Karin Fossum - The Murder of Harriet Krohn

“In the green house, number four.”

“No, I can’t remember that.”

“But you looked at the lovely listed buildings?”

“I admired them, but not in great detail.”

“Tell me where you went.”

“Well, I might have walked to the end of the street, and then possibly I turned and came back again.”

“Did you meet anyone?”

“Not a soul.”

“This is very important, Mr. Torp. What time was it when you took your stroll in Fredboesgate?”

He forgets to think and answers straight out.

“It must have been ten or thereabouts.”

“In other words, whatever you did in Fredboesgate took half an hour? Your car accident occurred at ten-thirty.”

“Well, it took half an hour then. To walk up and down the street.”

“You went up and down several times?”

“You’re making it sound as if I did. I can’t think properly anymore.”

“That’s because we’re going in circles. Perhaps we ought to get right to the heart of the case?”

“What case?”

“The murder of Harriet Krohn. That’s why you’re here. You do realize that?”

“Naturally. Unfortunately I was in the same area, and you people have got no one else to bring in. That’s why I’m here. But driving around the roads is no crime.”

“Of course not. Even so, I find it strange. Up and down Fredboesgate for half an hour. Desperate and depressed, in a wet parka?”

“Yes, I was at rock bottom.”

“You felt yourself to be of unsound mind?”

“No, I wouldn’t say that. That’s putting it too strongly.”

“Were you thinking about the solution? The one you needed so badly?”

“I suppose I was. But I found no solution. I went back to the car, drove away, and let all my despair rain down over the lad in the Toyota. That’s all there is to say about it. I’m sorry, you wanted something else, I’m sure. But that’s all you’re getting.”

Sejer checks his papers again.

“Some minutes ago you said that it was ten-thirty when you turned off toward Hamsund. Now you’ve changed your statement. You walked up Fredboesgate at ten o’clock. Any comment about that?”

“Not really. My brain’s a bit weary.”

There’s a silence. The dog gets up suddenly and whines, giving his master a doleful look.

“Let’s go outside for a minute, Mr. Torp, and stretch our legs. Frank needs to go anyway.”

The dog heads for a flower bed outside the courthouse. He rummages among ornamental shrubs and emerging perennials for a good spot. Then he crouches awkwardly and does his business. Sejer pulls a plastic bag from his pocket.

“What sort of age will he live to?” Charlo asks.

“Quite a considerable one, probably. For a dog at least. Frank is a Chinese fighting dog. A Shar Pei. I hope he’ll be with me a long time.”

He places the bag in a trashcan. Charlo breathes in the fresh air. He is grateful for the break. He’s regained control. It’s important to keep a check on oneself and not make a slip of the tongue. It’s like walking a tightrope.

“Are you a religious man, Mr. Torp?”

“Not really. But there’s some sort of God out there. He’s got his back turned, though.”

“I’m not religious either,” says Sejer. “But I’ve got a lot of time for Roman Catholic confession.”

Charlo rolls up his sleeves.

“Why so?” he asks and stops as the dog pauses. He’s sniffing at a candy wrapper.

“Confession is a type of discipline. You have to express things out loud; you have to find the words. So, at the end of your life, you’ll be glad you’re not full of unpleasant secrets. Because you’ve confessed them bit by bit.”

“You’re an investigator,” Charlo says. “I can see why you’d appreciate confessions.”

“Yes, but it isn’t just that I like them. I mean, at the time it can be hard to see how any good can come out of a confession. But in the long run. For the remainder of your life.”

“I’m unconvinced,” Charlo says. “I imagine a sin getting bigger when one shows it to others. It grows and brings with it a whole load of reproach.”

“In the short term, yes. But I’m talking about the rest of our lives,” says Sejer. “I’m thinking about how we’ve got to die sometime. How we’ll be lying there in a bed knowing that the end is near. To manage that, we must be able to let go of life. If we don’t confide, we have to take all our misery to the grave with us. I shouldn’t like to do that.”

Charlo thinks about what he’s said.

“We don’t take anything to the grave with us.”

“No. But we carry it with us during the process of dying. And the process must be hard enough without that. Don’t you think?”

Charlo reaches for his tobacco again. The dog vanishes into the shrubbery once more and begins digging enthusiastically with his puppy paws, making the earth fly out behind him.

“I prefer cats,” Charlo says.

“Why?”

“They don’t demand things of us like dogs do. Dogs are so intimate, so intense. They make their presence felt all the time. Panting. Begging. Cats are more on the periphery. They jump on your lap if they feel like it, and leave when they can’t be bothered anymore. They don’t impinge on your thoughts.”

“You don’t like that? Having your thoughts disturbed?”

“No, it makes me bad-tempered. I’m rather childish that way.”

“So the Toyota that crashed into you disturbed your thoughts?”

“Yes. I was concentrating deeply just then, on other things.”

“Tell me.”

“The day had been long and hard. At last I was going home. To my chair and my bed. In my mind I was already at home; I was longing to be there. So I wasn’t paying attention.”

He lights his cigarette and inhales.

“Because the evening had been an ordeal?”

“Yes. It was an ordeal. I felt as if I was clinging to the edge of a cliff with only a void beneath me. I couldn’t see any future, only darkness and despair.”

“Wasn’t there anyone you could phone?”

“No. I’ve only got Julie. And she has to be spared at all costs. She mustn’t get mixed up in my problems.”

“You think you can prevent that? They grow up, you know. And they understand a great deal.”

“Yes, yes. You’re right of course. And she certainly is a smart cookie. But I can’t bear the thought of her being worried about me. Children shouldn’t worry about adults.”

“But she isn’t a child. She’s almost seventeen. What do you think she’ll be doing now? She doesn’t know where you are. She’s sitting alone with her thoughts. Waiting. Looking at the clock. Her imagination running riot.”

“Well, I’ll explain to her. I’ll explain,” he says again, and takes a pull at his roll-up. Determination written on his face.

“So, you’ve got an explanation?”

“Of course.”

“Is it a good one?”

“I think so.”

Sejer heads for a bench. He lowers himself onto it and Charlo follows his example.

“Will I think it’s good?” Sejer’s eyes settle on him.

“I don’t know. Don’t think so.”

“Don’t underestimate me.”

“No. But you’ve never been in my shoes.”

“I’ve had plenty of problems of my own.”

They fall quiet and raise their faces to the sun.

“You don’t look like a harassed man,” Charlo says after the silence. “You’re doing well. A good job and a nice office. Responsibility. Authority. I’ve got none of those. I’ve never had them.”

“Did you want them?”

“Naturally. But I got completely sucked into gambling. It ruined things for me. For my family.”

“Yes, we become obsessed by things, affected by things. But there is always a choice.”