The Murder of Harriet Krohn (13 page)

“Well,” he says, drawing out his answer, “I’ve run this place for years without much help. So not a job as such.” He pauses. “I’m not quite sure. Not a full-time job, at any rate.”

“But part-time, perhaps?” Charlo says. He smiles, wanting to maintain an easy tone.

“Well, I do sometimes feel I need a handyman,” Møller admits, “and there’s a lot of mucking out with twenty horses. There’s jobs in the ring, repairs, and such. Are you good with your hands?”

Charlo nods energetically.

“I’ve got a trucker’s license,” he adds. “If that’s any good. I’m looking for work and have been for some time. Time hangs heavy, you know.” Møller nods and understands. He pushes the contract over to Charlo.

“We may be able to come up with something,” he says. “Let me think it over. If you don’t mind starting with small stuff, at least to begin with. Here, you need to fill the rest out. The horse’s new owner and your signature.” Charlo picks up the pen and signs. On the dotted line marked “owner” he writes: Julie Torp.

He’s seated in his chair with a beer, looking at the contract. It’s on the table in front of him, a golden piece of paper. When he picks it up and reads it, his hands shake. He can hardly believe it, that he’ll be making amends at last. As he drinks, he dreams of beautiful images of Julie on the horse. But there’s also a knot of uncertainty inside him. He’s afraid she may slam the door in his face and turn him away before he’s had the chance to speak. The cost was high, but everything has a price. And sometimes you have to pay with blood.

He thinks about his heart. He can still see the notch in it, but now it’s covered in gray scar tissue. Everyone bears scars, he thinks, both inside and out. He settles back in his chair. He doesn’t want either the radio or television on because now he can take the silence. It spreads through the room and puts him at his ease. But it’s still fragile. He concentrates on sitting perfectly quietly, breathing deeply and rhythmically. Again he sees Julie; his thoughts have traveled back. She’s placing one foot in the stirrup and swinging herself up onto Mephisto. He holds her jacket, because she always gets so hot. Her riding teacher comes across to him, holding something out.

“The last four lessons haven’t been paid,” she says, handing him the invoice. He claps his hand to his forehead, saying, “Christ, I must have forgotten.” Julie keeps her eye on him. She sees what’s happening and drives the horse away, disappears. He takes out his wallet, which is empty. It’s the shame he remembers most of all, because this happens time and time again. Because money flows from his wallet and into slot machines in a constant stream. It’s as if he’s hemorrhaging money. Charlo shuts the images out. He wants to see something different, something nice.

But what comes to his mind is Inga Lill’s funeral. The organ, the whispering voices, and Julie squeezing his hand so hard that he thinks she’ll crush it. How are we going to manage now? he thinks, because Inga Lill has always been the corrective influence in his life. Now that she’s gone, it’s as if he’s lifting off and losing his last contact with the ground.

He returns from his daydream and looks around the room. He’s back on track now. He’s got himself some work, and he’ll really slog at it. He’ll put every ounce of effort into the years he’s got left. He will serve his time. In his own way. He stares out into the street. Some cars are parked along the pavement, and he studies them carefully. He’s got it into his head that the gray Volvo is after him. He can’t see the Volvo at the moment, and all the cars are empty. I’ll be forever looking over my shoulder, he thinks, unless the case is time-barred. That might not be for decades; perhaps I won’t even live that long. But it would be nice to experience that day. He supposes that time-barring is almost the same as forgiveness. OK, what you did that night at Hamsund was terrible, but we won’t bother you anymore. There are other important cases pending. That’s how he imagines it will be. He looks at his watch and wonders if Julie has gone to bed. Maybe she’s lying there with a book, turning the pages, unaware of all the things that are about to happen.

THE NEXT DAY
he counts the hours and minutes and seconds.

It’s eleven o’clock, the long break, and Julie will be eating her packed lunch. She thinks it’s just an ordinary day with math and English and gym. She doesn’t know that I’ve finally done something for her, for us. She doesn’t know what I went through for her, and for our future. He paces from room to room, waiting, chain-smoking, nervous and jittery. Outside the sunshine is hazy, and when at last he goes to his car, he treads on frozen leaves. They crunch loudly in the silence. Everything is so bright and sharp and cold. He’s becoming reacquainted with himself. After feeling like a stranger in front of the mirror for so long, he feels more relaxed. It’s taken time, but time has come to his aid in the form of the rising hope that perhaps he’ll get away with it. Some people do escape.

He thinks about this as he drives to Julie’s. He feels like some lovesick teenager going to ask a girl out. She lives in a house in Oscarsgate, where a number of students have apartments. They share a kitchen and bathroom, and Julie has a scholarship so that she can pay her own way. He parks by the sidewalk and stays in the car for a moment. He gazes up at her window. Does he dare go in? Julie is so strong, so emphatic. So bitter about everything that’s happened. He gets out of the car and locks it. Counts the stairs going up. He hears the sound of music playing softly behind her door, but no voices. He stands there with his arms dangling, stands there with his sore heart, dressed in old corduroy pants and a thick checkered shirt. At last he gives his right hand the command to knock on the door. Immediately the music becomes fainter. There she is in the doorway. Her green eyes darken with surprise. Then they narrow, and she turns quickly away from him. She doesn’t shut the door, but stands there silently, her shoulders tense.

“Julie,” he asks, “can I come in? I’ve got something important to show you.”

How thin she is, he thinks as he says it. It’s good Inga Lill can’t see her.

There’s no sign of curiosity in her posture. He can’t see her face; he’s looking at the back of her red head.

“Something important,” he says again, and takes a step forward. Opens his arms clumsily. Simultaneously he’s overwhelmed. It’s been a long time since she was so close. He could reach out and touch her. He doesn’t, though. He stands there and waits.

“Well, then?” she says at last.

Her voice is curt. Charlo holds his breath. He knows that he’ll have to humble himself. He’s prepared for her to sling bitter recriminations in his face. She begins to walk across the room, so he follows her hesitantly. He catches sight of a bed, a desk, and a television set. Pictures on the wall: Snowball and Mephisto, and several of Johnny Depp. A floor lamp with a pink shade that casts a warm, romantic light. Various items of clothing litter the floor. She begins picking them up, almost mechanically, her expression hard. He stands in the middle of the room studying her, looking at her surly back. Her jaw is working angrily. Despite this, he feels the bond between them. It’s still there, and that’s why her cheek is twitching. He wants to ask if he can sit down, but doesn’t know where to begin. But he imagines how, when he’s explained his errand, her eyes will quickly light up as they used to, as he remembers them, green and twinkling.

“It’s been a long time since we saw each other,” he says to her back.

She continues her aimless tidying, moving things and keeping her hands busy. He feels a bit desperate and crosses to her bed and sits down. He’s on her home ground now; he has to tread warily. But he feels strong, too. He’s come with good intentions. He’s come to make it up to her, for his betrayal.

She goes to the desk and takes a seat, watching him. Then she covers her face with her hands. It’s deathly still in the room. Charlo can’t say anything. She is the one who’s initiated the silence and how long it should last. He sits and lets himself be tortured as he awaits the signal, a word, a look. So that he can move on. But there is no signal. He realizes that he’s an adult. He gathers up his courage and speaks.

“You haven’t wanted to see me. And I’ve respected that. I’ve had nothing to offer you, only a miserable life.”

She remains silent.

“But now it’s all different,” he says, looking at her intently. “I’ve got a new life. I’ve stopped gambling at last.”

She takes her hands away from her face and looks at him.

“You said that before.”

Her voice is flat. But then, suddenly: “What have you done to your chin?”

He places a finger on the scratch and gives a shrug of embarrassment.

“Oh,” he says lightly, “that was just an accident. It’s only a cut.”

She rises and takes a few steps, coming closer. Her gaze is so direct that it burns.

“What do you want here?”

He attempts a smile; he’s eager and wants to explain.

“Have you been drinking?” she asks. “Is that how you got the graze?”

He shakes his head emphatically.

“Don’t worry about me,” he says, looking at her. He feels his heart swell, for she’s beautiful standing there, with her green eyes.

“I don’t go out drinking. I’ve finished with that sort of thing.”

She doesn’t believe him. She gives him a sidelong glance, her eyes still narrow.

“Julie,” he says, “tell me how things are going. Are you getting on well at school?”

She stares out of the window at the town’s roofs. Her jaw is jutting out, which he’s seen it do so many times before. So much wells up inside him. Her mouth, which she’s inherited from Inga Lill, is wide and generous. Her narrow shoulders, her long neck. That she is his, that they should be together.

“Have you come here after all that’s happened to ask that? About how things are going at school?”

He tenses up inside. He doesn’t like the tone of her voice.

“You must forgive my clumsiness,” he says, “I’m not a clever man. But I have actually come about something. I haven’t arrived empty-handed.”

Involuntarily her eyes move to his hands.

“Yes, everything’s fine. I’m thinking of going to veterinary college.”

Her voice is at once defiant and proud. Charlo’s cheeks get all hot. My daughter, the vet, he thinks. I’m blessed with this beautiful, sensible girl, who’ll maybe take me back. She must take me back!

“But,” he says, feeling his secret aching come out, “what do you do in your spare time? Have you got time for anything besides homework?”

She pouts at him and stands picking at her nails, which are short and unpainted.

“Yes,” she says at last, grudgingly. “I read a bit. Go to the cinema now and again with friends, a whole load of us.”

He leans forward, wanting to catch her, wanting to see her pupils dilate and turn black when he tells everything.

“You’ve got some spare time then?”

She doesn’t understand what he’s driving at. She sizes him up and turns defensive.

“Yes,” she says tentatively, “I suppose so.”

The voice is less unwilling now, but it isn’t soft like it used to be when she was happy and completely relaxed with him.

“What about stamina?” he asks. “Have you got plenty of that, too?”

She can’t follow his drift, but she is listening now, with her mouth half open.

“You’ve become so thin,” he says. “There was much more of you before.”

She looks down at herself.

“That’s because I don’t ride anymore,” she replies.

“But those muscles will come back quickly enough if you start again, won’t they?” He rummages in his jacket pocket, quivering with excitement. Feels the photograph between his fingers. “Because this chap’s strong,” he says, holding out the picture.

For a moment, she stands there transfixed, staring. Then she moves right up to him. She takes the picture, examines it, and shakes her head. Unable to understand what he means or what he’s telling her.

“Who’s that girl?” she asks, looking at Møller’s daughter.

“That’s the previous owner,” he says, “but now the horse has been sold. It was sold yesterday, in fact. After a thorough veterinary examination.” He gets ready to drop his bombshell. “And the new owner is someone I know, too. Her name is Julie Torp.”

She stares at the photo again, unable to take it in. Her face is still deadpan.

“You’re kidding me,” she says weakly. But he notices her eyes begin to shine. Even so, she holds back. She knows him too well.

“I’m not kidding you,” Charlo says, turning his palms up to show that they’re clean. Then he remembers that they definitely aren’t clean and lets them fall again. “But I quite understand that you need some proof,” he says, and reaches into his inside pocket. He takes out the contract of purchase and holds it out. She takes the document and reads it, wide-eyed. Reads it several times and looks at the picture again. Stands there with these two things. Her voice is needle-thin.

“Call Me Crazy? You’ve really bought him?”

Charlo laughs: “Yes, I’ve really bought him. The money’s been handed over. He’s stabled at Møller’s Riding Center. A Holstein,” he says. “Six hundred kilos. You’ll have quite a job on your hands, I promise you.”

She drops onto the chair by the desk and leans across its top. She caresses the photo between her fingers and shakes her head once more. She remains like this for a long time. Even now she won’t show her pleasure. She doesn’t dare; she has doubts.

“But how did you manage it?” she asks, staring at him in disbelief.

Charlo sits up and prepares, and then delivers the carefully constructed and highly plausible account he’s concocted.

“The thing is that your grandmother had a lot of family silver,” he says. “She gave it to me as an advance on her estate. You know how old people begin tidying things up at the end of their lives. And, of course, she wasn’t getting any pleasure from it in the nursing home. Oh, I know I should have saved it for you and for future generations. But your life is now, and I wanted so much to make amends. So I got a good price for it. I’ve paid off my debts, and I’ve put all that nonsense behind me now. I’ve got work, too, a little job at the stables.”