The Murder of Harriet Krohn Page 8

  He rubs his eyes hard and thinks of Julie. Perhaps she’s doing her homework now. He can see her quite clearly: that mane of red hair cascading down her back, her face deeply concentrated on her books. What’s that car driving past? A gray Volvo, he’s seen it before. No, it’s only his imagination. Besides, this one’s green. They don’t know who he is. They don’t know where he lives or what he’s done. He leans forward across the table. Listens in the silence. There’s a gentle hum. In the evening, he turns off all the lights, so people will think he’s gone away. I’m lonely, he thinks, but I’m out of debt. The darkness protects and soothes him, broken only by the blue flicker of the television screen.

  Uneasiness is there the whole time.

  This resentment, this bustle inside his head, disturbs him. He constantly returns to his childhood. The images are so bright and uncomplicated that he enjoys being there. He gradually calms down, remembering his mother, how caring she was and her deep, warm laughter. And his father with his broad shoulders. How did I turn out so weak? he wonders. But in the same instant, he recalls his crime, that he has killed. What strength he’d needed, what courage he’d had to summon to ring Harriet’s doorbell. That he could get himself off his knees and do so much violence. He, who’d never laid a finger on anyone. He remembers her thin face, contorted with rage and fear. And his own fear drove him on, through the series of heavy blows. Panic pushed him over the edge and gave him strength. No, he wants to return to his childhood again; childhood has become a refuge. The present is unbearable; he thinks of nothing except his crime and the collision. It all sticks fast in his mind.

  Every time he eats, the food swells in his mouth. He steals a glance at his hands. Haven’t they turned darker? Has he always had such red hands? He closes them and opens them again, thinking of all the links between head and hand. The millions of impulses that make his hands open and close and make his legs walk. What about his heart, he thinks. Does that play a part? No, the seat of wickedness is in the head. He clasps his head with his hands and squeezes. Inside here, he thinks, dropping his chin to his chest, inside here it was growing without my knowledge. From the start, I was weak, and weakness can be genetic. But Mom is strong, he realizes, and Dad was a decent, hard-working man. He stands at the window, looking at all the innocent people. Their hearts are pure. He moves away and goes to the kitchen instead. He’s become a haunter of dark corners. I’ve taken a life, he thinks. And what’s left of my own must be lived in the shadows, alone. I’m paying a high price. Will I ever be able to look people in the eye? Then, with a great effort, he pulls himself together. One important thing remains. He gets his wallet and fishes out a small card with a telephone number. A fence who won’t ask questions. Merely an intermediary, a man he’ll never meet again. It’s a case of sink or swim. We’re in the same line of business, he thinks, this fence and me, and there’s no avoiding it. He stands with his back to the window and dials the number.

  6

  THEY’VE ARRANGED TO meet at the railway station, at the far end of the long-term parking lot. Charlo’s heart is pounding. He gets out the silverware and the gold watch and places it in a bag. The jewelry is worth very little and no one would give anything for it, so it remains in Julie’s gym bag at the bottom of the chest. He halts in front of the mirror and looks at the face he must now reveal. His nose seems to be sticking out, and his ears are burning. Exposing himself like this is abhorrent, but he has no choice. He forces his face to relax because the muscles around his eyes and mouth have a tendency to twitch in a creepy, revealing manner.

  He puts the bag in the car and sets off. He constantly checks his mirror; it’s become a habit. He crosses the bridge. At the railway station, he turns to the left, his gaze raking the parked cars. At the far end, he sees a man leaning up against a BMW. The man watches Charlo’s Honda and comes over as soon as he’s parked. Charlo hardly dares to look at him. He sits in the car with his head lowered and waits for the other to take the initiative. And he does. The man taps on the window and looks in. He’s surprisingly young, just a stripling, but shrewd enough for all that. A gangly boy with a long blond mop of hair and listless gestures. He asks no questions. They avoid making eye contact. They’re there to do business. He gets into Charlo’s Honda. The silver makes an impression, as does the gold watch. Charlo holds his breath as the man studies the hallmarks. He’s got a loupe with him; he’s left nothing to chance. He pulls out a pocket calculator and begins to add up. Charlo waits patiently. He doesn’t want to haggle or try to force the price. He just wants to get it over with.

  “The watch is engraved,” he says and looks skeptically at Charlo.

  “But you’ll melt it down, won’t you?”

  The young man weighs the watch in his hand and screws up his eyes for an instant. It’s obvious he’s tempted. Then, finally, it disappears into his pocket and Charlo breathes more easily.

  “I’m only a middleman,” says Charlo. He ventures a smile. The young man sneers, displaying yellow teeth.

  “That’s what they all say.”

  Charlo lowers his head again, feeling a bit naive. The fence continues to study the silver. He appears to have all the time in the world and doesn’t seem to be nervous at all.

  “I think it’s antique,” Charlo says, “a pattern that’s maybe gone out of production. What do you think? I only mention it because it affects the price. Doesn’t it?”

  Still no reply. The man is holding a fork, examining the design. Charlo looks over his shoulder, but few people are around and everything’s quiet. The man delves into the bag once more; he works on imperturbably. Now he weighs the candlesticks in his hand.

  “You can take these back home with you,” he says. “They’re only silver plate.”

  “Silver plate? I’d rather not. I mean, surely you’ve got more contacts than me. Can’t you just get rid of them?”

  The other shrugs and taps his calculator with agile fingers. Charlo looks down at his hands and wrings them hard. A small eternity seems to pass. The man adds, weighs, examines. He’s got an acute, appraising eye.

  Then, finally, he comes to his decision. He looks down at the display, catches Charlo’s eye, and announces authoritatively.

  “Forty thousand for the lot.”

  Charlo sits there gawking.

  “Forty?” he stammers. “But the watch alone is worth seventy for sure. Perhaps even eighty.”

  “In the shops, yes. This isn’t a shop.”

  “No, no, I realize that.”

  “I’ve got to take my cut, of course; you realize that. And then I’m taking a risk, so you’ve got to pay for that as well.”

  “Naturally.” Charlo nods mechanically. He’d hoped to make fifty or sixty, but he doesn’t dare push it. The man takes the money from his inside pocket and begins counting it out.

  “I’ll throw in the bag as well,” Charlo says.

  Once more he attempts a smile. It isn’t reciprocated. He feels tense and needs to lighten the mood. It’s a relief to be rid of the silver. All he wants is his money. He gets it. He counts it and nods that it’s right.

  The fence opens the door, sets one foot on the ground, and sends him a sharp glance.

  “We need each other, so keep your mouth shut.”

  Charlo nods and returns his gaze. The man goes off to his own vehicle, revs up the engine, and drives off. His car disappears. Charlo puts the money in his left inside pocket, close to his heart. Now at last he can do business.

  The bay will greet him with great, dark eyes and ears laid amicably forward. Perhaps a small whinny of pleasure. He will lower his big head and lick his salty fingers, nuzzle his jacket a bit. He sets out for the riding center and slows down as soon as he approaches the paddocks. He parks his car and jogs over to the stable and enters. He walks to the last box and stops dead. It’s empty.

  He stands there staring, stunned. Has someone beaten him to it? No, that’s impossible, the bay was for him! Just then he hears the door slam, and shortly after
Møller comes up, his riding boots thumping the cement.

  “My girl is working out in the ring,” he says. “Now’s your chance to see what the horse can do.”

  Charlo breathes a sigh of relief. Møller stops in front of him, legs astride, manly in his green jacket.

  “Are you still interested?”

  “Absolutely,” Charlo says, nodding. “But what about your daughter? What does she think?”

  “It’s fine by her.” He stands square and looks intently at Charlo. “If you can manage forty thousand, we’ve got a deal.” Charlo looks at him wide-eyed, his thoughts whirling around his head. Forty thousand. He can manage that. His heart pounds. He nods, smiling broadly.

  “I’ll go and take a look.”

  “Do that,” Møller says. “She’s not bothered by people watching her. She’s used to it, and she’s good.”

  Ah, but not that good, Charlo thinks. He opens the heavy stable door again and trudges down to the riding ring. The wide door is open. He walks in slowly and immediately catches sight of the bay. His heart leaps. A teenage girl is sitting on the horse, appropriately dressed in white breeches and black polo-neck sweater. She gives him a quick look and then concentrates on the horse again. Charlo finds a seat. She steers the horse to the wall where a sound system has been installed, and he can see her rooting on the shelf for a CD. She wants to show what she can do. The horse stands patiently. She finds what she’s looking for, reaches up and inserts the CD, and then grips the reins again. A second later, music fills the great space. At first he can’t recognize it. The opening is unfamiliar to him, but then the drums come in and a choir of festive voices. It’s Vangelis’s “Conquest of Paradise.” It’s certainly loud enough. The music fills the entire ring, which he estimates must be around two thousand square meters. He feels the music centering on his breastbone. It numbs and suffuses him, makes him surrender completely. His eyes are wet and he’s got goose pimples. The girl puts the horse into a walk. Charlo takes in the sight as his pulse pounds at his temples. She’s riding with short, tight reins and tiny commands. A girl of fifty kilos is directing a horse weighing six hundred. She’s doing it with imperceptible tickles of her whip on the horse’s hindquarters, shifting her body weight almost indiscernibly from side to side, or backward and forward, and with small jerks on the reins. The horse can do most things. He takes small steps, trots on the spot, and does pirouettes and traverses and lead changes. His transitions are superb. He trots the length of the ring and does a collected working canter. Then he suddenly switches into an extended canter, foam frothing around the bit. Wood shavings swirl around the shiny hooves, and it doesn’t take long before the horse is damp with sweat and glowing like clean copper. Yes, you’re good, he says to himself about the young girl. You’re light on the reins, and you’ve got good contact. But you don’t ride the whole horse, he thinks. You don’t take his hindquarters with you. All at once she comes toward him. Her gaze is completely devoid of fear.

  “Are you the man who’s going to buy Crazy?”

  She has a pretty, round face beneath the black helmet. Boots with long spurs and elegant black leather gloves.

  “You don’t like the idea, maybe? Of selling him?”

  He regards her nervously. Why should she want to part with this beautiful specimen of horseflesh? He is filled with anxiety as he squints up at her. She shrugs nonchalantly. The horse has lowered his head and is nibbling his forelegs.

  “As long as I get another one, I’m not bothered,” she says simply. “I’ve changed horses several times already. I’d like an Arab; they’re lighter.”

  She stares at him as she speaks. She stares at his legs and at his hands, and glances rapidly and inquisitively into his eyes. She’s one of those bright, tough girls, presumably a fearless rider.

  “Will you be doing dressage?” she asks. And he thinks, I don’t look much like a rider, it’s hardly surprising she’s asking. Before he has time to reply, she says: “Or will you be jumping? He’s a good jumper. One meter thirty, very sensitive to the reins. He’ll jump a long way, too.”

  “No,” Charlo finally says, looking at the horse all the time. “My bones are about as brittle as dry twigs. I think I’d better keep my feet on the ground.”

  She unfastens the chinstrap of her helmet.

  “You’d never buy a car without giving it a test drive,” she teases.

  He smiles bashfully and shakes his head, feeling a little embarrassed. It’s been a long time since he was on a horse, but he’s tempted all the same.

  “I’m not exactly dressed for it,” he parries. He feels incredibly clumsy next to this girl: an ungainly grown man with a belly and thinning hair. Wearing a lumpy old quilted jacket.

  She slips resolutely off the horse’s back and hands him the reins. Charlo takes off his jacket. Stands hesitating for a moment. What’s he getting into? Where will it end? In the sawdust perhaps, head first. A broken neck. Or cracked ribs.

  “Do you need a whip?” she asks, full of blue-eyed innocence. Charlo shakes his head.

  “I’ll ride him at a gentle trot, that should do.”

  “Now that he’s well warmed up,” she says, “he’ll move easily. He favors the left,” she adds. “In case you’re interested.” Her gaze is insistent; she wants to play.

  Charlo gulps. He puts his foot in the stirrup, gathers the reins in his left hand, and grips the saddle with his right. Silently he counts to three, and then pushes off hard and swings himself up.

  “I’m afraid he’s in for a shock,” Charlo says. “I probably weigh twice as much as you.”

  “That’s nothing to Crazy,” she says, smiling. “Come on, let’s see!”

  She’s enjoying herself like the child she is. He sets off at a walk and tries to relax and keep his back straight. The horse’s movements are big and Charlo bobs away. The horse’s body is warm between his thighs. He does one circuit at a walk, leans forward a bit, and digs in his heels. The horse immediately changes into a nice, easy trot. He feels hot; his cheeks are burning. He trots around three times, and then stops in front of the girl.

  “And now, do two circuits at the canter,” she says eagerly. Playing instructor, her voice is full of authority.

  Charlo wavers. He strokes the horse’s neck and feels the thick arteries under his skin. He feels so important sitting there. As if he’s in the right place, in control at last. The horse will do what he asks. He is his master, he feels that. But cantering?

  “Just ride him in a volte. Then he’ll do a nice circle. He’s got a very easy canter. Come on!”

  He does half a circuit at a walk and goes into a trot. He hasn’t lost his former skills and can ride with a certain elegance. But when it comes to cantering, he’s not sure. He doesn’t want to land in the sawdust. He’s not young anymore, not supple like the girl on the ground. She’s watching with excitement. But then, I’m already living dangerously, he thinks. He sits well down in the saddle and kicks his right heel into the horse’s flank once, then once more. Suddenly the horse alters his rhythm and his movements are drawn out, undulating. I’m cantering, he thinks exultantly. Nothing else matters, because when you’re on horseback the rest of the world fades away. The girl has started clapping her hands, and Charlo is pouring sweat now. He’s concentrating hard and letting himself be carried away, while the mane billows and the hooves beat the ground in a regular rhythm. He feels like the wind, like a wave breaking, in that special joy of being one with the horse, around and around in great circles. Then, suddenly, he feels weak and tired. He eases down to a trot, and then to a walk. He halts and pats the horse’s neck.

  “Wonderful,” he says, wiping the sweat from his brow.

  She nods proudly. Charlo slides down the horse’s flank and lands gently.

  “But can you let him go? Are you sure?”

  She smiles indulgently. “I don’t want to keep riding the same horse for years. I like changing. Will you buy him?”

  “Yes. I’ve just spoken to your da
d, and we’ve agreed. Can I ask you something?”

  She nods.

  “Can I take a couple of photos of him? Would you hold him?”

  She walks over and takes the reins. Charlo gets his camera out of his pocket, raises it to his eye, and gets them in the frame.

  The horse has raised his head as if wanting to pose. Loveliest horse in the world, thinks Charlo, and clicks the shutter.

  7

  “DADDY!”

  Julie squeezes his fingers. Her hand is hot and clammy.

  “Can I ride on that horse? Can I ride on it now? Right away? Will you help me?”

  She goes on and on, tugging at his hand and imploring him with her green eyes. She stands there fizzing, about to explode like a firework. They’re at the stables for the first time, and her gaze has lit on a white pony. He smiles and squeezes back, and looks down the passage for an adult.

  “Maybe,” he says, “but I must ask someone first. We can’t just ride off, because someone owns it.”

  “Who’s the person who owns it? Can you ask now? Can I ride on it now?” She’s quivering with anticipation and stroking the pony’s neck the whole time. Her eyes have that special luster, as if she’s found gold. He looks at the rotund Shetland pony and down at five-year-old Julie who’s wearing a red snowsuit and has stout boots on her feet. She’s thrown her fleece-lined mittens on the floor. She’s his; she’s his dearest possession. Satisfying all her wishes is the very mainspring of his life.

  He tells her to wait, and he walks along the passage, down to the ring where an instructor is busy with a group of children. They’re bumping along on mounts large and small, all hot in the face and concentrating hard.

  “That white Shetland pony,” he says, looking at the instructor with a plea in his eyes. “Could we saddle it up and have a go? I’ve got my small daughter with me, and she’s beside herself with excitement.”