The Murder of Harriet Krohn Page 9

  The instructor is wearing a set of blue thermal overalls and a warm hat with earflaps. She turns from her charges and looks at him.

  “Has she ridden before?”

  “No,” says Charlo, “but I have. We can manage on our own. We don’t need any help.”

  Suddenly she looks away from him and shouts across the large ring. “Form a volte, girls; don’t ride so close together!”

  Charlo glances up toward the stable, then back at her again. Thinks about Julie waiting in the box; he can’t bear to disappoint her.

  “Just five minutes,” he implores. “I can saddle up and do everything. Perhaps she could have lessons here. Could she? She’s five. What would it cost?”

  She smiles, studying him. “A hundred and fifty kroner an hour. Once a week. His saddle is hanging in the tack room, on the peg marked Snowball.”

  He thanks her and rushes back. Julie is standing with her arms around the pony’s neck.

  “Come on,” he says, “we’ve got permission! We’ll go and get his saddle. But we’ll have to keep to the edge of the riding ring because there’s a lesson going on there. There are lots of riders, and we mustn’t get in the way.”

  She jumps up and down, clapping her hands.

  “And you’ve got to do what I tell you,” he orders.

  She nods. She follows him out to the tack room and watches as he lifts the saddle down. Her cheeks are red with anticipation. He examines her boots to see if they’ve got proper heels. They do. He carries out the saddle and leads the pony into the passage, as Julie stands watching. She strokes the pony incessantly and pulls its tail, unable to restrain herself. He struggles a bit with the bridle, but gradually he remembers how to get it on and tightens the straps. He glances down at Julie’s legs and shortens the stirrups. There are some riding helmets on pegs, and he finds one that fits and puts it on her head.

  “Off we go, then,” he says, “but watch your feet. He’s heavy.”

  “I want to lead him,” Julie says. She’s turbocharged; this is an enthusiasm he’s never seen before.

  “No,” Charlo says. “Daddy’s got to help you the first time, because we don’t know how friendly he is. Not all ponies are friendly,” he says, looking serious.

  She glares at him fiercely. Of course the pony’s friendly. The pony will do whatever she wants, she’s sure of it. A certain resoluteness has come over her, a single-mindedness, as if someone has flicked a switch. He sees this and understands: he was a child himself once. He’s hung around stables, and he knows what obsession is. They arrive at the ring. Charlo leads the pony in, finds a spot away from the others, and lifts Julie up. She grasps the reins and her eyes light up.

  “Now,” he instructs, “feet in the stirrups. Sit well back and lift your chin. Fine,” he says, pulling at the bridle. The pony moves off immediately with short, waddling steps. Julie holds the reins tight and her body begins to sway. She’s turned dumb and her look is far away. She no longer notices Charlo. It’s as if she’s somewhere else. The pony ambles along with its head down, walking in a tight circle, around and around in the ring. Julie looks around proudly to see if the others can see her, see how grand she is. Now and then she takes the reins in one hand so that she can stroke the pony’s neck. Charlo feels a huge sense of satisfaction because he’s given her joy. He isn’t prepared for what follows. They keep this up for twenty minutes or so, until he begins to look at the clock in the knowledge that Inga Lill is waiting with dinner.

  “Well, Julie, we’ll have to stop now. That was fun, wasn’t it?” She doesn’t answer or nod, just purses her lips. She stares firmly ahead.

  “Again,” she says, clinging on hard. He does another circuit. Wants to be extra generous and does one more after that.

  “Now,” he tries again, “that’s enough. It’s getting late.” She clenches her hands in front of her and won’t release the reins.

  “Don’t want to go home,” she says sullenly. There is an almost fanatical look in her eyes. “I want to do more riding. Go around again. Lots of times.”

  Charlo smiles to himself. But at the same time he must be an adult. She’s got to listen to him; they can’t stay here till nightfall.

  “Julie,” he begins, “we can come back another time. Maybe you can start lessons with the others. Wouldn’t that be nice? But now we’ve got to go home and have dinner.”

  “Not hungry,” she says emphatically. “I want more riding.” He reaches out for her gently and lovingly, but she twists out of his grasp and pushes him away with one hand. Suddenly she digs her heels into the pony’s sides, and it begins to trip along at a good rate. Charlo jogs along beside it.

  “Easy now, Julie,” he gasps. “We can’t go on all night. If you think this is fun, we can come here again. But now we’ve got to go.” She tightens her grip on the reins again and looks over his head.

  “He’s not tired at all. He wants to go on. I know he wants to go on!”

  Charlo is completely at a loss. She’s strong-willed and has shut him out. She’s at one with this plump, white creature that walks patiently around and around.

  “Maybe Mom’s frightened about us,” he says, trying to meet her eyes, but she won’t look at him.

  “I want to go around some more times,” she declares with an authority he would never have believed possible. She clings to the pony; she’s made him hers. Again he starts walking around, thinking about what he’s set in motion.

  “Tomorrow,” he says, and looks at her, imploringly now. “Tomorrow we’ll come back again. I’ll speak to the riding teacher, and perhaps you can have lessons on him. Once a week. It’s expensive, but I’ll talk to Mom about it.”

  She’s not listening. She’s stroking the pony and her body is undulating. He notices that she’s got excellent balance—she feels at home. Then he stops suddenly, halting the pony and making his voice stern.

  “We’re going now, Julie. That’s enough.”

  Sternness doesn’t come naturally to him, and she calls his bluff, knowing that he doesn’t mean it. She pushes on with the pony, as impenetrable as a brick wall. She’s lost her heart to Snowball. He’s her first great love, and rules and regulations no longer apply. Charlo runs his hand through his hair and sighs. Just then he has an idea.

  “You can ride up to the stable,” he says. “That’ll be a little ride in the open air.”

  Reluctantly she allows herself to be led away, but the idea of leaving the pony is too much for her. He leads her out and the hooves slap against asphalt. Julie straightens her back, a look of sadness in her eyes. The golden interlude is over, and she can hardly bear it.

  “Tomorrow’s another day,” he says, “and before that we need a bit of sleep. You’re really good. You’ve got a natural talent. I’ll boast about you to Mom, and then she’ll say yes. Won’t she? Aren’t you pleased about that?” They’ve arrived at the stable door. Julie isn’t pleased, as her lower lip is sticking well out. Then it starts to quiver.

  “There,” he says, “just slide down. I’ll catch you.” But she doesn’t slide down. She just sits there clamped to the reins. He stretches and clasps her around the waist and begins to pull. She clutches the pony’s mane and holds tight. He pulls harder. The pony begins to shift from one foot to the other.

  “Julie,” he begs feebly, “you’ve got to be a big girl now and not be silly. I can’t take any more.” Eventually she allows herself to be lifted down, her body stiff and stubborn. But she’s still holding the reins.

  “You can lead him in,” says Charlo, and she leads the fat pony down the passage and into his box.

  “Now he needs a bit of grooming,” Charlo explains, “because he’s been working hard. First we’ve got to take off all his tack, and then we’ve got to find a brush. We’ve got to clean out his hooves and stroke him a bit.”

  Julie runs to the tack room and returns with a brush. She begins grooming as hard as she can, until her hair is damp with sweat. Charlo puts everything back in its place and washes t
he bit in hot water. He has the strange feeling that he’s seeing the start of something big. Something that will take over. He sees a bag of dry bread in a corner and takes a piece out and hands it to Julie. He shows her how to hold it. The pony wolfs it down in record time. Then she stands loitering at the box door; she can’t stop stroking the white muzzle. He can’t get her to come away. She holds on to the bars tightly and resists him.

  That was the start of it.

  Her passion for horses resembled his own passion for gambling. A constant, burning ache within him. From then on, all thoughts were directed at one thing: satisfying a craving. He saw it take hold of her; that spark that would never be extinguished. He thinks of this as he walks along Blomsgate, on his way to buy the papers. He passes the veterinary hospital and the bakery, and sees a woman walking toward him. He glances quickly at her and notices the distance between them. This frontier, he thinks, between me and everyone else. The feeling of being in another country with a strange language, the feeling of living on completely different terms to other people. It’s hard.

  He enters the shop, chooses three different newspapers from the rack, and pays. He sticks them under his arm and walks back again. And then, just as he’s striding down the road, something happens to one of his legs. It jerks as if a spasm has passed through it, then it gives way beneath him. His left knee fails and he pitches helplessly forward and falls flat on his face. He strikes the ground chin first, and it scrapes along the pavement, his skin burning and stinging. The papers fly everywhere.

  He lies there for a moment, struggling. He looks back, dazed, to find out if he tripped, but he can’t see anything. He wants to get up, but he’s hesitant. He doesn’t know if his knee will carry him. He’s totally confused. He sees people coming down the street toward him and feels like a complete twerp. Perhaps they think he’s drunk. At last he crawls to his feet again. Gingerly he tests his left knee, unsure if it’ll take the strain. He bends down for his newspapers. A man comes up offering help, but Charlo brushes the arm of his jacket and waves him away. He puts the papers back together again. They’re wet. His chin aches and stings. He looks down at himself in surprise, not comprehending what’s happened. His knee feels weak, but it just about carries him.

  He walks on cautiously. To collapse like that, as if he were some old man. It was as if he’d been struck by lightning. Could there be something wrong with him? No, there’s nothing the matter; his health has always been good. He used to get colds as a child, and just recently he’s begun to think he might need glasses because his eyesight occasionally seems weak. It’s something that comes and goes. But apart from that, excellent health. He’s always taken it for granted. He squeezes the newspapers under his arm. The fall worries him, a dawning anxiety, but he banishes it. He enters the house and sits down in a chair.

  For a long time, he sits there contemplating, searching for the answer. Perhaps he slipped on a patch of ice. But he knows it’s too mild for that—there’s only slush. Could it have been a banana peel? No, his knee gave way; it lost strength without warning. He dismisses the incident. There are limits to how much time he can spend thinking about it. As if people don’t fall occasionally: they trip, they slip, they have poor coordination. It’s no big deal. But his chin is stinging badly. He opens the first newspaper. Initially he doesn’t see anything about the Hamsund case. He’s looking forward to the big silence, to the day it’s no longer talked about and everyone’s forgotten it. He opens the second paper. He leafs through it slowly. There’s lots about sports, which doesn’t interest him. Suddenly, he catches sight of a photo. He recognizes the man right away; he’s the one leading the Hamsund case. Charlo reads the brief article.

  In connection with their ongoing inquiries into the murder of Harriet Krohn at Hamsund on November 7, the police would like to hear from a man who was involved in a road traffic accident. The accident occurred at about ten-thirty P.M., only a short distance from the murdered woman’s house. Inspector Konrad Sejer has informed us that, for reasons that remain unclear, the man refused to fill in a claim form. Sejer has emphasized that this person is not regarded as a suspect in the investigation.

  Horrified, he lowers the newspaper. Runs his hand over his tender chin. The collision, he thinks. It’s got me. What he has most feared is now becoming a reality. The Toyota, his outburst. They’ve registered it. They’re searching for his car. Perhaps they’ve already found him. Perhaps they’re watching him, waiting for the right moment. He sits there with a hand in front of his mouth, his eyes round. He quickly glances out of the window, gripped by a dawning sense of panic. As if they didn’t know how to find him, as if they weren’t experts and couldn’t take in all the details. Clearly he’s grossly underestimated them, and now it’s just a matter of time. He places a hand over his heart because it’s beating so hard. No, they’re only trying it on and checking every avenue. He’s not a suspect. But he can’t come forward. And that’s clearly suspicious as well.

  He sits there despondently. And then there’s the problem of his knee. Again he has an insidious doubt, so he goes to the bathroom and pulls his pants down. The knee looks perfectly normal when he compares it with the right one. I just wasn’t concentrating, he thinks. I tripped over my own feet and fell. It’s nothing to worry about. But he knows this isn’t true. There’s that little voice of protest inside him, fretting on about weakness in his joints. He doesn’t want to hear it, so he pulls up his pants and goes to the mirror. The graze on his chin is nothing. He can’t even be bothered to put a bandage on it.

  He goes back and reads the third newspaper. There is a photograph of Sejer in this one as well, taken in profile. He’s a man with pronounced features and short-cropped gray hair. The same story about the accident at Hamsund. “We’re simply forming a picture of all the traffic in the area,” Sejer explains, “so it would be useful to make contact with the man who collided with a Toyota Yaris at the junction near the railway station on the evening of November 7. Since he was in the area where the murder occurred, he may have witnessed things of importance.”

  “Do we know what make of car this man was driving?” the journalist asks. The question is printed in bold type.

  “We have reason to believe he was driving a red Honda Accord.”

  Charlo goes to the window and stares out into the street. What about his neighbor Erlandson? He reads the papers, too. Maybe he’s seen the dent in the car’s fender; it’s quite possible. Erlandson’s so inquisitive. He likes staring out his window. For a moment, he’s overwhelmed with fear. They’re on the trail of a red Honda. His legs won’t carry him anymore. Isn’t there a gray Volvo parked down there? It looks familiar. All these troubles are crowding in. They wouldn’t exist if Inga Lill were still around.

  What do I really look like? Have I got any distinguishing features? Thinning hair and a green parka—the youth in the Toyota won’t remember more than that because I was behaving so badly. He wouldn’t have noted any details. At least not my car registration. Well, perhaps a bit of it. Then they’ll check and eliminate. They’ll come to the house and ask questions, and I’ll get nervous. My gaze will waver, and I’ll contradict myself. No, I won’t. I’m in control. It’s a matter of concentration. He clenches his fists and opens them again, and leans on the windowsill. Some people escape punishment. Just keep quiet!

  8

  INGA LILL IS frying fish on the stove, and it smells good. Charlo helps Julie off with her clothes. There are layers and layers of them, and in the middle he finally unwraps a hot little girl with skinny arms and legs. She pulls herself free and storms into the kitchen, bursting to relate all that’s happened.

  “Where in the name of goodness have you both been?” Inga Lill asks, wiping the sweat from her brow. It’s warm in the kitchen and she’s sweltering.

  “I’ve rode a pony,” Julie says. She’s hopping up and down, her red hair bouncing.

  “Ridden a pony?” says Inga Lill, dismayed.

  Charlo dives in. “We’ve be
en to the riding center, and they let her have a go,” he says. “Just a couple of circuits.”

  “A couple of circuits? Have you seen the time?”

  “I’m learning riding there,” Julie says, “Daddy said I could.” She plumps down on a chair and puts her elbows on the table. Inga Lill pushes them off again. Then she scoops the pieces of fish out of the frying pan and places them on a dish.

  “We’ll have to talk about that,” she says. “It’s bound to cost a lot of money.”

  Charlo goes over to her and glances at Julie and winks.

  “There isn’t much to talk about,” he says, “believe me.”

  He gives his wife a meaningful look and nods in the direction of Julie’s red head, rolling his eyes to convey what he’s recently witnessed. But Inga Lill hasn’t witnessed it, and her shoulders are tense with reluctance. She puts the dish on the table and drains the potatoes.

  “They have so many accidents,” she murmurs quietly, so that Julie won’t hear.

  “You let her cycle by the road,” he says. “That’s worse.”

  “But she wears a helmet,” says Inga Lill.

  “She does on horseback, too,” he retorts. They look at one another. Julie hangs on her mother’s expression.

  “I want to ride,” she says emphatically, staring down at the table and holding her fork ready for the food.

  “Wash your hands,” says Charlo. “You’ve been in the stables. Come on, we’ll go to the bathroom.” He helps her get the water the right temperature, and they stand there close together soaping their hands, their eyes meeting in the mirror.

  “I want to go again tomorrow,” she says defiantly, rubbing her hands so the lather flies. Charlo dries them with a towel.

  “Julie,” he says. “It’s one lesson a week. We can’t afford more than that.”

  “I can brush,” she says decidedly and takes the towel from him. “And I can go there and stroke him, and comb his tail and things. I can give him bread and carrots.”