Karin Fossum: The Murder of Harriet Krohn

Charlo lights his cigarette and inhales greedily.

“Christ, you’re fond of repetition. I walked around looking at shop windows. I looked at underwear and shoes and furniture. I looked at people. I looked at advertisement billboards, at women, and at cars. I looked at the boats on the river. I looked at one of your cars, out on patrol.”

“For two hours?”

“Yes. And then I went on the jetty.”

“What did you do on the jetty?”

Charlo looks at him across the desk.

“I thought about jumping in.”

“Jumping into the river? Drowning yourself?”

“Yes. That’s it. The truth is what you want, isn’t it? That’s the truth.”

“So you weren’t just out of sorts. You were practically suicidal?”

“You could say that.”

“So on the evening of the seventh of November, you didn’t just feel a bit down. You were mentally unstable?”

“If that’s the way you want it, it’s fine by me. Unstable. That’s right. It was like being put through a wringer.”

Charlo draws the ashtray toward him and taps the ash off his cigarette. He drains half his glass of Farris and dries his mouth.

“Hardly surprising you got so worked up about the collision,” says Sejer.

“Yes, I went completely berserk. I was wound up to the breaking point. There’s a limit to what you can put up with in one evening.”

“That young man, was he frightened?”

“He sat there shaking like a leaf. His face was as white as chalk. I regret behaving so badly.”

“Back to that long stroll of yours. Did you go in anywhere?”

“No.”

“With all that bad weather, you didn’t succumb to the temptation of going into a shop and warming yourself up?”

“No, I stayed outdoors.”

“Were you wet?”

“I think we can safely say I was pretty damp. My boots were letting in water.”

“Even so, despite all this, you drove to Kongsberg and continued to wander the streets there? While the sleet fell on you?”

“Yes, strangely enough.”

“So you think it was strange?”

“When I think back on it now or, rather, when I have to explain it, it does sound rather pathetic.”

“Did you feel pathetic?”

“That too. I think I can safely say I went through most emotions that evening. The entire gamut.”

“So, even though you weren’t especially concerned about what you could see in the shop windows, your thoughts were in high gear?”

“They were. My head was about to burst, searching for a solution.”

“A solution to your financial problems?”

“Yes. I considered robbing a bank.”

At this, he sends Sejer a challenging look.

“And why didn’t you turn this idea into action?”

“I’m not a criminal,” he says curtly, and fixes his eyes on the detective.

“What are your thoughts on this Hamsund murder we’re investigating?”

Charlo places his hands on the desk, clasps them, and twiddles his thumbs.

“I haven’t given it all that much consideration. But it’s made an impression, naturally. She was elderly, lonely, and ill. Not that age makes any difference. Murder is still murder. I mean, legally. But for some reason people get so worked up when it’s an old person. Well, in a way they’re more vulnerable than someone younger. That’s probably why we think it’s so bad. But nobody knows what really happened in that kitchen.”

Sejer glances up at him.

“So it took place in the kitchen, Mr. Torp?”

Charlo catches his breath.

“That was what it said in the papers. She was found there — everyone knows that.”

“Sorry to disappoint you. That detail has never been in the newspapers.”

“Then it was on the radio. I know I’ve heard it!”

Sejer doesn’t reply. For a long time, he makes notes, and Charlo starts sweating at his hairline. He can’t afford mistakes like that. Think, a voice inside him says. Think before you answer!

“What did you mean when you said ‘what really happened’?”

“The details. The lead-up. What caused her to die.”

“That’s why we’re searching for the culprit. And if we don’t find him, he won’t be able to explain or defend himself.”

“Quite so,” says Charlo. “The question is whether he thinks it’s worth the trouble. There’s always a chance that he won’t be believed. Won’t be understood. If you know what I mean.”

“You haven’t got a very high opinion of our legal system, have you?”

“No, not really.”

“But your record is clean. You’ve never been in contact with the police before.”

“No, but I read the papers. And if the perpetrator really believed that a confession would be in his best interests, he’d turn up, naturally.”

“What about you?” Sejer says. “Do you think a confession would benefit the culprit in any way?”

“That depends on how he’s placed. What sort of man he is. If he’s got family or others around him who are important to him, he’ll get separated from them. For a long time.”

“Most people who’re in prison get visits. Mail and email. Telephone calls.”

“Well, that sounds nice.”

“No, not nice, but reasonable.”

Just as he relaxes, he feels the proximity of disease in his body. It seems instantly paralyzing. He attempts to concentrate on the murder, which he did commit, but not with intent or premeditation or malice. He finds it hard to believe that he’s still sitting there, that he hasn’t run out in frustration. He’s caught up in this conversation, this duel. He rolls himself another cigarette and drinks some Farris. Opens a button on his shirt. The dog is sleeping by the wall.

“What about you, Mr. Torp? Did you grow up here?”

“Yes, I was born over on the east side of town. Never lived anywhere else. I grew up close to the Methodist church. We used to muck around down by the river. I know this town like the back of my hand. A lovely town — a bit of a mess, perhaps. Unplanned. But you have to put up with that. Have you ever stood by the railway line at night and looked across to the brewery? All those bridge spans and glittering lights. It’s fantastic.”

Sejer nods. Charlo glances at the pictures on his wall.

“Is that your beautiful young wife?”

Sejer follows his gaze. “That’s my daughter, Ingrid. And my grandson, Matteus.”

“He’s black. Adopted?”

“From Somalia.”

Charlo scrutinizes the photos.

“The civil war, eh?”

“Yes, there are lots of orphans there. What about you. You’ve got a daughter.”

“She’ll be seventeen soon. A clever young woman. She keeps me on the straight and narrow.”

“You need that? You need someone to keep you on the straight and narrow?”

Charlo nods wearily. “I was a gambling addict in the past. She’s frightened I’ll revert to my old ways. She hasn’t had an easy time. I brought a great deal of shame on my family.”

“But it’s not going to happen again?”

“No, that I’m certain of. I feel deep down that it’s over.”

“A lottery win and, hey presto, you’re no longer hooked on gambling?”

“I’d long decided to kick the habit. It was no good anymore; I was a nervous wreck. There were rumors that someone would be coming to get me. I couldn’t sleep at night, and it was totally impossible to relax. Life was hell, to be brutally honest.”

Charlo coaxes the dog. He walks over to him and sits down by his chair.

“How long have I got to sit here? Time’s getting on. Julie’s waiting.”

“We don’t need to hurry, Mr. Torp. We’ll take whatever time we need. It’s not in my interests to keep you sitting here feeling nervous or mistreated.”

Charlo lets go of Frank. The dog sits there a little despondently and looks at him. Then he returns to his place by the wall.