Karin Fossum - The Murder of Harriet Krohn

“I don’t know who they’re from,” he says, “but someone’s sent you flowers. I know I’m a bit late,” he adds, “but I had such a long run today and I got stuck back there with the van in all that slush.”

He rolls his eyes in exasperation.

Harriet still holds back. It’s as if something is nagging at the corner of her consciousness. Clearly she’ll have to accept them. There must be a card inside, an explanation. But if she’s to take the flowers, she’ll have to undo the chain. She does so, her fingers clumsy, opening the door a bit wider. The man remains standing politely at the top of the steps. He doesn’t advance but is defensive, almost romantic, Harriet thinks, standing there with his flowers in the sleet. Her shoulders relax. She smiles and looks covetously at the white package.

“Well, this is nice,” she manages to say. Again something is tugging at her, trying to hold her back. She looks searchingly at the man. His teeth in the smiling face are shining white in the lamplight. One of them is damaged, she notices, but in a strange way it suits him.

“It is, isn’t it,” he says, and pulls something out of his pocket. A piece of folded paper.

“I’ll have to trouble you for a signature,” he says. “You’ll have to sign for them.”

Signing for a package sounds perfectly reasonable to her. But there’s the sleet and it’s so wet on the doorstep. She takes the flowers, presses them to the front of her dress, and steps back into the hallway.

“We’d better go inside,” she says. “I can’t write without something to lean on. And I can’t write without my glasses, either.”

She’s quite flustered. She gives him a smile — it’s not exactly heartfelt, but she thinks a little friendliness won’t go amiss when he has to work in this dreadful weather, while others stay at home in the warmth. He returns her smile, and again Harriet has the sensation that something is nudging her. However, her anxiety is suppressed by what is taking place. She feels the weight of the flowers in her arms. It’s a large bouquet. She feels suddenly important. It’s high time, she muses. I’ve slaved all my life; I deserve a bit of attention. Could it be from one of the men over at the shopping center, where she and Mosse have dinner occasionally? Could it be someone who frequents the café? Is it some secret admirer, dreaming his dreams? Could this be happening at her age? Her thoughts cause her to pat her hair. She turns her back on him and goes into the kitchen, and Charlo follows her. His boots will leave wet marks on the lino, she thinks. I’ll have to mop up after him or I might slip and break my hip, and that mustn’t happen. I’ve enough problems as it is. Things have been bad for a long time, but now something delightful has happened. She feels excited in a new way. How quickly and unexpectedly her ears can begin to burn. She goes to fetch her glasses in the living room on the leaf of the desk.

“I’m sorry,” she says again, “but I’m afraid I can’t see a thing without my glasses.”

Charlo nods. He’s silent now and there’s a sudden seriousness in his face. A paralysis, as if everything is congealing within him. He looks around the kitchen with rapid, secretive glances, but Harriet can’t see them; she’s on her way to the living room. Charlo waits with his thudding heart. It feels as if he has several hearts and that each is trying to beat faster than the next. On the floor by the kitchen unit is a bowl. It’s as hot as hell in the kitchen; the heat courses through his cheeks. He knows what he has to do, but suddenly he feels bewildered. Harriet is shuffling across the floor. He pulls himself together, gets himself back on that track. It’s important to concentrate, to follow the plan he’s worked out. Harriet returns with her glasses. She’s wearing a plain green dress and her hair is unkempt. He doesn’t want to look at her too closely; he doesn’t want to remember her face. She may be old, but her eyes are sharp. He realizes that he’s inside now, and soon he must get to work. He goes out quickly into the hall. Harriet sees him disappear but doesn’t understand the significance of it. She hears a noise, a familiar click, and realizes that he’s locked the front door from the inside. She stares after him in disbelief, dumbstruck. She can feel the grain of wholemeal no longer; there’s the taste of blood in her mouth. He’s locked the door and now he’s returning. He looks at her with a sideways glance. He has such a hounded expression, she thinks, so strange. She sways slightly, leaning heavily on the kitchen table because she thinks she’s going to faint. Her head feels boiling hot and there’s a great rushing in her ears. Confused, she gazes down at the paper she’s supposed to sign. It’s blank. Harriet feels nauseated.

Suddenly she feels her meal repeating, the taste of pâté mixed with beetroot, and something else acidic. Her cheeks prickle as the color gradually leaves her face. Why doesn’t he say something? He’s just staring breathlessly at her. She opens her mouth to scream, but only a whimper emerges. Harriet is paralyzed. She won’t ask; she’ll pretend nothing has happened. She fumbles for the package of flowers. If she unpacks the flowers, time will pass and her hands will have something to do. She starts frantically tearing at the paper, feeling his eyes on her the whole time. If he’d just say something, explain. But he only stands there watching, like an unspoken threat. She needs something for the string and she keeps a pair of sharp scissors on a hook above the kitchen unit. It’s several paces from where she’s standing, but with a huge effort she pulls herself together and goes to the unit. It occurs to her that scissors are a weapon. But the idea of stabbing a living person with them is quite out of the question for her. She gets the scissors down and walks back to the table.

It’s November 7 and it’s snowing. It doesn’t matter. It’ll soon be over. She is thirsty and her tongue is dry as sandpaper in her mouth. She cuts the string and begins unwrapping the flowers. It’s a big, well-filled bouquet. She’s never seen anything like it, never been given anything like it. She’s lost control of her hands. They won’t do what she wants at all. Her arthritic fingers are like bent claws, the skin over her knuckles is smooth and shiny. These flowers, she thinks, mean nothing at all. He wants something from the house. I see that now. I opened the door because I was greedy, and this is my punishment. She begins to sway again. She can feel nothing at all from her waist down; her legs are like posts. She opens a cupboard and finds a vase. Fills it with water and puts the flowers into it, pushes the arrangement toward the wall. The light above the unit catches the blue anemones. She wants to say a prayer but can’t utter a word, and anyway she sees more clearly than ever that God doesn’t exist. No God, no other people, only the empty street outside and her terrified breathing. Only the silent man who’s behaving so oddly. She stands with her back to him and hears that he’s drawing out a chair, as if he wants to settle down in her kitchen. She half turns and sees that he’s sitting. He’s buried his face in his black gloves. He’s in despair about something and she doesn’t know what. She stands there in perplexity, her heart fluttering.

The bouquet, oddly beautiful, pink, blue, and white, fills the vase. It looks out of place on the shiny draining board, in her house with all its grays and browns. She crumples up the cellophane and fumbles with the paper. Folds it in half and in quarters, until it’s flat. As long as her hands have something to do, her heart will contract in ever-repeated spasms. This must be a dream. I’ll wake up soon. She puts it all in the garbage can in the cupboard under the unit. She doesn’t dare bang the door, because she wants to make herself invisible. This isn’t what I thought, she tells herself. He’s a deeply disturbed man, and soon he’ll explain. But he explains nothing. He gets up suddenly and composes himself, looking at her with tear-filled eyes, and Harriet thinks, he’ll go now. Go now!