The Murder of Harriet Krohn

12

Things are good now.

But they’re fragile. He’s skating on thin ice. He tiptoes through the days, looking over his shoulder and starting each time the phone rings. But nobody comes, nobody asks for him. There are no strange cars parked in the street.

It’s the tail end of winter. Everything is lighter, easier, milder. The snow is melting on slopes and in ditches. Puddles of ice water glitter in the sun, and water trickles vernally. Huge cotton wool cloud formations pile up in the blue sky in a white, noiseless roar. Julie and Crazy work hard and purposefully. They’re well acquainted by now, and the horse hasn’t produced any unpleasant surprises. But he doesn’t like wind. Trees and bushes move in a frightening way, and there’s a nasty howling around the corners of the building. The occasional plastic bag comes flying in between his hooves, and he starts and rears, thrashing his forelegs angrily. Julie hangs on hard. She sticks to his neck like a burr. Apart from that, he’s a great, friendly copper-colored giant.

Charlo prepares the outdoor ring. He drives the tractor slowly in circles, working the sand until it’s as fine and even as a beach. He enjoys driving the tractor. It’s almost like a toy to him, and it doesn’t feel like work at all. He’s at home on the great green machine. There’s always something to do at Møller’s Riding Center. He paints the fences white and picks up litter, which he later burns in the incinerator by the parking lot. He hangs new rope around the paddocks and gathers up the biggest stones and the odd rusty horseshoe. He clears away the girls’ drink bottles and picks up clothing they’ve cast off in the indoor ring and places it in a box in the tack room.

Julie is riding out in the sunshine in just a T-shirt. The hair beneath her helmet is damp and her cheeks are red. Charlo runs to and fro, plying her with drinks and trying out his hand as a coach. He takes up position at the bottom of the ring, leaning against the fence. He stands in sunlight glittering from the melt water.

“A bit shorter on the reins,” he calls. “Be clear, stay a little ahead all the time. Don’t forget his hindquarters — he’s got to move with all four legs. His neck’s too long, try to pull him in. That’s it, yes. That’s good. D’you want to try a jump?”

He takes a few steps into the ring.

“You want to try one thirty?”

She rides the horse in a volte. The horse is well collected. All four legs are there, working together in one great organism. A fabulous monster.

“Yes. Why not, I’ll have a go.”

Charlo walks to the jump in the middle of the ring. He moves the bar up, takes a few steps back, and then realizes just how high it is. He takes a quick glance at Crazy and sees his long legs, his muscles and his strength. Presumably he’ll fly over. But only if Julie is confident and determined, and only if he trusts her. The balance must be perfect, and the landing must be soft. After the jump, he has to turn to the right toward the next jump, which is only one meter high. Nothing for Crazy. Can they do it? Is it safe? She wants to improve, so she’s got to push herself. She’s got to make Crazy do as she wants. She must dare. Charlo walks back, throws off his jacket, and hangs it over the fence. Waits on tenterhooks. But then he can’t keep silent, so he begins shouting.

“Don’t tense up, he’ll sense that right away. Look at the jump, be with him, but don’t let him go too far out!”

She puts him into an easy canter. Turns and finds the track, sits hunched up in the saddle, and stares intently at the jump. Charlo sees the determination in her eyes. She must clear the jump and get both of them over, five hundred and fifty kilos. And they must clear it with style and elegance. Charlo’s stomach muscles clench. He steels himself and trembles. She’s never jumped so high. But Crazy has, he knows. He hears his hooves thundering on the ground, sees the dust swirling around his legs, sees the yellowish-white foam at the horse’s mouth. She closes in and shortens the stride, counts, measures the distance, and now they’re taking off. It’s a terrific takeoff, and Charlo gasps as they fly over in one great leap. Crazy lifts his hooves and lands on his forelegs, with Julie leaning against his neck. They’re over. Right away she steers him to the right. The turn is too sharp and she’s a bit on the back foot, but makes up for it again. She takes him down to a trot and takes the next jump with an almost apathetic air. Charlo begins running. His shirttails flap around him.

“Perfect!” he shouts, coming up to her. Julie takes a deep breath, stroking the horse’s neck.

“It certainly wasn’t,” she says, but her face is radiant. “I was a bit too frightened and he sensed it. But he did what I asked him to.”

“My God, Julie,” he shouts, “if only your mother had seen that! One meter thirty!”

She puts the horse into a walk again, peony red with pride.

“I’ll do a little groundwork to finish off,” she tells him coquettishly over her shoulder.

Charlo goes back to the fence. Leans against it and shuts his eyes. Stands there for a long while. He feels the sun warming his neck. He smells the scent of grass and animals, and tar softening in the warmth. The mild wind caresses his face. He stands in total tranquility, his body safe and solid and completely well. He’s sure of it. His thoughts turn to the past, flying waywardly from him like horses through an open gate. But he brings them under control and thinks forward. Of all the good things to come. He opens his eyes again and looks at Julie practicing pirouettes. It’s a miracle to him what she can do with that big animal.

Into all this brightness and warmth a shadow falls. He becomes aware of it in the corner of his right eye, a slow gray shadow. It’s of no interest to him. He’s looking straight ahead, watching the horse marking time on an incredibly small spot. The way he gathers all his weight into such a small area is beyond belief. The shadow comes closer, eating its way into his field of vision. He glances to the side and sees it’s a car. It’s a Volvo, a gray one. There’s something familiar about it. It’s moving very slowly, crawling hesitantly down the road. He watches the car until it stops. There’s no reaction within him; he’s only observing it, thinking no thoughts. He only wants to keep tabs on what’s happening around him. Nobody gets out. So he turns to Julie again and watches her rein back and walk forward, practicing transitions. It’s as if the horse is swaying over the ring, right, left, right, left, in some graceful ballet.

A car door slams. Charlo feels an impulse to turn and see who’s coming, but he doesn’t do it. He chooses to shut the world out. It’ll just be a father coming to collect one of the girls. He has no idea who it is. He stands foursquare on the sand, enjoying the sight before him in the ring. Soon he hears footsteps. There’s the faint crunching of gravel. Only now does he feel the first prick, the first stab of fear that something’s happening. Something that could prove dangerous to him. But no, he thinks then, it doesn’t happen like this. They’d come to the house and stand on the doorstep — a couple of them probably. He’s seen it in his mind’s eye. He’s dreamed about it at night. This is a lone man. He’s only come to look at the horses, like many others. There, a shadow on his right, surprisingly tall. He doesn’t want to turn his head, so he leans heavily against the fence and folds his arms. It’s no concern of his if the inquisitive want to drop in to take a look, is it? He’s interested in Julie, after all. She has his full attention.

He has the feeling, as he stands there, that the man’s got a dog. He can hear whining. He heaves a sigh of relief. A walker with his dog. There are plenty of those at the center. Charlo takes a clandestine look at the dog. He’s a funny-looking creature, small, the color of lead, and full of folds and wrinkles. Short legs, large paws. Deep-set eyes, ears thick and small. Perhaps he’s a puppy. Now he’s seated himself next to his master, waiting for further commands. Although Charlo’s watching Julie, he feels the man’s eyes on him. But he carries on looking straight ahead, at the same time counting his breaths without knowing why. Three, four, five, six.

“Charles Olav Torp?” The voice is very deep.

He nods mechanically by way of reply.

It’s so muddy where he’s standing. A few days of wind would do it good, dry it out, he thinks. And there’s too much gravel on the lot after the winter’s gritting; he ought to sweep it up. There are so many jobs to be done. He’s become almost indispensable to Møller, which was what he wanted. Charlo can’t control his thoughts. They’re running in all directions. He sees the man hold out a hand. He really is very tall, perhaps just under two meters. He’s broad-shouldered and neatly dressed in a leather jacket and black pants.

“Sejer,” he says. “Police.”

It’s as if Charlo has been sewn up too tightly. Now he unravels stitch by stitch. It’s not supposed to be like this, not here with other people present. Not in front of Julie. He puts his hands in his pockets. His face feels rigid.

“Yes?” he croaks hoarsely, his voice already betraying him. The landscape around him quickly recedes into the distance. He’s jolted back in time, and all that’s happened in recent months has been nothing but a glimpse into a future he’s destined never to enjoy.

Sejer remains silent. Charlo pulls himself together. He must shake off this paralysis and behave politely.

“What’s this about?” he asks with an attempt at a smile. He has to moisten his lips with his tongue. Møller’s apple trees need pruning, he thinks. Twigs are sprouting everywhere. Presumably it hasn’t been done for two or three years. And the grass hasn’t been cut all that well. There really are so many things that need doing: if he wanted to, he could run around here from morning to night. A ticking has begun inside his head, small, sharp stabs.

“I’d be very grateful if you’d come to the station for a chat.”

Charlo inhales. His head dips up and down without his willing it to. It doesn’t occur to him to refuse. He must appear innocent. He must be cooperative and amicable, and do his civic duty.

“What for?” he inquires weakly. He curses his feeble tone. Sejer holds back, considering.

“We’re working on a difficult case,” he says, “and various circumstances have led us to you. We’re treating you merely as a witness. It’s purely routine.”

This last remark is said in a reassuring tone. Charlo realizes that his mouth is open, but he can’t bring himself to close it. He can’t get enough air and his eyes feel dry. His eyelashes seem to be sticking together, causing him to stand there blinking like an idiot. He nods and listens to the words, placing a hand on the fence. He’s got to hold on to something.

“I’ve got to drive my daughter home,” he explains, and nods in the direction of the ring. “But of course I’ll drop in. I could stop by tomorrow.” He attempts to emphasize his words, to seem willing and at the same time taking the initiative, making his own decisions. But he isn’t making his own decisions. He’s all over the place. He’s running away like the dirty water beneath his feet.

Sejer’s face is still impassive. Charlo looks at the marked dent in his chin and his broad, determined jaw. He sees the sharp edge of the man’s nose. His eyes are dark and scrutinizing.

“It’ll only take a couple of minutes,” he says calmly. “I’ll drive you back, of course.”

It sounds like an order. The voice allows no room for protest. Protest would be an admission. If he’s going to deal with this, he must pay attention and be helpful. Charlo nods once more, feeling like a puppet on a string.

“Couldn’t we do it in the car?” he suggests, nodding over his shoulder at the gray Volvo and his own dented Honda. He rues the idea instantly. Sejer smiles patiently. He’s got very strong features; his gray hair is cut very short. He is ten years older than Charlo. The nice leather jacket and pressed black pants seem out of place in this environment where everyone walks around in riding breeches and long mud-caked boots.

“Unfortunately we have to follow certain procedures,” he says, looking at him. Charlo gives way immediately, cursing himself and his own lack of composure. It is just routine. He’s prepared. He thought he was prepared. He gives Julie a final glance. She hasn’t noticed what’s going on.

“Well,” says Charlo, trying to seem magnanimous, “I’m sure I can spare a couple of minutes.” Helplessly he shrugs as a lump grows in his throat. Can no one save him now? Can no one see what’s taking place? Sejer begins to walk toward the Volvo with long, firm strides. Charlo follows. He’s struggling with his legs a bit. They seem strange and wobbly. His feet are just appendages dangling from the ends of them.

Everything I say can, and presumably will, be used against me, he thinks.

Every movement of my face, every twitch of my mouth, every wavering gaze will give me away. That special light in my eyes that signifies unspeakable guilt. No, for God’s sake, he can’t see my guilt. Only words count now, what I actually say. I’ll say no, no, that’s not right. I can’t remember. It’s so long ago and the days blend into one another, like drops of water. Try to take control. Try to remember all you say. He’ll ask you to repeat things, maybe endlessly. Be friendly now. Be calm. You mustn’t lose your cool.

“I’m going to trample a whole lot of horse muck into your office.”

He looks down at his boots and gives a humiliated shrug. Sejer has opened the door. Charlo peers into the large room.

“Ah, I’ve had all sorts in this office,” Sejer says with a sudden, charming smile. It makes Charlo relax. We’re only going to have a little talk, he thinks. I’ll make out all right; it’s just a case of being strong. Sure and steady and determined. He enters and stands in the middle of the room. The office is light and airy, full of small, private things and pictures on the walls. Plants, which look well tended, on the windowsill. A desk and a large window with a view of the river. A green filing cabinet and a fridge, perhaps containing cold drinks. A PC. Piles of documents and books on shelves.

“Sit down, Mr. Torp,” Sejer says, waving a hand.

He goes to the fridge and gets out a bottle of Farris mineral water. Charlo watches him furtively. Sejer moves around with serenity. There’s nothing hurried in his manner. Now he owns both time and space. Charlo is on his guard. This isn’t an interview, he thinks, just a chat. The dog has gone to lie down by the wall and now resembles a gray coat with black buttons that someone has chucked in the corner. He is handed a glass, and Sejer uncaps the bottle and pours some water into it. Charlo tries to sit up in his chair. He braces himself, concentrating hard. Nothing must strike home. Nothing must get to him. What must Julie be thinking? He should have said something to her. No, she’d only be anxious, and Julie must be spared all worry. Julie must never be part of this; she must live out the whole of her life in blissful ignorance.

Sejer has returned to his chair. He takes off his leather jacket and hangs it meticulously over the back of the seat. There’s a plastic blotting pad on the desktop. It’s a map of the world, and Charlo automatically searches for Norway, which is reproduced in pink. He wishes he were far away. So his gaze travels down Europe and arrives in Italy. From Italy he sets out for the port of Piraeus. And keeps on to one of the Greek islands.

Nothing is said. Perhaps he ought to babble away, the way innocent people do. They speak without thinking, of this and that. But he can’t break the silence. If he begins to say something, he may lose control. The words will come out helter-skelter and perhaps end in a trap. If this man is the sort who lays traps. Of course he is, it’s his job. He’s learned a whole series of techniques. There’s a rushing noise in his head as Charlo waits. Sejer looks at him gravely and leafs through a wad of papers. It’s just the two of them now and the ticking seconds. Charlo crosses one leg over the other, then uncrosses it. There’s a slight hiss in the silence, which slowly gets louder. He wonders if it’s the sound of blood coursing through his brain.

“Obviously you’ve got a right to know why you’re here,” Sejer begins. He sits twiddling a pen. “I’m very grateful that you were prepared to cooperate, by the way.”

Again that deep voice: so pleasant to the ear, taking some of the edge off the gravity. Charlo begins to think. Maybe he should have refused. Is that how things stand? Has he fallen straight into the first pitfall? No, he’s innocent after all. Of course he wants to help. He doesn’t know what would be wise. Should he be indignant and slightly exercised about being picked up like this, when he’s actually got other things to do? He’s a man who’s working. He’s got responsibilities.

“Of course,” he says, and adjusts himself in his seat. “Please explain. You see, I’ve got to fetch my daughter. She’ll be finished fairly soon.”

Sejer glances at his wristwatch.

“I quite understand. We’ll get going, then. First, just for the record. Your name is Charles Olav Torp, born the second of April, nineteen sixty-three?”

“Yes.”

“Address, Blomsgate number twenty?”

“That’s right.”

Sejer looks at his papers.

“And you’ve got a daughter, Julie Torp, born the twenty-seventh of May, nineteen eighty-eight?”

Charlo’s alarmed. He doesn’t like this mention of Julie — she mustn’t get involved with this at any price.

“Correct,” he answers loudly. His eyes are wavering already. He searches for some fixed point and chooses the dog by the wall. He’s asleep.

“And she lives in the student apartments at Oscarsgate 2. A pupil at Allsaker Prep?”

“Yes.”

Sejer makes notes and glances up. “Have you got any form of ID? It’s just a formality.”

Charlo hesitates, finding this incomprehensible. But he gets out his tattered brown wallet. He almost feels ashamed of its poor condition, its broken zipper and worn leather. The blood donor sticker is yellow with age. He doesn’t give blood anymore, since they stopped paying. He takes out his driver’s license and pushes it across the desk. Sejer examines it carefully and then looks at the wallet. Charlo feels ill at ease. The smell of the stables clings to his clothes and starts to suffuse the room. The license is handed back, and he replaces his wallet in his inside pocket.

“I want to go back to the month of November.”

Sejer puts down his pen. Clasps his hands in front of him on the desk.

“And I know it’s not easy remembering exactly where you were or what you were doing on any particular date. I know it’s hard to remember times. It’s human to forget. But I’ve got reasons to believe that there are certain things you will remember. That’s why you’re here. I believe you can help us with a difficult case. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

The inspector pauses.

“We have good reason to believe that you were involved in a car accident, on exactly the seventh of November, in the vicinity of Hamsund.”

Charlo chews his lip as if he’s trying to recall. He screws up his eyes and finally starts nodding slowly.

“Yes,” he says reflectively. “I did have an accident in the car. In the autumn sometime,” he says, “but I can’t remember the date. It was indeed at Hamsund. That’s right, it was an exasperating incident.” He nods once more. Looks Sejer in the eyes, which takes a certain amount of effort. He hopes to God his pupils look normal.

“This collision interests me,” says Sejer. “So I’d like to go through it point by point.”

Charlo shakes his head, bemused.

“There’s not much to tell.” He feels the sweat in his armpits. “It was a youth who didn’t observe the right of way. He was driving a small Toyota. I was on a priority road,” he explains, “and he hit my right front fender.”

Sejer leans back. He stretches his long body, looking comfortable and relaxed.

Charlo can’t help himself. “How did you know I was involved?”

Sejer keeps silent and just looks at him with those gray eyes. He ignores the question. Charlo has the sneaking feeling that he’s lost control already. He has no authority in here; he’s just some poor sod. The man on the other side of the desk has the upper hand in everything.

“This junction,” Sejer says, “let’s take a close look at it.” He gets up and rummages among some documents on a shelf, and returns with a map. Charlo can see that markings have been made on it with a felt-tip pen.

“D’you recognize this junction?”

He pushes the map over to him. Charlo studies the roads and the arrows.

“Yes, just about,” he says. He doesn’t want to go back there. The thought of it is repellent.

“There’s the railway station,” Sejer says, pointing. “Can you show me where you came from?”

“It’s difficult to remember after all this time.”

“I understand.” He nods, understanding and patient. “But it’s important to us that you try.”

This is like banging his head on a brick wall. He’s captive in here. He’s got to answer. Could he ask for a lawyer? No, that’s ridiculous. He hasn’t been charged with anything. He’s just a witness.

“It’s possible I came from over here,” he says, and points. He doesn’t dare lie about it. The truth, he thinks, for as long as possible.

Sejer looks at the map.

“Fredboesgate,” he says distinctly, and looks up. “You came from Fredboesgate?”

Charlo nods. Panic seizes him because everything’s moving so quickly. He’s already placed himself in the vicinity of Harriet’s house.

“Yes,” he says, and nods submissively. He doesn’t look at Sejer, but studies the map with feigned interest.

“And the other car?”

“It was a Toyota,” Charlo says. “A Yaris, I think. He came from here.”

He points and notices that the street is called Holtegate. Satisfied, Sejer nods.

“Could it have been the seventh of November?”

Charlo leans across the desk, trying to gain the initiative. Again he looks at the dog resting by the wall. He doesn’t move. Like a toy animal that a child has slung there.

“It could quite possibly have been in November,” he says, “but I can’t be more precise than that. I was unemployed then,” he adds, and gets carried away in a stream of words. He can’t stop himself. “And the days just became a blur. I couldn’t tell them apart — that’s why I can’t be sure of dates. Now I’ve found work at the riding center,” he adds, “not full-time work, but it helps. I can be useful, do something with my hands, and suchlike. I’ve told Social Security, too, so they cut my unemployment benefits accordingly. I’m an honest man,” he concludes, with a defiant look at the inspector.

Sejer remains silent after this tirade. Charlo senses the redness of his cheeks. He regains control of himself. He’ll just answer questions. That’s all. No more going off like that. But there’s a pressure inside him, a defense. He didn’t want that, didn’t mean it. He was just a prisoner of the situation and his own fear. Of his own desperate need.

“But it could have been the seventh?” Sejer repeats.

Charlo shrugs. “Quite possibly. Well,” he says getting exasperated, “I suppose it was the teenager in the Toyota who led you to me. I don’t know if he took my registration number or what, but if he says it was the seventh, then it must have been!”

He regrets his outburst immediately.

“It was the seventh,” Sejer remarks quietly.

He makes notes on his paper again. Then he folds his hands on the desk. Charlo’s blood runs cold. He can’t see any end to this. This is the start, he thinks. Of the nightmare. They’ve picked me out from the crowd. He has no idea how they managed it.

“Yes, he got part of your registration number. Have you any thoughts about why he might have done that?”

Charlo is mute. He looks at the dog again; he likes watching the sleeping animal.

“No,” he says with a shrug. Sejer leans across the desk, suddenly very close.

“Didn’t you get rather worked up about this collision?”

His voice has assumed a note of sympathy. Charlo rubs his chin.

“Yes, I got worked up. I assume you’ve been given a full account. I lost my temper. I thought he was driving like an idiot, and I probably got quite angry. Almost anyone would have, in my shoes. But what did he actually say? Did he feel threatened? I never threatened him, but I did totally lose my cool. My life wasn’t easy just then,” he admits, with a touch of self-pity. “I was probably on a bit of a short fuse. That’s only human. It’s not a crime.”

The word pops out his mouth. He leans back, wanting to take control of the conversation. But it won’t be controlled.

“Your life wasn’t easy,” Sejer says. “Can you elaborate a little?”

“I don’t quite see what my life has got to do with this,” he replies quickly. “You say I’m only a witness. You keep going on about this collision and things. What is it you really want?”

Sejer picks up his pen again. Holds it between his fingers.

“I can understand that you don’t see the point. But there is a point.”

Charlo hesitates. He doesn’t dare argue. The chances of letting something slip are greater then, so it’s best to cooperate. He sees that the truth would be best.

“I’ve already told you,” he says. “I was unemployed. No work to go to. Short of money. Things like that. It’s soul-destroying not having a job. You lose all your self-esteem. Dignity, self-respect. You avoid people and can’t be bothered to answer questions. The days are a living hell, and you don’t sleep at night and then stay in bed late. Just making food is a chore. You feel like you’ve fallen off a merry-go-round, and you’re standing there watching the others who’re still on it. It’s like being a spectator of life.”

“But things are better now? That’s right, isn’t it?”

Charlo nods silently. Compresses his lips.

Sejer drinks some Farris.

“Let’s take it from the beginning,” he says. “You were driving out of Fredboesgate.” As he says the word “Fredboesgate,” he looks up at Charlo. “You approached the junction. The weather was bad on the seventh of November, sleeting and very slippery.”

“That’s right.”

“What time of night was this?”

“Well, it was about ten. Or maybe half past, possibly, I’m not quite sure.”

“Did you see the car coming?”

“Yes. But I was immersed in my own thoughts. I was sure he’d seen the sign telling him to give way. Of course he braked, but the car skidded straight on in those road conditions. A Toyota Yaris, I ask you. Without winter tires. People shouldn’t be allowed to drive that sort of car in winter weather. Shouldn’t be allowed to drive them at all. They’re just sardine tins on wheels.”

“So,” Sejer says. “There was a crash. Then what did you do?”

“I remained at the wheel for a little while, dazed. I looked into the other car and there was a teenager. He seemed terrified.”

“Go on,” Sejer says.

“I opened my door and got out. Yanked open his door and began yelling. It was all extremely childish, but I couldn’t stop myself.”

“How did the young man respond?”

“I expect you’ve asked him about that,” says Charlo, wanting to retreat again. He’d like to go home. He doesn’t think he’s doing very well. Not at all, he’s doing brilliantly. He’s telling the truth, and that’s easy. Up to a certain point.

“Yes, but I need your take on it, you know?”

It’s as if Charlo suddenly wakes up. He’s up to his waist in the freezing torrent.

“But why do you keep on about this collision?” he asks, looking at Sejer.

The inspector returns his gaze.

“We don’t need to go into our motives for asking the questions we ask,” he says. “What’s interesting from our point of view is that you were in Hamsund at a time that’s critical to my investigation.”

“And what kind of investigation is that?” Charlo asks, and holds his breath waiting for the reply.

“A murder case,” Sejer says calmly. He looks into Charlo’s eyes.

“So I may have seen something? Is that what you think?”

“Yes.”

Charlo takes courage. Looks straight at Sejer.

“In that case, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you. I wasn’t particularly observant that evening, and I can’t remember anything about cars or people. I only recall the crash and the young man. Afterward I drove home. I tried to beat out the damned thing with a hammer. I mean, the dent. Repainted it a bit. That sort of thing.”

Sejer holds his gaze. “I’m sorry, but there’s something I don’t understand. It was the Toyota driver’s fault. You could have had the dent repaired in a body shop at his expense. But you wouldn’t fill in the claim form. Why not, Mr. Torp?”

Charlo isn’t getting sufficient oxygen; his cheeks are hollow.

“But I’ve already tried to explain that I wasn’t myself that evening,” he says, and he can hear from the tone of his voice that his temper is rising.

“Let’s go into this a bit,” Sejer coaxes. “You weren’t yourself. In what way?”

Charlo takes a drink of Farris. Tries to gather his thoughts.

“I had a lot to contend with,” he confesses, because now he can see the situation for what it is. He must provide a proper and compelling explanation for why he fled the scene of the accident. “I’ve already mentioned that I was unemployed. There were also debts I couldn’t pay. I had a gambling addiction that ruined my whole life. My daughter didn’t want to see me. I’d been forced into a corner. And the collision at that junction was too much for me. I just lost it, and that’s only human, really.”

“Absolutely,” Sejer agrees. “So, you had debts?”

“I’d borrowed money from friends and the like. Gambled at Bjerke and Øvrevoll. And slot machines. I’ve always been keen on horses. It all mounted up to quite a large debt. It worried me sick. People were after me. Nothing was secure.”

“I see. You had gambling debts, you say. But not anymore? Have they been paid off?”

Charlo is unsure of what to say. “Yes, I won some money,” he blurts out.

“Ah, your luck was in?”

“People wouldn’t get addicted to gambling if they never won,” Charlo retorts.

“Of course not,” Sejer says, smiling. He rises from his chair and walks to the window. The wrinkled dog gets up and pads after him, stationing himself next to his master. Sejer stands gazing out for a while.

Charlo gets a break. He shifts a little in his chair. He looks nervously at the time, thinking about Julie. Can’t understand why Sejer is just staring out of the window like this.

“I’ve got a little question,” Sejer says. “What took you to Fredboesgate?”

Charlo shakes his head vehemently.

“Nothing at all. I only drove through it.”

“Where had you come from?”

Sejer has turned and he’s leaning against the wall.

Charlo thinks frantically. “Well, I came from Kongsberg.”

“I see. You came from Kongsberg. And what were you doing in Kongsberg?”

Charlo becomes confused. He realizes that he hasn’t prepared any of this, hasn’t spent time reshaping the evening. I’m a damn amateur, he thinks miserably.

“I just drove around,” he says at last. “It was one of those evenings when I was very down. I drove around at random. Went to various places.”

“You left your house in Blomsgate at what time?”

“Er, about six P.M. But really...”

“And when did you get back home?”

Charlo remembers that his neighbor, Erlandson, saw him from his window. They may have interviewed him. He’s filled with uncertainty. Tells the truth anyway.

“It was probably eleven o’clock or thereabouts.”

“So,” says Sejer, coming across to the desk. “You drove around without any plan from six in the evening until eleven o’clock?”

“I must have.”

“That’s a long time. That’s a lot of fuel. Could you afford it?”

“Yes.”

He crumples a little in his chair, realizing the ludicrousness of his explanation.

“I walked around the town for a while,” he adds.

“In that awful weather?” Sejer smiles. His smile is wide and always arrives unexpectedly.

“It was a bad day,” Charlo declares. And it’s true, too. The worst day of his life.

“Do you know Hamsund?” Sejer inquires.

“Not at all.”

“They’ve got a lovely church there. You ought to go and take a look at it sometime.”

Charlo blinks in terror.

“Yes, I’ve seen it in the distance,” he says. “I’ve driven past.” Then he recalls the woman he met in the churchyard. Have they been keeping him under surveillance the whole time, following his every move? The gray Volvo shadowing him through the streets without his knowledge? He clasps his hands in his lap. Glances surreptitiously at his wristwatch again. Sejer folds his arms, looking indefatigable. Charlo retreats into himself. How has he done? He’s managed well. He hasn’t admitted anything, apart from his own wretchedness.

“Let’s try to plot your movements that evening,” Sejer suggests, planting his elbows on the desktop.

“There’s no point. I don’t even remember it that well. I drove around, as I’ve already explained. From my house to the middle of town. Then I walked around a bit looking in shop windows. At all the things I couldn’t afford,” he says bitterly. “After a while, I was pretty wet because of the sleet. Got in the car again and drove out to Kongsberg. I wandered around there for quite a while. Looked at people. That sort of thing.”

Sejer nods.

“OK. You drove from Blomsgate to the town center. Roughly how long did you walk around there?”

“Maybe an hour or two.”

“Could you be a bit more precise?”

“More like two hours.”

“That takes us to eight o’clock,” Sejer says. “Then you drove to Kongsberg. That would take about forty-five minutes. Say an hour because of the poor weather?”

“Yes.”

“That’s nine o’clock. How long did you stroll around Kongsberg?”

“Um, perhaps an hour,” says Charlo, doing feverish calculations in his head.

“So, that’s ten o’clock. Then you turned for home and arrived about eleven. That’s good. We’ve got that straight. But you made a detour through Hamsund. And spent some time berating that young man?”

“Yes.”

“And there were no witnesses to the accident?”

“No,” Charlo replies truthfully.

Once more Sejer takes a break. It lasts a long time. Charlo presses his lips together and prepares himself for an attack. He can’t seem to breathe properly. This calm, he thinks, is getting on my nerves. Sejer is like an iceberg; there is something imposing and cold about him.

“As you passed along Fredboesgate,” he says suddenly, “did you notice anything in particular?”

Charlo shakes his head.

“Did you meet any other cars?”

“Not that I remember.”

“What about pedestrians?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Did you see any cars parked at the curb, for instance?”

“No. It’s too narrow.”

“You passed the old hotel?”

“Hotel? Don’t know.”

“The Fredly. It’s disused. You don’t know it?”

“I don’t know Hamsund. I’ve already said.”

Sejer pushes his documents away.

“OK. We’ll call it a day,” he says. “Just one last, small thing. Do you read the papers?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Which ones?”

“Well, it varies a bit. Dagbladet and VG. Sometimes Aftenposten, sometimes the local paper.”

“Every day?”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t see our press release?”

“Which press release?” Charlo queries, trying desperately to remember.

“We advertised in all the papers, and on radio and television, for the person involved in the traffic accident at Hamsund.”

“You did?”

“You never came forward.”

“It must have passed me by. You can’t take in everything.”

Sejer nods.

“What about the case itself?” he asks. “Did you read about that?”

“The case?”

“The murder at Hamsund, which I’m investigating. The murder of Harriet Krohn.”

“Oh yes, of course. I’ve read about that. Yes, that was terrible.”

He raises his eyes and looks at Sejer, trying to keep them steady. Sejer turns to the dog. “Come along, Frank. We’ve got to drive the man back.” Frank comes padding up. Charlo rises from his chair, dazed.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t more help.”

Sejer gives him a penetrating look.

“I dare say you’ll get another opportunity,” he says. “We’ve only just begun.”

Julie is sitting by the door of the box, munching a carrot. She gets up, dusts wood shavings from her backside, and sends him a challenging look.

“Where on Earth have you been?”

Charlo shrugs in resignation. He glances at his watch.

“Ugh,” he says with an irritated gesture, “it was just a load of nonsense. That chap was a policeman. It was all about the collision I told you about, long ago, that I was involved in. At Hamsund. Some problem with the insurance.”

Julie looks at him doubtfully. “A problem with the insurance?” She doesn’t understand and isn’t happy with his answer. She continues to pin him with her gaze.

Charlo sighs heavily. “Oh, it’s too complicated to explain.” He waves it away with his hand. “But it’s been sorted out now. You know, bureaucracy,” he says, rolling his eyes. “There’s no end to the amount of trouble they can cause poor sods like me. Evidently there were some bits that hadn’t been filled in, so I just had to answer some questions about how it happened.”

“But, the police?” she repeats uncertainly. “Surely they don’t have anything to do with insurance?”

“They seem to have. I don’t understand such things.”

Julie turns and goes into Crazy’s box, and pats his neck. An iota of suspicion lingers in her eyes. Charlo tries to smooth things over.

“Let’s go and get a pizza, Julie,” he suggests. “It’s easy to heat up. We can do it in the microwave. Are you as hungry as I am?”

She nods, closes the box door, picks up her bag, and walks resolutely down the passage. He can’t tell if she believes him. He can’t read her now, because she has withdrawn into herself and is thinking her own thoughts. He follows. The door bangs shut heavily behind them, the timber giving a long drawn-out creak.

“But,” she says when they’re sitting in the car, “that collision took place ages ago. Why are they going on about it now?”

Charlo turns onto the main road, accelerates, and shifts gears.

“The wheels turn so slowly,” he explains. “It doesn’t matter to me, of course. I’ve already had the money. It was just formalities. God knows what they were going on about. But there’s no point in arguing with them, so I gave them what they wanted.”

She nods and falls silent again. He asks if she wants pizza with pepperoni, and she does. She sits in the car while he shops. He’s troubled. He rushes down the aisles feeling irritable. Julie is suspicious, always on her guard. She doesn’t trust him, not absolutely and completely, as he wants her to. Because now he can be trusted; now he’s turned over a new leaf. If they just leave him alone. What’s the point of digging up the past? He can’t bring Harriet back to life again. He puts a pizza and a couple of Cokes on the checkout conveyor belt, pays, and goes out again. The car is ticking over in neutral. Julie has pulled her red hair over her shoulder, and braids it with nimble fingers before slipping a scrunchie around it.

“I could eat a horse,” Charlo says.

She gives him a mock hurt look, and they both laugh. At last they’re laughing. He relaxes and thinks, it went well. I did all right. They know nothing. It was just a shot in the dark. Things must be proved beyond all reasonable doubt, and there’s a lot of damn doubt there. Even so, it’s quieter than usual between them while he’s driving. He thinks that maybe she’s tired. It’s hard work dealing with a horse, and she’s got her homework as well. No, it’s more than that. The silence is palpable. He has the feeling that she’s mulling something over, but doesn’t dare ask the question. Well, it’ll come out sooner or later. If she has questions, he’ll answer them.

Later on, they’re having their meal in Charlo’s kitchen. Julie is seated on the green chest, chewing. Charlo lifts his glass of Coke and proposes a toast.

“To the new record,” he says. “One meter thirty. Congratulations, Julie. You’re a real star.”

She raises her glass, too, and they look into each other’s eyes as they drink. Julie takes a new slice of pizza, bites into it, and chews. She seems distracted, Charlo thinks. Our conversation isn’t flowing like it usually does. What’s coming between us? Why do I feel on edge? Julie’s green eyes seem so dark, so anxious. It’s as if she’s keeping something back. Charlo puts his piece of pizza down on his plate, leans forward, and looks straight at her. Attack is the best form of defense, he thinks.

“So,” he says, and smiles. “You’re very thoughtful today. Tell Dad all about it.”

She swallows. Gives her head a slight shake.

“You’re so quiet,” he goes on. “Have you got a lot on your mind?”

She nods and pushes her plate away. Leans back against the wall. Her shoulders are tense. Her white neck is so thin, he can see the veins, the fine blue lines.

“Come on, tell Dad,” he repeats. She peers up at him and purses her mouth.

“I’m thinking about Grandma,” she says at last.

She lowers her gaze immediately and tosses her head. Charlo’s heart misses a beat.

“About Grandma?”

He looks at her in surprise and tries to understand. Licks his mouth because his lips are so dry.

“I went to visit Grandma yesterday.”

She shoots little glances in his direction the whole time, as if gauging his reaction.

“She must have been pleased to see you,” he says hastily, helping himself in his confusion to another piece of pizza that he definitely doesn’t want. “I mean, even though she’s very muddled, she’d have been glad of your visit.”

Julie puts her elbows on the table. She looks at him hard.

“Grandma’s only muddled sometimes,” she says. “In between, she’s quite lucid. Then she can remember everything.”

“Really?” Charlo says. He takes a bite of his pizza and chews for a long time.

“I asked about those bits of old jewelry,” Julie says. “But she’s never given you any pieces of jewelry. She’s never had a cameo. Or any silver.”

Charlo manages a smile. He shakes his head with forbearance.

“I’m sorry to have to say it, but I’m afraid she’s lost her grip on reality, Julie.” He leans forward, not knowing where he gets the strength from. “Something’s troubling you. Tell me what it is now.”

Suddenly she looks tormented.

“It’s just that I’m so scared. I find bits of old jewelry in your chest, and I don’t know where they come from. And today, you’re picked up by the police. I don’t know what to think.”

Charlo gives her a horrified look.

“But,” he exclaims, “are you sitting there worrying about me, my darling?”

She makes no reply, only stares at him.

“I’ve told you what that was all about, Julie.”

He pushes his plate away and summons all his powers of persuasion.

“What is it that you’re scared of really?” he asks.

She squirms slightly, feeling awkward.

“I’m scared you’ll get caught up in something.”

Charlo grins.

“There. But I can put your mind at ease. Now listen to me. This is important — this is something you’ve got to believe. For the first time in my life, I’m in control. For the first time in a long time, I’m doing things right.” He clutches his glass and gulps at his Coke. “I’ve kicked my bad habits. I’m working hard for Møller. I’m looking after you and managing fine. The last thing I want is for you to start worrying about me. Because now I’m really on top of it all. And God knows that I’ve wasted half my life in madness and bad habits. But I’ve thrown all that off. I’m the world’s most respectable man now. I don’t fiddle with my taxes, I don’t drink, I’m not violent. But I understand that you find that hard to believe because you’re not used to it. You’re used to looking for relapses. But there’s no more backsliding. I’ve finished with that. D’you understand?”

She lifts her head and looks at him, giving him a shamefaced smile.

“Sorry,” she says faintly. “But it’s all a bit much for me. The way you suddenly turn up with everything ironed out, just like that. Paid your debts and bought me a horse. It’s almost too good to be true.”

He’s sitting with both his hands wrapped around his glass, and now he assumes a sympathetic expression. He’s lying, lying through his teeth. He’s laying it on with a trowel, and it’s as easy as winking. He thanks God for his special talent for dissimulation. People have to feign things or they wouldn’t survive, and he’s good at it because he has to be. She relaxes once more. She sighs heavily and shakes her head.

“Grandma’s very old,” he says softly. “She’s lost the thread completely.”

“I know,” says Julie.

“She still thinks I’m twenty-two. She still believes that Mom’s alive.”

“Yes.”

“Old people are so frightened,” he explains. “And fear creates confusion.”

“But occasionally her mind is crystal clear.”

“For a few short moments. But you mustn’t be taken in. Did she recognize you right away?”

“Not until I said something.”

“There. That’s what I mean. She recognizes voices. Have I managed to put your mind at rest? Tell me.”

She smiles bravely, looking ashamed.

“It’s only because I’m scared,” she says. “I’m scared of losing what I’ve finally got.”

He looks at her hard. “That’s never going to happen!” he says, wringing his hands in his lap all the while. He feels like a bull charging toward a cliff. He’s running straight ahead, refusing to look to the side, running as far as he can. They sit there for a long time, fingering their glasses.