by Karin Fossum
“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. Ye
s, 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?”
