’d like to saunter into the office and seat himself with exquisite languor. Be confident and secure and on top of things. He isn’t confident. He jerks the chair out from the desk, causing it to make a loud scraping noise. He pushes his illness out of his mind, plants his feet firmly on the floor, and concentrates on his innocence. It’s the thing he must put across during the interview. He feels entitled to it because he didn’t want events to turn out so. It just happened and he must make the man with graying hair understand this.

He notices the dog, Frank. He’s been lying near the wall. He comes ambling over on his large paws to say hello. Charlo can’t resist the temptation to bend and stroke the wrinkled dog. His fingers vanish in his coat, which feels peculiar, like sandpaper. He looks into his black eyes. One moment he thinks there’s the reflection of a gentle soul; the next, he sees nothing. They just shine like buttons. Sejer walks around the room, and Charlo looks at him sideways on. He appears purposeful and comfortable. He retrieves some documents from a shelf, glances swiftly at his watch, and takes his place in his chair. It’s all accomplished with slow movements, a tardiness that irritates Charlo.

“Well, I think you owe me a good explanation at least,” Charlo says severely.

He tries to sound determined, but doesn’t quite pull it off. Sejer glances up at him. His eyes are at first deadly earnest, but then they soften.

“Well,” he says, resting his elbows on the desk, “there are a number of things I need to clarify. You know how it is. We work slowly and methodically. Investigation takes time. Occasionally we have to pester people with questions about what they’ve been up to. I’m sorry you feel hounded, but it’s very important work.”

He looks at Charlo across the desk.

“Let’s make a start. Let’s take the seventh of November again, from the beginning.”

Charlo meets his eyes.

“I’ve said all I have to say about that day, and you’ve made notes. I’ve said a lot more than I needed to. I can’t be bothered to beat around the bush anymore. You must ask definite questions, and I’ll answer to the best of my ability!”

His outburst resonates in the room. Sejer nods seriously.

“In that case, I’ll simply ask you to repeat what you’ve previously said.”

“But what is all this fuss about the seventh of November?”

“It concerns the murder of Harriet Krohn. We’re building up a picture of the traffic; it’s important for us. Every small movement in the area.”

“Really?”

Sejer glances at his documents.

“I’ve got a suggestion. Let’s talk about that trip to Kongsberg, Mr. Torp. It interests me.”

“There’s nothing interesting about it.”

“Quite the opposite. According to your previous explanation, you went to Kongsberg. You walked around the town for an hour. Tell me about that hour.”

Charlo shakes his head uncertainly.

“Are you joking?”

“I never joke. This is deadly serious, Mr. Torp. I want you to be clear about that.”

Charlo feels a wave of resignation. He clutches the arms of his chair.

“There’s not much to say about that hour. I walked around looking at shop windows. My feet were frozen.”

“What did you see in those windows?”

Again Charlo shakes his head. “What a ridiculous question. And you wonder why you need a long time to solve a murder?”

“Can you name anything, Mr. Torp?”

“Name what I saw? In the shop windows? What’s the point of that?”

He folds his arms and sticks out his jaw.

“I need an outline of that hour. Those sixty minutes spent at Kongsberg. We can talk about the reason later. What did you see in the windows?”

Charlo wonders if he’s being serious. It certainly looks like it.

“Most of it was probably clothes and stuff. But to be honest...”

“Clothes. OK. I’m making a note. What else did you look at?”

“Well, there was some sports equipment. I can’t remember that well; I wasn’t paying much attention. I was just mooching around.”