The Murder of Harriet Krohn

10

It’s morning, and he’s up early.

The kitchen table has become his observation post. He sits by the window, eating and keeping an eye on the passing cars. He sees a Ford and shortly afterward a Volkswagen Beetle. He puts two spoonfuls of sugar in his coffee and marvels at this new habit acquired so late in life, but it does him good. A taxi for hire drives past. The bread is stale, so he leaves the crusts. They’re hard and hurt his gums. Buying bread for one is impossible, he thinks. Inga Lill was always so clever about that. She’d cut up the entire loaf and then pack the individual slices in a container. The container went in the freezer. She’d thaw them in the toaster, and then she always had fresh bread. Dear Inga Lill. It isn’t easy. But things are going better now. I’m in a different place. I’ll do the right things from now on, I promise. I want Julie to feel proud. I want her to point me out to others and say, that’s my father. Cool, isn’t he?

He clears up after his modest meal. Afterward he poses in front of the mirror. He relaxes his shoulders, sticks his chin out, and notices that he’s lost three or four kilos. His face is sharper and it suits him. It was from his father that he inherited his wide jaw and his long, straight nose. His blue and gray shirt matches his eyes. One thing at a time, he thinks. Live for the moment. Do all the little things that decent people do. Life is made up of details. Have a proper breakfast and choose something to go on the bread. Gouda and marmalade are his favorites. Shower and shave, get out clean clothes. Run a comb through his thinning hair. Go out and get things done. He puts on his quilted jacket and goes to the car. He avoids looking at the dent, because each time he does he’s filled with a huge despair.

He drives down Blomsgate and then takes the bridge over to the east side of town. He parks outside the Job Center. This district is a planning nightmare: lovely old timber houses have been annihilated by new commercial buildings without any plan or any system at all. But this is his neighborhood, where he grew up. Its untidy character is close to his heart.

He puts twenty kroner into a parking meter, enters the building, and takes a ticket. Number fifty-eight. Forty-nine is being attended to at the counter. He glances at the people who are ahead of him. You can see it right away. These men are unemployed. They’re on Social Security. They’ve lost their self-respect; there’s no hope in their eyes. They read brochures listlessly and avoid looking at one another. This is going to end now, Charlo thinks. I don’t want to be one of them. I want to be part of society. I’m a young man with strong arms and sense enough. It’s important to him now to do things right.

He finds a vacant chair and straightens his back. Here am I, he thinks, Charles Olav Torp, covered in my own crime, clothed from head to foot in that terrible deed. It’s so strange that they can’t see it — that it doesn’t stink or shine out. Can he atone for his misdemeanor by behaving well for the rest of his life? Not as regards the justice system, but in terms of the great eternal reckoning? If there is such a thing. Sometimes he does sense something larger. As he did in Harriet’s kitchen, when he felt someone else take control. He’d assumed a role that was intended for him. He waits half an hour. A tall, lanky man is being served. He’s never killed anyone, Charlo thinks. There’s something natural about the way he leans on the counter, a spontaneity he himself has lost. Just as guilt is manifest in people’s faces, so innocence is visible as a kind of unpretentiousness.

He rolls the ticket in his hand and thinks about Harriet Krohn. A picture immediately springs to his mind. There she is, still lying on her kitchen floor with her face in a pool of blood. Even though the rational part of his brain tells him that, obviously, she’s been taken away. People will have arranged a grave, he thinks. Her beneficiaries. An idea takes shape in his head. At last, number fifty-eight comes up on the display above the counter. He goes over and leans forward. The woman is about his own age, thin and short-haired and with a small, pointed chin. Her glasses are modern, without frames, and have very small lenses. Behind the spectacles, he sees a pair of turquoise-colored eyes. They regard him without enthusiasm.

“I’ve just come to sort things out a bit,” Charlo says, his voice loud and clear. If the others can hear what he’s saying, that’s fine by him. He’s an example they’d do well to follow. “The point is that I’m in receipt of unemployment benefits. Have been for two years.”

She waits for him to continue. Her pupils are completely round, he notices, and life hasn’t been kind to her. Her irises are flecked. He believes in such things. That life’s pain and despair leave their stain in the eyes. Only children have completely clear eyes without any marks or discoloration.

“But now I’ve found a job. At a riding center. As a handyman. It’s not much, not to start with. I’ll have to show them what I can do and make myself indispensable, and then perhaps there’ll be more work in time. That’s the plan, anyway. What do you think?” he says, smiling at her.

“Yes,” she replies, “that sounds like a good tactic.” She smiles back, a quick smile. Asks him for his name and ID number.

She’s the type who needs thawing out; it’s unmistakable. Certain people won’t open up unless you work on them a bit, and he’s good at that. Used to be good. He props his elbows on the counter, rests his chin in his hands, and makes eye contact.

“But it’s only a small job,” he says. “I can’t live off it. I assume you’ll reduce my benefit, but I can’t say exactly what I’ll earn. Not yet. Because I’ve only just begun. Or rather, I’m actually starting today.”

“Then we’ll have to see how things develop,” she says, and searches her screen.

It’s not easy to hide from the authorities: one keystroke and she has all his personal details. Born 1963, address: Blomsgate 20.

“Have you any idea about your pay?”

“There’s talk of a part-time job. But we haven’t discussed an hourly rate.”

She taps away, peering through her glasses.

“You’ll have to inform the Social Security office. The only thing I can suggest is that you bring your wage slips in here,” she says, looking at him.

“I could send them by mail.”

“That’ll do fine.”

She makes the necessary notes. Charlo waits patiently.

“I thought I ought to say something,” he says. “I don’t want problems later on. With the authorities. For fiddling and so forth.”

“I quite agree. We find out about all that anyway. Plenty of people try it on.”

“Don’t know how they dare,” he says calmly, holding her turquoise gaze.

Then he walks tall through the Job Center and out the door.

Now, with his golden mission accomplished, he sets out for a drive. Randomly at first, around the streets. He looks at people and buildings, wanting to make the time pass. So that it will be afternoon, so that he can fetch Julie. He looks at the town’s glitter, enjoying all the lights and the reflections in the river. The headlights coming toward him, white, yellow, or bluish. A Freia chocolate advertisement, a clock on a wall. It’s half past nine. He ends up in Elvegata and follows it into the tunnel and out onto the E134. He follows the road without thinking. Finally it clicks. He’s driving toward Hamsund. The river is on his left, black and cold and swift. Its restless power troubles him. It flows on, unstoppable, the way his life is plowing on to the moment he fears most. The unavoidable moment of truth. There’s so much to be frightened of. Young people have such quick minds. Their sight and hearing are good. They pick up everything, every detail. Like the young girl in the florist’s, so trim and slender in her red sweater. He can’t forget her, and maybe she can’t forget him, either. His silence, his reluctance, his old green parka. He dismisses the thoughts and glances up at the sky. It’s a fine day. He’s finally on an even keel, behaving respectably now. Nobody will be able to pin anything on him — not murder, not Social Security fraud.

He drives to Hamsund church. The graveyard lies quiet and deserted, picturesquely covered in snow and with a special, frosty beauty. He parks and stands for a while, looking around and drawing the fresh air into his lungs. The milky sunshine makes everything glitter like diamonds. Slowly he starts walking among the graves. It’s possible that she only has a wooden cross, he thinks, because it takes time to choose the right stone. It takes time to get it ready; it must be carved and polished and engraved. He looks over his shoulder continually, but he can’t see anyone. It’s too early in the day. He searches around for a long time. Now and then he stops to admire the white medieval church. Recently restored, it’s perhaps the finest in the county. He hunts systematically, reading all the names and pondering all the destinies. Occasionally he finds a young person’s grave. Then he stops and muses, saddened by the thought of the short life. Four years old, thirteen years old. It makes him think of Julie and what it would be like to lose her. It’s beyond his imagination. Julie is so healthy and vital that nothing can touch her.

He’s been looking for half an hour when suddenly he finds himself in front of her grave. Harriet Asta Krohn is lying here, right below his feet. I could have brought some flowers, he thinks. It would have been the decent thing to do, another mark in the reckoning. But I didn’t think that far. I only considered the new image I could take away with me. An old woman in a beautiful coffin, her hands clasped on her breast. Not the horrible one from the kitchen that has tortured me for weeks: that twisted, ravaged body and the unattractive green dress. He tries to corner his emotions. That her life ended in such a manner and how it was all his doing. He can’t quite link the images that flash through his head. Of the revolver butt in her skull, of her collapsing and turning into this wooden cross. Is it really true?

He stands before her grave a long time, standing straight, thinking the whole thing through. Trying to put a defense together. You got in my way; you scared me with all your screeching. And it didn’t take much, either. You were old, brittle as a reed. Afterward I was in shock. This has marked me for life, you know. It’s not just something I can forget. But the fact is, I have a daughter, and I have to be there for her for the rest of my life. So I can’t dwell on this tragedy. It mustn’t be allowed to destroy me; it’s bad enough as it is. Things are still fragile between Julie and me. We’ve a long way to go. So if it were up to me, Harriet, I would stifle the memory of you from now on. I can see that everything here is nice. It’s neat and tidy, and presumably you’ll soon be getting a handsome headstone. Harriet Asta Krohn. A fine name with a good ring to it. I’m working out your age — you were almost seventy-six. A respectable age. I probably won’t live that long. Maybe it’s of little comfort, but you reached your average life expectancy.

He bows his head and feels at peace, standing with clasped hands and enjoying the sensation of calm that finally settles on him. He can put this calamity behind him now and move on. At last he really is moving on. Suddenly he’s aware of a noise behind him, a sort of crackling.

“Wasn’t it terrible?”

He starts at the sound of the voice and turns and finds himself staring at a woman. His mouth opens in surprise. She’s standing on the path behind him with a shopping bag in her hand. Brown coat, black booties, and a small crocheted cap that resembles an old tea cozy. He glimpses some snow-white curls beneath the cap.

He mumbles a flustered reply, something unintelligible.

“I’ll never rest easy unless they’re caught. I live in the house next to hers, number 6 Fredboesgate. Are you a relative, by any chance?”

She moves closer. “I don’t remember you from the funeral. But that’s hardly surprising. I wasn’t at all myself that day.”

She falls silent now and examines him closely. Charlo is dumbstruck. His first impulse is to flee, but something holds him back. He must keep cool, so he listens to what she’s saying and clenches his fists in his pockets.

“Mosse Maier,” she says, stretching out a brown-gloved hand. He takes it automatically, squeezing it carefully. “I was the one who found her. I noticed the lights on in her house at three in the morning, and that frightened me. So I got up and looked through the window. At first I wanted to phone and find out if everything was all right, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I’ve thought since how cowardly that was. But I’m elderly and live alone; I hadn’t the courage.”

Charlo listens and nods. Her outpouring holds him there. He can’t bring himself to leave.

“But when I got up at seven, the lights were still on. That was really strange, too, because Harriet never got up before nine. She had arthritis, you know. Lots of aches and pains. I hung back for as long as I could, but eventually I went over. Her front door was open, and then I found her in the kitchen. And that was a sight I shall never forget, I can tell you. They hadn’t just hit her — they’d beaten her to a pulp.”

The shopping bag crackles in her hand again, and he suspects she has a plant in it.

“I didn’t know her,” he puts in, turning toward the grave once more. “I was just passing.”

“Ah, I see. I thought you were her nephew. She’s got a nephew who lives abroad and she used to talk about him a lot. But it’s terrible, isn’t it?”

He nods again, searching for some escape route. But she hasn’t finished yet; she holds him there. Fragile she may be, but her eyes are blue and intense.

“The worst thing is that one gets so scared.”

She walks the final few steps to the grave and scrambles around in her bag. Her hand emerges with a small green wreath. “Everything’s been ruined. I don’t sleep well at night anymore. For some reason, it’s good to come here. It calms me down. Now at least she’s at peace.”

She bends with some difficulty and places the wreath in front of the cross. “And the police have been a great comfort. They call and ask how things are going. And drop in now and again. I can tell you one thing; they won’t give up on this case. Those responsible will be found.”

“Were there several of them?” he asks, looking at her intently.

“Well, I wouldn’t know anything about that. But the way her house looked, it wouldn’t surprise me. The strange thing is that she seems to have opened the door herself. Harriet uses a door chain, and she’s most particular about it. But they probably spun some good story. In any case, she let them into her house. I’d like to know how it was done. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from all this, it’s that you can’t trust anybody.”

He nods again and takes a couple of steps. He wants to go off and get away.

“Oh, I’m sorry to have burdened you with all this. But I thought you were a relative, as I said.”

“I was just passing by,” he says, “but I remember the case; of course I do. It was in all the papers. This is a beautiful spot, by the way. This church and churchyard. One of the loveliest I’ve seen.”

He talks away but his cheeks are burning red and he can’t stop them. He runs his hand through his hair and finally stammers something about the weather, that it’s delightful walking in the churchyard.

“Yes,” she says, “this is where we’ll end up. It’s like coming home. But life is too difficult to comprehend sometimes. How things like this can happen.”

“There’s a reason for everything,” Charlo says, and glances down at the wreath.

She shakes her white head. “Not for this. This is pure madness.”

He’s filled with an uncontrollable desire to explain to her. That he’s most definitely not mad, that he’s as much a human being as she is. It’s almost bursting out of him. There’s a rushing inside his head. But her eyes have become searching, as if she can see him clearly now. Her blue gaze is acute enough — it’s obvious she’s coming to her own conclusions. The meeting disturbs him just as the collision did. He gives her a curt nod and disappears as fast as he can. He hurries back to his car and sits inside, worrying. It troubles him deeply that she discovered him there, by the grave.

There she is!

Julie’s running toward him. He sees her right away, because her red hair stands out in the crowd of youngsters. There’s a new spring in her step. She chucks her bag in the back seat and jumps in, and the car rocks on its suspension. She’s hot and breathless. Now he’s able to relax again. He’s concentrating on Julie. He’s still uncertain about his new role, and whether now, at last, he can be Dad again. Does she really want to spend time with him? She fastens her seat belt and glances at him from the side. Her voice is lively and cheerful.

“Did you remember the carrots for Crazy?”

He smiles and says yes, he has remembered the carrots.

Charlo puts the car in gear and thinks, Here we are, my daughter and I, driving together. We’re friends. This is what I’ve always yearned for. I took drastic measures, but I got to where I wanted to be. Again he corrects himself. This is not where he wanted to be, he only wanted Julie. Have I got her now? he wonders. Will she remain with me forever?

“What are you thinking about?” Julie asks.

Charlo considers. He wants to be honest. Build up a good relationship without any deceit or illusion.

“I’m think about the things I’m frightened of,” he says. “What I’m most frightened of at the moment.”

“And that is?” she asks. Her smile is lurking just below the surface. There isn’t a cloud in her sky, so she doesn’t want to be serious.

He blurts out the answer. “My health.”

“Oh?” She looks at him in surprise. “But you’re always in good health.”

“Yes,” he says quickly, “but I’m a smoker. We don’t live as long as other people, you know.”

He gives way to a car on his right.

“Each and every cigarette harms me,” he announces dramatically.

She laughs her trilling laugh again and it fills the car. She gets out a scrunchie and gathers her hair at the nape of her neck. He looks at her slender throat and the graceful way she holds her head. The bridge of her nose is beautifully arched. This is his own flesh and blood, something he has a right to, hasn’t he? He was willing to kill for this. No, he wasn’t willing. It was just that there was no other way. What about the old woman in the churchyard? What’s she thinking now? What the hell’s wrong with my knees? No, he doesn’t want to start thinking about that. There are enough things troubling him, plaguing him. His thoughts run in circles while his hands rest on the steering wheel, while his heart pumps blood. He has turned his own destiny around, and his crime strikes him as daring and cowardly in equal measure. That he was prepared to go so far for another human being, that he could no longer stomach being a victim.

“Sometimes there’s a flickering in front of my eyes,” he confesses.

“Really?” She studies his profile and he meets her gaze.

“Can you see anything in them? Sometimes I think they look strange.”

He stops at a red traffic light and seeks her eyes. She looks hard.

“Strange how?”

“There’s something about the pupils. They look odd.”

She leans forward a little and examines him carefully. Then she begins to giggle.

“Go on! They’re completely normal.”

He blinks several times with relief.

“It’s good to be free,” he says, and puts the car in gear again.

She turns to look at him.

“What do you mean, free?”

“That I don’t owe money anymore, I don’t gamble. The other day I walked past a Twin Runner and didn’t even touch the money in my pocket.”

“Was it hard?” she asks teasingly.

“Yes,” he says seriously. “You don’t understand these things, but it was hard. It cost me a lot. But afterward it felt good. A victory over myself.”

“We’re on an even keel,” she announces, and looks at the road again, her green eyes shining. He nods. He needs a cigarette, but doesn’t want to subject her to the smoke and goes without.

“And you?” he asks, looking at her. “What are you most scared of?”

She shakes her head in resignation. “I think that’s a silly question, under the circumstances. I’m frightened of losing Crazy. I want to be where we are now, forever.”

Charlo nods in agreement.

“We can both drink to that,” he says contentedly.

He’s more relaxed now, because with Julie at his side he feels protected. He can’t imagine anything bad coming to ruin it because what they have together is great. After all, I’m a caring person, he thinks, and what’s growing between us is precious. But his crime is inconceivable. It was a false step.

“What will you do while I’m riding?” asks Julie.

“I’m going to put up some mangers,” he answers. “They’re blue. That really worries me.”

She laughs at him. “Why?”

“The stables are red and the box doors are brown. The mangers ought to be black. Or possibly green. It’s a matter of aesthetics. Møller can’t see it. He knows about horses but not about colors.”

“He’s obviously bought the ones he could afford,” Julie remarks matter-of-factly. “I bet the blue ones were the cheapest.”

Charlo gives a deep sigh. “Yes,” he says, “it’s the bottom line that counts. I know all about that.”

A silence falls between them, and Charlo can’t think of anything to fill it. He concentrates on his driving and listening to Julie breathing next to him. He catches the scent of the mild soap that fills the car’s interior. It’s enough just to sit next to her; it’s good to be two against the rest of the world. But he always has to think before he opens his mouth. Consider what’s safe. He attempts to recall the time when he could simply talk off the cuff, quickly, without thinking, and saying anything that came into his head. The time before he began to gamble, when everything was easy between him and Inga Lill. He tries to imagine an interrogation. He’s seen plenty on television. He believes he’d get through one. Simply because he’d have to, if he didn’t want to lose what he’s finally gained. That cost him blood. At the same time, he envisages the legal system as a mill, grinding incessantly, and that sooner or later he’ll be picked up. But that’s for later, he thinks. For now I’m sitting here with Julie. She’s quiet in the seat next to him, looking forward to the work. I’ve given her what she desired. That’s all I wanted.

“What was it like for you when things were at their worst?” he asks, throwing her a look. “I mean, as regards the gambling.”

She thinks about it and lowers her head.

“Well,” she says, “it was so embarrassing. You were always parked in front of those slot machines. And everyone could see you. A grown man standing there playing like that, completely hooked. I didn’t understand it. The people in my class saw you, too, standing there day after day, shoving in money. Mom often used to send me out to fetch you. Because you never came home from the shops. And when you finally did come, you hadn’t got what she’d asked for. You’d always gambled away most of the money.”

He’s silent, letting it sink in. He feels an ache of shame within him.

“But the worst time,” she continues, “was when we went to Øvrevoll. And the people you rubbed shoulders with there. And the money I’d saved. The way it suddenly disappeared.”

Charlo clears his throat. “Can I say something really stupid?” he pleads.

She makes no reply, just waits.

“My earnest desire was to double that money. I felt so lucky that day — it’s impossible to describe. A certainty that the winnings were there waiting for me. That’s how it is sometimes. I could hardly believe it when I lost. Julie,” he says intently. “It’s an illness.”

She nods again, not wanting to be serious. Looking at him, she smiles warily. “But what if you have a relapse?”

He shakes his head emphatically.

“It won’t happen. I’m certain of it.”

“But how can you be so sure?” she says, wanting more assurance, more security.

“I’m in a different place now,” he says. “And I’m not looking back.”

His great fear is that the horses will panic when he starts the drill. He looks at the huge animals doubtfully and thinks of all that bone and muscle and all the things that could happen. Those thin, delicate legs.

“It’s just a matter of getting on with it,” Møller says. “Sometimes they rear and jostle and make a real mess. But I can’t empty the stable, Charlo. We’ll have to take what comes.”

He takes his courage in both hands. He’s marked out where the manger is to go; the old one has been taken down. He makes no comment about the color. It’s so quiet in the stable that he can hear his own breathing and his thumping heart. Then he starts the drill. It doesn’t make much noise before it touches the wall, and then it drones through the entire building. The horses listen with pricked ears. Nothing happens. He stops, has a rest, and looks down the passage. Møller stands, legs apart, and signals that he can continue.

“They’re calm because I’m standing here,” he explains. “I can stay until you’re done. When Julie’s finished riding, you can do the wood shavings in the ring. It’s mucky now. The tractor’s in the outbuilding with the key in the ignition.”

Charlo carries on working and hangs up the four mangers. The bright blue color clashes with the rest of the interior, just as he’d imagined it would. It irritates him. Green would have looked lovely. Afterward he decides to clean out the box for Julie. He wants to be useful. He gets hold of a wheelbarrow and shavings fork; it’s plastic and some of the tines are broken, but he works hard and manages it. The muck is heavy. He sieves the wood shavings through the tines and shovels until he’s hot. He fills up the wheelbarrow and empties it down the hatch. He fetches fresh shavings and gives it two barrowsful. When he’s finished, the box is pleasant and dry. He goes down to look at the tractor. It’s a John Deere. He gets in and turns the ignition key, feeling like a small boy. He walks into the ring to look at Julie. He borrows the yellow blanket and sits down in a chair. He’d like to sit like this forever, watching the two of them at work. Things are good now, Inga Lill, he thinks. We’ve found each other again, and now we’ll always be together. He notices that Julie is practicing reining back. She does it over and over again, sitting back hard in the saddle with a firm touch on the reins, spurring gently. He never tires of watching them.

Will she have dinner with him?

With a smile, she agrees. She covers Crazy with a horse blanket, gives him carrots, and kisses him on the muzzle. Afterward she hangs around in front of his box. She can hardly tear herself away.

“Well,” says Charlo. “He’ll still be here tomorrow.”

Julie goes out to the car with him. They visit the shop and Charlo gets some frozen lasagna. As they drive to Blomsgate, Charlo thinks, I can’t bear to be alone again. When Julie’s with me, I forget about other things. Unpleasant things. Surely I deserve someone. Perhaps there is some justice in this world after all, and I’m no good on my own.

They stamp the snow from their feet on the doormat. Julie pulls off her riding boots and Charlo sets about making the food. Julie isn’t often at his house. She moves around the living room, studying the pictures on the walls and standing at the window looking out.

“Why did you lose your job?” she asks all of a sudden.

Charlo drops what he has in his hands.

“I thought Mom had told you,” he says in an undertone.

“No. For your information, she used to protect you, in spite of everything.”

He can feel his heart again, racing beneath his shirt. He has no choice but to come out with it. Her gaze is inquiring. She’s practically an adult, he thinks, and she has rights.

“I misappropriated money,” he says finally. “A small amount, but they discovered it.”

Julie doesn’t look surprised. Just very serious.

“I was lucky,” Charlo continues and begins slicing bread. “They never reported me. But I was sacked on the spot. It was humiliating,” he adds, “and I’d lost so much of my pride already. It was worse for Mom. I thought it was going to kill her.”

“It did, too,” Julie says tersely. She regards him keenly.

The knife slips out of Charlo’s hand. He gulps.

“Mom died of leukemia,” he says. “They couldn’t do anything.”

“Sorry.” She looks down at the floor with her arms folded.

“I haven’t got much to be proud of,” Charlo says, getting two plates out of the cupboard, “but I am proud of you. You’ve a perfect right to ask questions. I’ll answer them as best I can.”

He opens the oven to look at the lasagna. It’s turned golden on top.

“You are the only thing I’ve produced in my life. A wretched person like me fathering a daughter like you.”

She smiles her bashful smile once more.

“Help me now,” he says. “You can set the table. The meal will be ready soon.”

They eat the hot lasagna in silence. Julie has a Coke with it and Charlo drinks water. He’s going to drive Julie home and he won’t have any alcohol in his blood when he does. From now on, he’s not going to transgress in any way whatsoever. Not as long as he lives. This resolution makes him feel good; it’s like an atonement.

Afterward they do the washing up together. Standing side by side. Charlo enjoys the silence. He gets a chocolate bar out of the cupboard, breaks it into pieces, and puts them in a bowl. They each take a chair and watch the falling snow. Julie picks up the newspaper and starts leafing through it. And Charlo suddenly realizes that she must have read about the Hamsund murder. That she has opinions about it. He’s filled with a sudden curiosity. What kind of expression would she assume if he were to mention it? Quite at random, just in passing. Have you heard about that murder at Hamsund? He clenches his teeth. Hold your tongue! a voice inside him says. It’s as if the murder is pressing inside him. The pressure is rising in his chest and all the way up to his mouth, where his tongue lies ready to form words. Julie skims on. Charlo sits watching her. She’s so like Inga Lill, but her features are softer. Even so, she displays the same acuteness that her mother had, a need to get to the bottom of things. Suddenly she looks up at him.

“Have you seen this article?” she asks, holding up the paper. “This Inspector Sejer, the policeman who’s leading the Hamsund murder case, hasn’t had a single unsolved murder in his whole career. And he’s over fifty. What about that?”

Charlo turns pale. He certainly hasn’t read the article and he can’t understand how he missed it.

“Oh, really?” he says doubtfully. She looks down at the text again, and he’s glad she can’t see his face because now it’s as rigid as papier-mâché.

“That would be funny,” she says. “If the people who did it read the paper. Think of the panic. Not a single unsolved case.”

Charlo slumps in his chair. He searches for words, but they stick in his throat. Suddenly she looks up at him. Takes a piece of chocolate, chews it with her sharp teeth.

“You’re looking tired,” she teases. “You’re not used to real work, Dad.”

Charlo runs a weary hand across his face. Yes, he’s tired. He’s got to watch out the whole time, forever guarding his words. He clings to this smidgeon of tenderness, that she’s noticed he’s tired. Yes, he’s tired. He feels a lot older than he actually is. It’s like walking on thin ice: he hardly dares put his feet down, or make sudden movements, or raise his voice, for fear that someone might notice him and single him out in the crowd. Not a single unsolved case. It’s disturbing. Julie puts the paper down.

“I must go back and do some homework,” she says.

He nods, looks surreptitiously at the paper, and thinks about getting ready to drive. She vanishes into the hallway and returns with her riding boots.

“You’ve got all that shoe polish and stuff in the kitchen. I’ll just go over my boots before we go, and then it’ll be done. Is it still in the chest?”

He finds himself nodding. He hears her go out to the kitchen and raise the lid of the chest. He gets up heavily from his chair, but his whole being is rigid with fear. He’s remembered something, but he can’t move quickly enough. At last he makes it out to the kitchen. Julie is looking at him in astonishment.

“This is my old gym bag, isn’t it? Whatever have you got inside it?”

He makes no reply, trying to think clearly, but his brain is foggy. She opens the bag and peers into it.

“Jewelry?” she says in surprise.

He starts nodding vigorously, still searching for words, for some kind of explanation. But no words come. There’s only his thudding heart and the feeling of unreality, like in a film. She picks them up in turn, one by one. Harriet’s bracelet and rings, and the brooches and string of pearls. She places them on the table. Again she looks at him uncertainly, as if she’s suddenly been given a clue. It makes her face darker. Charlo twists his mouth into a stiff smile, his mind in an uproar.

“Yes, they were Grandma’s,” he says, and feels his head moving heavily up and down.

“But Grandma isn’t dead,” Julie says. She lifts the largest brooch, the cameo. Turns it this way and that in the light.

“Well, no. But she gave them to me. I got her old silverware, which I told you about, and which I sold. And these bits of jewelry.”

“But I’ve never seen them before,” she says probingly.

Charlo curses the physiological processes that are turning his cheeks red.

“They’re things she’s never worn,” he explains in a panic. “That’s why you’ve never seen them. So she gave them to me. As an advance on her estate. They’re not worth anything,” he adds quickly.

“But why have you got them in the chest?” she asks. “In my gym bag?” In his confusion, he shakes his head. He finds no explanation. He thinks he can hear the sound of cracking ice that he really has fallen through badly. The damage must be repaired, but he doesn’t know how.

“Well, you know,” he says, attempting a self-deprecatory laugh, “I’ve always been a scatterbrain.” His laughter seems to reverberate around the room.

She nods in agreement. But something has made her uneasy. He can see that quite plainly. He doesn’t know what to do about it, but he knows that he’s got to smooth it over and make her forget.

“Here,” he says, diving into the chest. His hand emerges clutching a tin. “This’ll be good for your boots. I’ll find you a cloth.”

She sits down on the floor with the boots, still silent. The jewelry is on display on the table. He can’t bring himself to touch it. He feels he’d like to talk the entire thing away, as he rummages in the cupboard for something she can use as a cloth. He finds an old pair of worn-out underpants and cuts them in half. Hands her the cotton material. She takes it hesitantly.

“It’s a long time since I went to the nursing home,” she says. “I feel bad about it. Perhaps I’ll go and visit her.”

“Don’t mention the jewelry,” he puts in quickly. “It’ll only make her really confused.”

“Will it?”

She dips the cloth in the polish.

“You know she can’t remember things from one minute to the next. What she’s said or done.”

She’s still taciturn. She polishes the boots until they shine, but there’s a troubled furrow between her eyes. Charlo tries to joke and laugh, without really succeeding. But she listens and responds. It’ll all be fine now. No solemnity, no suspicions, no deceit.