Karin Fossum: The Murder of Harriet Krohn

“You people will have to work out the blood thing. It’s not my job to explain it.”

“What will explain it is the weapon you used. Tell me now; don’t waste time. You’ve got a daughter who’s waiting to hear from you, and we all need to get on with our lives.”

Charlo takes a drink of Farris.

“I can’t see how it matters. She’s dead, tragically. Everything else is just detail, and it won’t bring her back to life again.”

“Think again. You’ll have to defend yourself, and then everything will have to be right. If you stand up in court and lie, the jury will use it against you.”

“But, for Christ’s sake...”

“For his sake, certainly, but most of all for your own. What did you hit her with?”

Charlo squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again. Oh, God. He’d better go the last mile as well. He needs rest; he needs sleep. He needs to come to himself again.

“The butt of a revolver.”

Sejer lets out a contented sigh.

“Well, that’s out in the open. What kind of revolver was it?”

“An old Husqvarna from the war. It belonged to my father. And for the record, it wasn’t loaded. I didn’t want to hurt anyone — only scare them.”

“Instead you used it as a club?”

“Yes, she was so determined. God, I didn’t know what to do. I hit her once on the head. The thing about the kitchen unit wasn’t true. But I didn’t want to look like a cold-blooded murderer, because I’m not. But you’re pushing me so hard. I can’t take any more. We’ve got to end now. I’ve made a clean breast of everything.”

“How many times did you hit her?”

“Only once. Or, well, it might have been twice.”

“Mr. Torp, I repeat: she had thirteen skull fractures.”

“That can’t be right. That’s not the way I remember it.”

“Her skull was smashed. And some of her blood spattered onto your parka.”

Charlo hangs his head. “How did you track me down?” he asks suddenly. “After all this time. I can’t understand it.”

“Straightforward, methodical investigation. Time-consuming work. Countless conversations with lots of people about every minute observation. I’m not giving you more detail than that. But I want to ask you this. Why did you choose Harriet Krohn?”

“Pure chance, really. I sometimes used the same café that she went to with a friend. It’s popular with the elderly. I noticed her at once. She was so plainly dressed, a person who spent little money on herself. Who just saved and saved over the years. She was also very frail, and she wore a thick gold bracelet on her wrist. It was a kind of promise that she was prosperous. I followed her to the green house and saw that she lived alone.”

“So you planned this over time?”

“Not really. I simply felt impelled.”

“Are you ready to make a full statement?”

“Do we have to go through it all over again? I don’t know if I can.”

“I know it’s been an effort, Mr. Torp. The more frank and precise you are, the sooner we’ll be finished. Afterward you can rest.”

“Whatever you do, don’t take the horse away from Julie! I don’t think she’d get over it.”

“You should have thought of that before.”

“But she lives for that horse! And surely she shouldn’t be allowed to suffer for what I’ve done?”

“Did you pay for it with Harriet Krohn’s money?”

“Yes. I sold the silver.”

“To whom?”

“No, I don’t want to get anyone into trouble.”

“As things stand, I think you ought to concentrate on yourself and your own situation. And excuse my curiosity, but before we start from the beginning again, there’s one small detail that’s nagging me.”

“Yes?”

“How did you damage that front tooth of yours?”

Charlo puts a hand up to his mouth. Thinks back.

“It happened about five years ago. At the pub. I’d had a bit too much to drink and was paying a visit to the restroom. On the way out, I tripped and my mouth hit the edge of the washbasin. I tripped,” he repeats, and suddenly something dawns on him. He’s always blamed the drink. Perhaps, in reality, his legs gave way under him. Even then. He falls silent.

“What are you thinking about, Mr. Torp?”

“That I should have had it fixed, but I didn’t have the money. It doesn’t look very nice, does it?”

“Not at all,” Sejer says, smiling. “It’s one of those charming little details that people notice and remember.”

He spends four weeks on remand.

Then an additional four weeks, and he isn’t allowed any letters or visitors. He passes much of his time dozing on the narrow bunk beneath the window. He glides away and forgets everything, until he’s rudely awoken by keys jangling in the lock. The days are uniform; they blend into one another uneventfully. He often sits by the window staring out. Not much happens out there. A woman on a bicycle is a real treat. He notes all the details: the bike’s shiny paint; the flapping skirt; the glimpses of naked, golden calves. A couple of youngsters messing around with a skateboard. Little things. The cloud formations and the trees moving in the wind, their great crowns swaying. A flock of birds crossing the sky.

He likes the food and he eats well. In the evenings, he’s allowed to go into the yard for a smoke. He tells them about his illness and informs them in subdued tones of his possible fate in a few years’ time. They listen and nod, but they don’t show him the sympathy he’d hoped for. So far he’s been able to manage, but at times he finds himself waiting for the big deterioration. The disease is like a dormant volcano. Frequently he lies on his bunk sensing his body. Nothing that happens in it escapes him or his questioning anxiety. A stitch in his side, a sensation in his leg. It’s all analyzed.

At last he’s allowed visitors. He lets Julie know and settles down to wait. He walks in a tight circle in his cell to get his body warm. There’s so much he wants to say. She has the right to an explanation. He knows he’s got the words. He’s been through everything so often in his thoughts, and more recently with his lawyer. He knows that he can explain his panic. When she attacked him from behind and began screaming. He looks at the time. He glances out of the window. Straightens the blanket on the bunk slightly, nervously adjusts his shirt collar. Julie is so wise, so sensible. He believes it will be all right. He runs his hand through his hair and looks at the time again and waits. His ears are tuned to the noises in the corridor. He listens for sounds of footsteps and keys. Soon they’ll stand in the door saying, you’ve got a visitor, Torp. It only takes five minutes to walk up from Oscarsgate to the courthouse; she’ll be on time for sure. No doubt she’ll be pleased to see him. He does another round of the floor. He prepares himself and feels that he’s in control. He ends up standing by the window. The traffic outside is intermittent. The odd car, the occasional woman with a baby carriage. The weather is warm and sunny. It doesn’t occur to him that he’ll spend years within these four walls. It’s incomprehensible to him. It doesn’t occur to him that he’ll do time: after all, he’s ill. And so he’s buoyant and lighthearted, and only focused on Julie, who’ll soon be here.

He’s quite certain she’ll be here.

The town is in constant flux and resembles a building site with its heavy plant and cranes. People, both good and bad, walk around its streets. The strong and the weak. Those who’ve never been tested. Those who live in blissful ignorance of what really lurks within them, in the dark corners of their minds. The ordinary people live on the east side, the wealthy on the west. The higher up the hillside you go, the larger and more expensive are the dwellings. At the foot of the hill stands the courthouse. A gently curving, dirty gray building of iron and glass and concrete. The county jail is on the fifth floor. The low sun strikes a window, throwing a rectangle of sunlight on the green floor. The cell measures eight square meters and contains a desk and a bunk. A man lies on the bunk. He lies quite still with his hands cupped behind his head, flexing his toes inside his socks. Time flows through him, just as the river outside flows past, even and inexorable. He lies waiting for his lunch and feels his stomach rumbling. He decides to write a letter. Writing is pleasant and he can use it to fill the remaining hour. He gets up and goes over to the desk. He pulls out the chair and opens a lined pad of paper. He takes a deep breath and puts pen to paper. He writes: