The Murder of Harriet Krohn Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  About the Author

  First U.S. edition

  Copyright © 2004 by Cappelen Damm AS

  English translation copyright © 2014 by James Anderson

  All rights reserved

  First published with the title Drapet på Harriet Krohn in 2004

  by Cappelen Damm AS, Oslo

  First published in Great Britain in 2014 by Harvill Secker

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  www.hmhco.com

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Fossum, Karin, date.

  [Drapet på Harriet Krohn. English]

  The murder of Harriet Krohn / Karin Fossum.—First U.S. ed.

  pages cm

  “First published with the title Drapet på Harriet Krohn in 2004 by Cappelen Damm AS, Oslo”—Title pages verso.

  ISBN 978-0-544-27339-9 (hardback)

  1. Sejer, Konrad (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Robbery—Fiction. 3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. 4. Fathers and daughters—Fiction. 5. Police—Norway—Fiction. 6. Norway—Fiction. I. Anderson, James (Translator) II. Title.

  PT8951.16.O735D7313 2014

  839.823'74—dc23 2014011693

  eISBN 978-0-544-27276-7

  v1.1114

  Dearest Julie,

  Do you read my letters? I hope so, but I don’t make any demands. I stay in the background. I’ve nothing to offer you and I know why you feel bitter. But I’m writing anyway—I am your father, after all. Writing has become a consolation. I find it soothing. You know how things stand, how I’m placed. Everyone’s after me because I’m in debt, and I feel like a hunted deer. I’ve no real friends anymore, only lukewarm acquaintances. Do you remember Bjørnar Lind? He was my best friend. We’d known each other since we were boys, and now he won’t have anything to do with me. I owe him two hundred thousand kroner, and I don’t know where I’m going to find that sort of money. I’m worried he’ll put people on to me, worried about what they’ll do if I can’t pay. There are rumors that he’s hiring someone to come after me. And you know what they do to people? They cut off their fingers with pruning shears. I feel ill just thinking about it. Daily life is difficult. The dole isn’t enough for necessities—it’s impossible to keep up with bills and repayments.

  If only there was light at the end of the tunnel! It’s my fault all this has happened, and you mustn’t worry about it. Just look after yourself and be happy. Be young and fit and hopeful! But I am trying to deal with things in my own pathetic way. I have some initiative left even though I’m down on my knees. I’ve got plans. Dreams. I’m racking my brain frantically to find a solution. It spins and sifts and searches in all directions. When did we last see each other? It was on May 27, do you remember? We argued. I was simply trying to describe how compulsive gambling is. The thrill of it, the addiction. You slammed the car door behind you, and I thought, I’ll never see her again. No more chances for me. I drove home to Blomsgate with the feeling that I’d failed at everything. There must be a way out! Is it just that I can’t find it? I stare into the future until I can’t see anything anymore. I pace to and fro in the house. I chew my lips until they bleed. I often think of your mother with sadness and regret. All the things she had to put up with as a result of my obsession. It was so much easier then, as she took care of us and organized everything. She was a kind of corrective influence. I can’t grasp that she’s gone. Once a week I visit her grave. It’s so sad. Often I just want to fall to the ground, dig right down, lift off the lid, and take her back. Yesterday I bought a plant and placed it in front of her gravestone—an erica, the one with the mass of reddish-mauve flowers that can deal with almost any conditions, a bit like heather. I tend her grave, you know. I trim and weed and water. Sometimes I look for signs, to see if, perhaps, you’ve been hanging around there. Have you? Do you stand there crying all alone? I like the idea of acknowledging that death comes to everyone. Perhaps some just fade, sitting there withering away, like my mother. In my worst moments, I’ve viewed death as a way out. I’ve still got my father’s old revolver. Forgive this candor. You are not responsible for me. I won’t live to be very old. I’m so tired already. Just think, your grandmother is seventy-nine. But she just sits there immobile in her chair, only half alive. In a kind of slumber where nothing happens. But her features are still strong, like that prominent chin that you’ve inherited. As for me, I can’t disappear in a doze. Every cell within me vibrates. Blood courses around my body, my fingers quiver. At night I lie in the darkness listening. There are so many creaks and sighs in this old house that I don’t get much sleep. Is it them? I think. Has my final hour come? Today, I was at the Job Center, but nobody wants a middle-aged man. And I’ve no decent references, either. Nothing to show or boast about. Julie! I won’t give up, even if I’m driven to drastic measures. I’ve spent every minute of every day searching for a solution. It all hinges on money I haven’t got. Things I can’t afford, plans I can’t bring to fruition, debts I can’t pay. Fear and shame are everywhere—in the terror of each ring of the doorbell, and in the long hours until sleep arrives, bringing the only solace the day affords. Unless, that is, I dream of ruin. Life can’t go on like this. It’s sapping my strength too much. This constant fear, this thudding heart. My own miserable face in the mirror and the knowledge that I destroyed everything. Just because of a flaw. A penchant for gambling, chance, and luck.

  I’m not asking you for forgiveness, only an iota of understanding. I’m on a different course now. Gambling is no longer a pleasure to me. I think I could walk past a slot machine with my money safe in my pocket. But there’s something about those flashing lights, it’s a kind of intoxication. Time stands still in front of the machine, and I’m fully alive. I take possession of it, control it, challenge it. The machine greets me with its lights and music, draws me in, tempts me. And I surrender myself to it, float away, begin to dream. This may seem like weakness to you, but it’s only half the truth. If you only knew how desperate I am, how far I’m prepared to go for us to be in contact again. I’ve no one else but you. I feel I’ve been driven back to my last bastion and I don’t know how things will end. I’m friendless, jobless, and childless. No, not childless. I still cling to you, even though you don’t need me, don’t want me. Maybe you’ve seen me occasionally, sitting in the Honda outside your school, hidden among the vehicles in the parking lot. I watch you emerge from the building with a crowd of friends, and see you healthy and laughing and fooling around. I see your magnificent red hair, like a cloud around your face. Do I have any place at all in your life? I don’t know if I could bear it if you cut me adrift forever. To grow old alone with no ties to anyone. Of all the misfortunes that can befall us, loneliness is the worst. Not even having someone to weep with in this wretched world. You are the only thing I’m proud of in my life. But you look thin, Julie. Are you eating enough? You must wrap up better. It’s winter now. Mom would have said the same if she’d seen you with your neck bare. You always used to listen to her. Do you remember those happy days? When I still had my job at the car showroom. I was a good salesman, cap
able and reliable, and I remember the satisfaction of concluding each sale. The feeling of success, of being in the swing of things. Returning to you and Mom in the evenings, to the warmth and light. There’s no light anymore, so my life is disappearing. While I write, you feel so close. It’s as if I’m holding your hand, and I can’t bear to let go. Listen to me! Think of me, let me feel that I’m part of your life! Are things all right with your apartment and at school? I dream of making some difference to you, of giving what you want most of all. I don’t believe in miracles, but I believe one can change one’s own destiny. It’s just a matter of willpower and imagination. Of endurance and courage. I also believe it comes at a price. As things stand now, I’d give anything. I’ve nothing to lose. Dark, fearful days are all that lie before me.

  1

  A MAN is walking through the darkness.

  He is visible beneath the streetlights for a few moments. Then he is swallowed up by shadow until he emerges again under the next light, as if his existence only flares up momentarily. That’s how he experiences it; that’s what his life is now. He comes to life and starts to glow, only to go out again—on and off like a hot, quivering fever. His fists are clenched in his pockets as he thrusts on through the darkness, but he arouses no interest. Nobody turns to look at him. He’s an ordinary middle-aged man with thinning hair. As he walks along, he thinks, with something approaching amazement, that it’s not visible from the outside. The thing I’m just about to do. How little people know. I’m moving in the midst of them, and they walk the streets immersed in their own affairs.

  The faces coming toward him are expressionless. There’s no happiness in them, no joy over life or the day, or the falling snowflakes. The life they own for just a brief span, and take for granted, glides past slowly as they dream of another life in another place. Of love, tenderness, all the things that human beings need. He walks on and on; he’d rather turn back, but he knows it’s too late. He’s come too far. He can barely comprehend how he’s got to this point, but he pushes the thought away and allows himself to drift onward, spurred by necessity and fear. He stares into the bottomless chasm that opens in front of him. The leap scares him out of his wits, yet is enticing. He curls his fingers inside his pockets. He’s so fearful for them as he imagines the pruning shears going through the thin skin and the blood spurting from the stumps. He feels faint. He’s unable to banish the image. He must get to a different place, even if the name of that place is disaster. He bears a huge shame, a miserable life. He can’t take any more; he must act now. Occasionally he raises his eyes and peers at the unsuspecting passersby. They can’t see all the horror that’s slowly growing inside him. Is this really happening? Isn’t the town a set; isn’t this a film? The façades seem like papier-mâché and everyone else like extras. No, this is real. He clenches his fists and feels the muscles tightening. He’s on the move now and gets ready, as if he’s being propelled along a track.

  His lower lip is cut and he doesn’t know when it happened. The sweet tang of blood in his mouth tastes good. Later, when it’s all over, people will grieve, cover their eyes and condemn. Even though he can explain. He knows he can explain, step by step, about the weary way, about the great abyss beneath him, if he’s given time. If they’ll only listen to his story. But people haven’t got time; they’ve got their own tales of hard luck. Oh, his burden is so heavy. He’s so alone! Such are his thoughts as he walks along the street, with his hands deep in his pockets and his face turned to the slushy pavement.

  He’s of medium height and powerfully built, and he’s wearing a green parka. The parka’s hood is gradually filling with snow. His face is wide, his eyes gray and close-set. Not a handsome man and not all that shy, either. A high forehead, a wide jaw, and a strong, unshaven chin. He’s wearing decent boots, but the leather is worn and leaking water, so his toes are numb. He hardly notices, there’s so much to think about. No, he dare not think at the moment. He empties his mind, turning himself into a purely purposeful organism that doesn’t look back. He must reach his goal now and not allow fear to intervene. It surrounds him, lying there like a colorless gas; he hardly dares draw breath. He passes a shop selling mirrors and catches a glimpse of his own face that makes him look away in horror. His face is so naked, his eyes deep in shadow. He keeps moving with a resolute step, his figure strong and compact, his shoulders broad and round. Each time his boots make contact with the pavement, the slush spurts in all directions with a sodden, slurping sound. Nothing can stop him. All the same, if I met someone now, he thinks, an old friend for example, we might make small talk or reminisce about the past. We might have a beer at The Dickens, and everything would be different. But no old friend appears. He has no friends—not anymore. No work either. He’s become reclusive, turned in on himself. He lives with fear and sorrow and worry. His world is small and mean. It’s November 7 and sleet is falling. Great wet flakes. He lights a cigarette and inhales deeply, filling his lungs with smoke. It makes him cough, but he knows it will pass. Soon he catches sight of a Jet service station with its garish, neon-yellow signs. He gazes up at the large H&M posters. They cover the front of the block on his right. How strange, he thinks, that the buxom girl in the lacy underwear is naked on a bleak evening like this. She looks relaxed in spite of it all, though he is wet and chilled. But this is hardly something that troubles him. It’s a fact he registers only vaguely, as if looking at himself from the outside. Soon he sees the door to the florist’s. He slackens his pace at once. He makes his final approach, peering furtively in through the shop window. He can’t stop now. He’s on that track, and before him is the plummeting slope that vanishes into darkness. At the same time, he feels himself flinching. He feels shaken. He can’t understand how it’s happened, how he’s come so close to the precipice. That before him lies a deceitful mission, a despicable purpose. Before him: good old Charlo. Charles Olav Torp. A perfectly ordinary man. A little unlucky perhaps, a little weak, but apart from that a thoroughly decent chap. Or is he a decent chap? He thinks he is, as he clenches his teeth and pushes at the heavy door. It opens inward. He hears the sound of a bell. Its delicate tinkle disturbs him. He would prefer to arrive soundlessly, unnoticed and unheard.

  He stands in the middle of the shop. Immediately the smell of the place assails him, sweet and stupefying. It’s too much and for an instant he feels giddy and has to take a sideways step to regain his balance. He hasn’t eaten for a long time; did he forget? He can’t remember anymore. The day has passed in a fog, as if he’s only now waking up on the edge of the abyss. His eyes take in the premises. It’s like a mini-jungle of flowers and greenery, leaves and petals. He can make out artificial blooms and watering cans, plant food and leaf shine, wreaths of dried roses. An indescribable profusion of flowers. He reads their exotic names: chrysanthemum and erica, hibiscus and monstera. A young girl is standing behind the counter. She reminds him of his daughter Julie, but she isn’t so beautiful because Julie is the loveliest, the best. His heart beats tenderly whenever he thinks of his daughter, but he also feels a gnawing pain, and his own betrayal hits him with its full horror.

  He swallows and straightens and looks at the young girl once more. She’s slender and her fair hair is in long braids. He notices her thin wrists, so amazingly pale and delicate. She’s young, he thinks, and her bones are as pliable as a kitten’s. She could probably do the splits or a backbend. Her skin is healthy and pink and almost unbelievably clear. Her eyes are lowered modestly. The floor is covered with flowers in blue and red plastic buckets. He can see roses, crimson and yellow, and other flowers whose names he doesn’t know. He stands looking around diffidently with his hands in his pockets. For a moment, he’s overcome. He feels terribly exposed in the bright light, alone with this young girl who is still waiting. She’s looking at him now, uncertain but receptive. She likes being there, likes her work. Soon the shop will close and she can go home to her little apartment and a hot bath. Something nice to eat, perhaps, maybe something good on television.
Or a long chat on the phone with a close friend. He doesn’t know why, but he can tell that she’s happy, that she’s content with the way things are. Some people are content, he thinks. They must be or the world would stop, and the undergrowth would spring up and hide all traces of humanity. How beautiful: a bright green planet with no people, just a few grazing animals and flapping, shrilling birds. The girl is thin, but she looks healthy. She probably eats only as much as she needs, he thinks. Maybe she exercises and doesn’t put on any weight. Or she’s inherited the trait from a slim family.

  He muses, kills time, feels that his heart is thumping tirelessly. His cheeks are hot, even though he’s just been trudging the streets for an eternity, going around and around the town that’s gray with sleet and mist. He had stood on the riverbank and stared down into the water, and considered that as a solution. To jump from the bank and allow himself to sink to the bottom. It would be quick, he thought; he’d see his life pass in front of his eyes. Inga Lill’s illness, Julie’s despair, his own sick mania for gambling. He pushes the thoughts away. It’s all becoming real for him. What he’d pictured in his head for days and weeks is now materializing. This is the first step. So harmless and respectable, buying a bunch of flowers. The girl waits patiently, but she’s becoming uneasy because he doesn’t speak. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, withdrawing her hands and then resting them on the counter once more. Her fingers are adorned with thin rings and her nails are painted red. She pushes her braids over her shoulders. They are as bright and shiny as nylon rope, and a moment later they’ve fallen forward again and are hanging over her breasts. And he knows that when she gets into bed at night and takes the bands off, her hair will be fluffy and full after the braiding. How young these girls are, he thinks, how smooth, how translucent. They make him think of rice paper, porcelain, and silk. They make him think of fragile glass. He can see her veins, a delicate network of green beneath the skin of her wrists. Life is pulsing there, with nutrition and oxygen and everything she needs to keep herself alive. He takes another deep breath. The light inside the shop, the powerful scent of roses, and the cloying heat are almost overpowering. He sees stars. He feels his pulse rise and clenches his fists hard, the nails pressing into his skin. Pain, he thinks. This is really happening. No, nothing has happened, not yet. But time is moving on, and sooner or later I’ll get there. When I do, will it be awful? The girl behind the counter makes another attempt to smile pleasantly, but he doesn’t return the smile. His face is immobile. He knows that he ought to smile, so that he’ll seem like an ordinary customer, a man about to do something gratifying. Buy a bunch of flowers. But he’s no ordinary customer and this is not enjoyable.