Karin Fossum - The Murder of Harriet Krohn

But he doesn’t go. He opens his parka and begins to fumble around underneath it. His hand comes out holding a revolver.

She doesn’t understand about the revolver. Parts of her consciousness are no longer working. Everything turns black at the sight of the weapon, so she turns away and collapses over the counter, letting go of everything, wet and warm down her thighs.

“Where’s your silver? Jewelry? Cash? Quick!”

His voice barely holds. He feels like some farcical amateur and curses his cracking voice. He’s squeaking like a mouse, as he waves his revolver angrily. Harriet shakes her head distractedly. She doesn’t want to part with anything; she doesn’t want to move.

“Money,” he says again. “Have you got any money?”

She makes no answer. She’s standing with her back to him, pretending that none of this is happening. Charlo goes into the living room. There’s a large dark sideboard along the wall, and he opens the drawers. They’re full of silverware. He puts down his gun and begins to root around in the drawers. Harriet has turned now and can see him rummaging through her things, her family heirlooms. She can’t bear it. Something starts smoldering deep within her: a prodigious feeling of injustice, because it’s her silver. She’s fond of it and it’s worth a lot of money. Rage replaces fear. She follows him into the room and tugs at his shoulders, screaming hoarsely, her fury giving her unguessed-at strength. Charlo is thoroughly distracted. It’s so quiet outside that people may hear. He hates being disturbed and this old woman is completely deranged. He pushes her away, but she doesn’t stop. She charges at him again, her face blotched with red. Charlo loses all reason. He’s got to stop this screaming. He can’t do anything or think clearly while she’s standing there shrieking like this. He grabs his revolver by the barrel and lifts it like a hammer. Just one smack in the face and she’ll huddle into a corner and shut up. So that he can get on with what he’s come for. Harriet sees the raised arm and shuffles out to the kitchen, back to the counter, still screeching — a long drawn-out wail of lament. He runs after her and hits her hard with the stock. The first blow finds a neck vertebra and it breaks with a dry click. He thinks, Julie! Help me! Harriet sinks to the floor. Horrified, he sees that her body is jerking in appalling, cramp-like spasms. He can’t bear her being like this, so he strikes again as hard as he can, striking her head repeatedly. Suddenly a stream of blood wells up from her skull. He backs away in horror, gasping for air, looking at the thing lying on the floor. He thinks she’s still moaning and there are still spasms in her legs, so he lashes out again with even more force.

Then, suddenly, weakness comes over him. The hand clutching the weapon is lowered. He wipes his forehead and gazes at the bloody butt. He gives his head a hard shake so that he can think. Because he knows that he must think now; he can’t just let himself go. Deep down he realized this would happen. People don’t part with their things without a struggle. She might be as greedy as him, mightn’t she? He turns his back to the object on the floor, puts the weapon on the counter, and feels in the pocket of his parka. He pulls out a cotton bag with a string closure. It’s Julie’s old gym bag that Inga Lill made. He returns to the sideboard in the living room. Now that all is quiet he works quickly and efficiently. He places knives and forks and spoons in the bag. There’s a lot of silver of considerable value. He opens a cupboard next to the sideboard and pulls out the contents, searching for money. When the sideboard is empty, he turns and looks around the living room. He notices the letter that’s been started lying on the leaf of the desk, notices the little bowl of candy. For reasons he doesn’t understand, he goes over to it and peers at the assortment. Automatically, he picks one he likes — the brown one with caramel and licorice — and pops it into his mouth.

Then he goes into the kitchen. He doesn’t look in Harriet’s direction; she’s just something dark in the corner of his eye. He’s searching for a door that might open into a bedroom. It’s at the back of the kitchen, hardly bigger than a storage area. On the bedside table is a jewelry case. He digs into it with his gloved hand and puts the contents into his bag: brooches, rings, a bracelet, and a string of pearls. And a large, heavy pocket watch that’s certainly gold. He tears open the drawer of the bedside table; it’s full of tablets, coins, and hair clips. He opens a wardrobe and yanks out the clothing. He has a hunch that this is where she hides her money. That she likes having it close by when she’s asleep. He finds a pink washing bag and opens the zipper. Pleasure floods through him, for there it is. A staggeringly fat wad of money. He stuffs it into the pocket of his parka, feeling tremendously elated.

He re-enters the kitchen. Harriet is lying like a slaughtered animal on the floor. She is so thin and her body is strangely twisted. He sees her gold bracelet but can’t bear touching her. He’s glad he can’t see her face because right now his life is hideous: all that’s been before, and what he’s done now. He is repulsive. His tongue feels the missing corner of his front tooth as a nasty, sharp edge. He shoves the revolver under his parka and takes a few paces to the side. Then he puts his foot in the wrong place. The heel of his boot goes into the puddle of blood and he slips. He flails wildly, trying to keep his balance. He stands for a few moments to allow his heart to calm down. Now he must go out among people again, so it’s important to be self-possessed. Relaxed, assured, and purposeful. He walks into the hallway, turns the lock, holds the door ajar, and stands listening. A shadow streaks across the floor, something black and noiseless. He starts. She’s got a cat, he realizes. It’s been waiting outside, and now it wants to come in to the warmth and light. He goes back in again to see what it will do. The cat stops and looks at the ruined body. It gives several long mews. Then it goes straight to its bowl to drink. He stands nonplussed, watching the cat. It raises its head and looks at him with half-closed yellow eyes. How extraordinary, he thinks, that the cat is behaving as normal. He leaves the kitchen again, and the cat follows. He can’t understand it. It sits on the steps watching him. He pulls the front door closed and goes down the steps, the cat keeping pace with him like a shadow. He begins to walk toward the gate. There’ll be no one around now, he thinks. I won’t meet a soul, and if I do, all they’ll see is a silhouette in the snowy night. The cat follows him for a few meters, and then it stops. Quickly he steps out onto the road.

He looks over his shoulder constantly as he wades through the slush. But he doesn’t see anyone. Not a single person is out in Fredboesgate this evening. He sees television screens flickering blue in living rooms and silhouettes behind curtains. Everyone is minding their own business. He reaches the hotel and makes his way around to the courtyard. He brushes the mushy snow off his car’s windshield. There are so many footprints everywhere. Surely it wasn’t like this when he arrived?

He gets into the car. Throws the bag with the silverware on the seat and drops the bloody revolver on the floor. His right arm is weak and he’s pulled his shoulder. He rubs the tender spot and pants, knowing that he must get away from Hamsund. But he sits there just the same. His heart is laboring, but he can’t get it to slow down. It’s pumping away at a terrific rate and he feels the heat rising to his head. He tries to breathe freely. Lays his head back, opens his mouth wide. Air down into my lungs, he thinks, air around my entire body. If he can only get out of Hamsund, if he can just get home, everything will be fine. My own home, he thinks despairingly. My own chair, my bed. The cool pillow against my face. The things that are mine, just as before. Can he do it? Can he manage to live with this? How could she carry on like that. She could have let him work away in peace and saved her own skin, couldn’t she? Deep down he knows that this is where he was headed. He’s known it all the time. It’s lain there like a blot on his consciousness.