The Murder of Harriet Krohn

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 been 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.”

They return to Inga Lill, who’s sitting ready at the table.

“You need so much equipment for riding,” she says anxiously. “Boots, helmet, high-visibility vest, things like that.”

“She can borrow all she needs,” Charlo responds, “and she can ride in the boots she’s got. They’ve got decent heels. She can borrow a helmet, too. Maybe we’ll have to buy a riding whip, which costs about thirty kroner. Yes, and then a pair of good gloves. That’s all.”

Inga Lill falls silent and starts eating. Julie keeps her under observation and keeps peeking in Charlo’s direction. Things are moving too slowly for her. But Charlo is playing the long game, because he knows Inga Lill. He knows that she needs time.

“Julie mustn’t suffer because of your anxiety,” he says between mouthfuls. “Supposing she wanted to do Alpine skiing. Lots of injuries there. Supposing she wanted to do handball — that’s really rough. Supposing she decides one day that she wants to start diving.”

Inga Lill sends him a sideways look. “Well, I suppose, if she just rides in a circle and doesn’t start jumping. If she doesn’t ride out in traffic, but stays indoors and only rides when there’s a teacher there. That’s probably not so risky.”

Charlo bites his lip. “Of course she must start jumping; that’s what makes it fun. But they begin with a pole on the ground. They start from the bottom.”

“I won’t come,” she says. “I won’t sit there watching, because my nerves won’t stand it.”

Charlo smiles. “But mine will,” he says. “Your daughter’s tough, Inga Lill. She’s got plenty of guts. She must be allowed to go her own way. Ballet’s never going to be her thing.” He catches himself as he says it. “Dancing is actually the toughest thing you can choose; it’s a constant battle with pain. I’m glad you’re not going to be a ballet dancer, Julie,” he says, laughing.

She giggles over her fish, reveling in this father who’s organizing everything for her.

“But she’ll have to join the Riders’ Club. It’s obligatory, to do with insurance and all that.”

Inga Lill sighs heavily.

“You should be pleased,” says Charlo, “ that you’ve got a daughter who wants to do something. Just look at what the other girls get up to when they’re older. Hanging around in the evenings outside the service station looking for boys. It’s better for her to be in the stables; at least she’ll be doing something meaningful.”

Eventually she manages a valiant smile and surrenders. Julie wolfs down large quantities of food, already preparing for her new future as a rider.

“You’ll have to shovel horse manure,” Charlo cautions her, “and it’s very hard work.”

She nods eagerly, looking forward to shoveling horse manure, looking forward to the whole rest of her life, now that it’s just beginning. He smiles gratefully at Inga Lill. She looks tired. She was ill even then, but none of them knew it.

The hours in the stable are what bring him and Julie so close together. They share everything, the joy and the drudgery, the laughter and the tears. They set off in the evenings in all sorts of weather: the heat of summer, the storms of autumn, and the frosts of winter. On the coldest days, the harness is so stiff that it’s almost impossible to bend the straps. But Julie keeps warm. After three circuits of the ring, she throws off her jacket. She grows and starts jumping, and the jumps gradually get higher. Charlo’s heart races each time she flies over. He feels a mixture of fear and triumph. Sixty centimeters, a meter, one meter twenty. Goodbye to Snowball the pony, and on to a big horse, a gelding called Mephisto. It’s serious now. The passion never cools. It fills the days and nights. And always those green eyes on his, insistent.

“I want my own horse.”

“We can’t afford it, Julie.”

“Then I’ll save for it myself,” she says. “I’ll get a job.”

He nods his encouragement, thinking it’s good she’s got dreams and he knows she’s got willpower.

“And maybe I’ll get some money for my confirmation. I can use that.”

“Yes,” he says. “We’ll manage it.”

She clutches his jacket and holds him fast.

“Is that a promise, Dad?”

He looks at her and nods. “Yes, it’s a promise.”

The memory of it makes him shudder. She saved twenty thousand kroner, and he gambled the money away behind her back. Another memory returns. He’s in the shop with Julie; Inga Lill has sent him out to get some groceries. On the way, he stops at a slot machine. He rummages in his pocket and finds a ten-kroner bit and sticks it into the slot. Julie watches him skeptically, seeing the symbols spinning in the windows. Some coins clatter into the dish. Hearing the noise, people turn and look at them.

“Fun, isn’t it?” he says and smiles, pushing in another ten-kroner bit. The machine begins its whirring. Charlo is full of childish pleasure. More coins clatter into the dish.

“Mom isn’t very happy about all this,” Julie says, with doubt in her voice. “Every time you see one of these machines you’ve got to feed it.”

“It goes to a good cause,” he says, inserting another coin. “And anyway, I do win sometimes.”

“Can’t we go home? I’m hungry.”

“Ready soon. I’ve got a bit of money left.”

She gives a sigh of resignation and puts her hands on her hips. She’s the best girl in the world, but she can get bad tempered. He plays with all the money he’s won, shrugs his shoulders, and follows her out. It’s this he’s remembering now. That he turns his back on the machine and leaves, but he can still feel it tugging at him, as if there’s a cord fixed to his back. He wants to return and stand there in the light and play until it’s night. There’s a yearning within him, a hunger. In front of the machine, the world shrinks. It narrows to a tunnel. It’s just him and the coins, the sounds and the lights. He forgets that Inga Lill is sick and, when the money rattles out, it’s as if a torrent is coursing through him.

He’s promised to take Julie to Øvrevoll.

“Europe’s most beautiful racecourse,” he says and looks at her with excitement. Inga Lill listens with a stern countenance.

“You’re not to gamble there,” she says firmly, and Charlo laughs out loud. For goodness’ sake, gambling couldn’t be further from his mind. They’re going to take in the superb horses and look at the people, that’s all. Have a soft drink in the sunshine and enjoy themselves. Because he thinks he’s in control.

Slot machines were the first small rise in temperature, soon to develop into a fever that gripped him day and night. It made him happy and it brought him despair. He’s pleased Inga Lill doesn’t know what’s happening now, that she died when he was still an honest man. Was he ever honest? Wasn’t there something rotten at the core of him the whole time, and now he’s wilting? Isn’t that why his knees are weak? Then he’s there again, in Harriet’s kitchen. He sees her back, close to the kitchen unit, a few wisps of gray hair around her ears. He hits her as hard as he can, hits her as the thunder booms in his ears. Dazed, he rushes to the window and stands staring out, gripping the sill hard. Again he has that sensation of weakness. It only lasts a few seconds, and then he’s strong again. He tears himself away and sits down at his desk. He gets out the phone book and turns to the Yellow Pages, looking for a vet.

She’s a slender woman, vaguely boyish, with thick bangs and freckles on her nose. She’s wearing a worn pair of jeans and a windbreaker with a cord at the waist. She’s keen and enthusiastic. Her head moves around a lot as she speaks, and her hair dances around her face. She drives up in a station wagon and lifts her heavy case out. She walks ahead into the stable. Charlo follows her. On the case’s lid he reads the inscription: “A horse is the lady’s best friend.”

“Well,” she says, looking at the bay, “he’s a grand-looking chap.”

Charlo nods proudly and Møller agrees. He stands, arms folded, watching Charlo and the vet like a hawk. He’s well prepared and is vouching for the horse, but now the expert has taken over and he must defer to her. He puts a halter on Crazy and leads him out into the passage.

His hooves give a hollow ring as he treads the concrete. The horse is going to be minutely examined. The vet runs through all his joints and muscle groups. She checks his symmetry, eyes, ears, and mouth. She rasps his teeth. She examines his pasterns and discovers a swelling. Møller says he was born with it, that it isn’t pathological. She leads the horse outside and runs with him in the snow, and then she gets Møller to run with him. She says he trots perfectly. She asks for his vaccination card, and Møller produces it from his pocket. She gives the horse a worming dose. She forces his great mouth open, sprays the yellowish-white stuff in, snaps his jaws shut, and holds them.

She asks questions about his feeding routine and previous injuries and illnesses. She asks to see his pedigree, which is excellent. Call Me Crazy out of Pericles and Adora Z. Born and raised at a stud in the Netherlands, sent to Denmark, then taken to Norway by ship in 2001. Road safe, experienced competitor, and obedient as a child. Cooperative getting in and out of a horsebox, easy to shoe. At last she smiles broadly and gives him a good pat on the neck. She whispers to Charlo: “How much is he asking?”

“Forty thousand.”

Her smile widens even more. She’s got a large gap between her front teeth.

“He’s a steal.”

Charlo has the money in his inside pocket. Blood money, it strikes him suddenly, but nobody knows. Nobody knows, because nobody saw him. It was dark on the evening of November 7, and people stayed indoors. He pays the vet seven hundred kroner, thanks her for her help, and accompanies Møller to his office on the floor above the boxes. It’s dim and snug beneath the coved ceiling, with a special smell of horses and painted wood. They are going to sign a contract, so it’s an important moment. Charlo is as excited as a child. He sits down in a chair and watches Møller fetch a fat sheaf of documents. The horse has had two previous owners; he hands the whole lot over to Charlo to study. Charlo takes the money out of his wallet and tells Møller to count it, which he does while Charlo reads. And as he sits in the comfy office and looks around, at cups and rosettes and pictures of horses, an idea comes to him. He glances furtively at Møller who’s writing the contract of sale. Should he chance it? It can’t do any harm; he can only say no.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any work going here?” he says, and regrets it immediately because Møller is looking at him in surprise. Suddenly Charlo feels like a beggar.

“Well,” he says, drawing out his answer, “I’ve run this place for years without much help. So not a job as such.” He pauses. “I’m not quite sure. Not a full-time job, at any rate.”

“But part-time, perhaps?” Charlo says. He smiles, wanting to maintain an easy tone.

“Well, I do sometimes feel I need a handyman,” Møller admits, “and there’s a lot of mucking out with twenty horses. There’s jobs in the ring, repairs, and such. Are you good with your hands?”

Charlo nods energetically.

“I’ve got a trucker’s license,” he adds. “If that’s any good. I’m looking for work and have been for some time. Time hangs heavy, you know.” Møller nods and understands. He pushes the contract over to Charlo.

“We may be able to come up with something,” he says. “Let me think it over. If you don’t mind starting with small stuff, at least to begin with. Here, you need to fill the rest out. The horse’s new owner and your signature.” Charlo picks up the pen and signs. On the dotted line marked “owner” he writes: Julie Torp.

He’s seated in his chair with a beer, looking at the contract. It’s on the table in front of him, a golden piece of paper. When he picks it up and reads it, his hands shake. He can hardly believe it, that he’ll be making amends at last. As he drinks, he dreams of beautiful images of Julie on the horse. But there’s also a knot of uncertainty inside him. He’s afraid she may slam the door in his face and turn him away before he’s had the chance to speak. The cost was high, but everything has a price. And sometimes you have to pay with blood.

He thinks about his heart. He can still see the notch in it, but now it’s covered in gray scar tissue. Everyone bears scars, he thinks, both inside and out. He settles back in his chair. He doesn’t want either the radio or television on because now he can take the silence. It spreads through the room and puts him at his ease. But it’s still fragile. He concentrates on sitting perfectly quietly, breathing deeply and rhythmically. Again he sees Julie; his thoughts have traveled back. She’s placing one foot in the stirrup and swinging herself up onto Mephisto. He holds her jacket, because she always gets so hot. Her riding teacher comes across to him, holding something out.

“The last four lessons haven’t been paid,” she says, handing him the invoice. He claps his hand to his forehead, saying, “Christ, I must have forgotten.” Julie keeps her eye on him. She sees what’s happening and drives the horse away, disappears. He takes out his wallet, which is empty. It’s the shame he remembers most of all, because this happens time and time again. Because money flows from his wallet and into slot machines in a constant stream. It’s as if he’s hemorrhaging money. Charlo shuts the images out. He wants to see something different, something nice.

But what comes to his mind is Inga Lill’s funeral. The organ, the whispering voices, and Julie squeezing his hand so hard that he thinks she’ll crush it. How are we going to manage now? he thinks, because Inga Lill has always been the corrective influence in his life. Now that she’s gone, it’s as if he’s lifting off and losing his last contact with the ground.

He returns from his daydream and looks around the room. He’s back on track now. He’s got himself some work, and he’ll really slog at it. He’ll put every ounce of effort into the years he’s got left. He will serve his time. In his own way. He stares out into the street. Some cars are parked along the pavement, and he studies them carefully. He’s got it into his head that the gray Volvo is after him. He can’t see the Volvo at the moment, and all the cars are empty. I’ll be forever looking over my shoulder, he thinks, unless the case is time-barred. That might not be for decades; perhaps I won’t even live that long. But it would be nice to experience that day. He supposes that time-barring is almost the same as forgiveness. OK, what you did that night at Hamsund was terrible, but we won’t bother you anymore. There are other important cases pending. That’s how he imagines it will be. He looks at his watch and wonders if Julie has gone to bed. Maybe she’s lying there with a book, turning the pages, unaware of all the things that are about to happen.