The Murder of Harriet Krohn

by Karin Fossum

  Charlo takes a drink of Farris.

  “I can’t see how it matters. She’s dead, tragically. Everything else is just detail, and it won’t bring her back to life again.”

  “Think again. You’ll have to defend yourself, and then everything will have to be right. If you stand up in court and lie, the jury will use it against you.”

  “But, for Christ’s sake . . .”

  “For his sake, certainly, but most of all for your own. What did you hit her with?”

  Charlo squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again. Oh, God. He’d better go the last mile as well. He needs rest; he needs sleep. He needs to come to himself again.

  “The butt of a revolver.”

  Sejer lets out a contented sigh.

  “Well, that’s out in the open. What kind of revolver was it?”

  “An old Husqvarna from the war. It belonged to my father. And for the record, it wasn’t loaded. I didn’t want to hurt anyone—only scare them.”

  “Instead you used it as a club?”

  “Yes, she was so determined. God, I didn’t know what to do. I hit her once on the head. The thing about the kitchen unit wasn’t true. But I didn’t want to look like a cold-blooded murderer, because I’m not. But you’re pushing me so hard. I can’t take any more. We’ve got to end now. I’ve made a clean breast of everything.”

  “How many times did you hit her?”

  “Only once. Or, well, it might have been twice.”

  “Mr. Torp, I repeat: she had thirteen skull fractures.”

  “That can’t be right. That’s not the way I remember it.”

  “Her skull was smashed. And some of her blood spattered onto your parka.”

  Charlo hangs his head. “How did you track me down?” he asks suddenly. “After all this time. I can’t understand it.”

  “Straightforward, methodical investigation. Time-consuming work. Countless conversations with lots of people about every minute observation. I’m not giving you more detail than that. But I want to ask you this. Why did you choose Harriet Krohn?”

  “Pure chance, really. I sometimes used the same café that she went to with a friend. It’s popular with the elderly. I noticed her at once. She was so plainly dressed, a person who spent little money on herself. Who just saved and saved over the years. She was also very frail, and she wore a thick gold bracelet on her wrist. It was a kind of promise that she was prosperous. I followed her to the green house and saw that she lived alone.”

  “So you planned this over time?”

  “Not really. I simply felt impelled.”

  “Are you ready to make a full statement?”

  “Do we have to go through it all over again? I don’t know if I can.”

  “I know it’s been an effort, Mr. Torp. The more frank and precise you are, the sooner we’ll be finished. Afterward you can rest.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t take the horse away from Julie! I don’t think she’d get over it.”

  “You should have thought of that before.”

  “But she lives for that horse! And surely she shouldn’t be allowed to suffer for what I’ve done?”

  “Did you pay for it with Harriet Krohn’s money?”

  “Yes. I sold the silver.”

  “To whom?”

  “No, I don’t want to get anyone into trouble.”

  “As things stand, I think you ought to concentrate on yourself and your own situation. And excuse my curiosity, but before we start from the beginning again, there’s one small detail that’s nagging me.”

  “Yes?”

  “How did you damage that front tooth of yours?”

  Charlo puts a hand up to his mouth. Thinks back.

  “It happened about five years ago. At the pub. I’d had a bit too much to drink and was paying a visit to the restroom. On the way out, I tripped and my mouth hit the edge of the washbasin. I tripped,” he repeats, and suddenly something dawns on him. He’s always blamed the drink. Perhaps, in reality, his legs gave way under him. Even then. He falls silent.

  “What are you thinking about, Mr. Torp?”

  “That I should have had it fixed, but I didn’t have the money. It doesn’t look very nice, does it?”

  “Not at all,” Sejer says, smiling. “It’s one of those charming little details that people notice and remember.”

  16

  HE SPENDS FOUR weeks on remand.

  Then an additional four weeks, and he isn’t allowed any letters or visitors. He passes much of his time dozing on the narrow bunk beneath the window. He glides away and forgets everything, until he’s rudely awoken by keys jangling in the lock. The days are uniform; they blend into one another uneventfully. He often sits by the window staring out. Not much happens out there. A woman on a bicycle is a real treat. He notes all the details: the bike’s shiny paint; the flapping skirt; the glimpses of naked, golden calves. A couple of youngsters messing around with a skateboard. Little things. The cloud formations and the trees moving in the wind, their great crowns swaying. A flock of birds crossing the sky.

  He likes the food and he eats well. In the evenings, he’s allowed to go into the yard for a smoke. He tells them about his illness and informs them in subdued tones of his possible fate in a few years’ time. They listen and nod, but they don’t show him the sympathy he’d hoped for. So far he’s been able to manage, but at times he finds himself waiting for the big deterioration. The disease is like a dormant volcano. Frequently he lies on his bunk sensing his body. Nothing that happens in it escapes him or his questioning anxiety. A stitch in his side, a sensation in his leg. It’s all analyzed.

  At last he’s allowed visitors. He lets Julie know and settles down to wait. He walks in a tight circle in his cell to get his body warm. There’s so much he wants to say. She has the right to an explanation. He knows he’s got the words. He’s been through everything so often in his thoughts, and more recently with his lawyer. He knows that he can explain his panic. When she attacked him from behind and began screaming. He looks at the time. He glances out of the window. Straightens the blanket on the bunk slightly, nervously adjusts his shirt collar. Julie is so wise, so sensible. He believes it will be all right. He runs his hand through his hair and looks at the time again and waits. His ears are tuned to the noises in the corridor. He listens for sounds of footsteps and keys. Soon they’ll stand in the door saying, you’ve got a visitor, Torp. It only takes five minutes to walk up from Oscarsgate to the courthouse; she’ll be on time for sure. No doubt she’ll be pleased to see him. He does another round of the floor. He prepares himself and feels that he’s in control. He ends up standing by the window. The traffic outside is intermittent. The odd car, the occasional woman with a baby carriage. The weather is warm and sunny. It doesn’t occur to him that he’ll spend years within these four walls. It’s incomprehensible to him. It doesn’t occur to him that he’ll do time: after all, he’s ill. And so he’s buoyant and lighthearted, and only focused on Julie, who’ll soon be here.

  He’s quite certain she’ll be here.

  17

  THE TOWN IS in constant flux and resembles a building site with its heavy plant and cranes. People, both good and bad, walk around its streets. The strong and the weak. Those who’ve never been tested. Those who live in blissful ignorance of what really lurks within them, in the dark corners of their minds. The ordinary people live on the east side, the wealthy on the west. The higher up the hillside you go, the larger and more expensive are the dwellings. At the foot of the hill stands the courthouse. A gently curving, dirty gray building of iron and glass and concrete. The county jail is on the fifth floor. The low sun strikes a window, throwing a rectangle of sunlight on the green floor. The cell measures eight square meters and contains a desk and a bunk. A man lies on the bunk. He lies quite still with his hands cupped behind his head, flexing his toes inside his socks. Time flows through him, just as the river outside flows past, even and inexorable. He lies waiting for his lunch and feels his stomach rumblin
g. He decides to write a letter. Writing is pleasant and he can use it to fill the remaining hour. He gets up and goes over to the desk. He pulls out the chair and opens a lined pad of paper. He takes a deep breath and puts pen to paper. He writes:

  Dearest Julie,

  It’s Dad here again. I’m sorry to pester you, but we’ve got so much to talk about now. You know that I’ll carry on writing until you answer. You will answer, won’t you? I assume you got my message that now I can have visitors. So just come along. They’re pretty good here, but it would be a good idea if you called first so that I can get myself ready. I must admit to being a little nervous. But after all, we do know each other, and I’m sure we can work it out. I’m sure we can. So just come one day when it’s convenient. I won’t be going anywhere, and I need to explain things so badly. You’ve got a right to an explanation. Now that you know everything. Now that you know how things stand, how ill I am, how uncertain my future is. If the worst comes to the worst, I could become dependent. I’m sure you understand how serious this is. We’ve got to keep in contact. I have no one else, after all. I’ve only got myself to blame, I know that. But that doesn’t make it any the less painful to be as alone as I am now. It’s unbearable. I see the others getting visits, and it’s hard to be the only one sitting alone in my cell all day long. Presumably you’re hard at it with exams and suchlike. I know that you’re clever and single-minded, and of course I’m glad that you’re putting school first. Education is important, and if you want to get into veterinary college you’ll need good marks. So, just stick with your work and keep at it, but don’t forget that I’m here waiting. I’m hoping for a bit of understanding. You’re astute and practically grown up now. Perhaps you need time, perhaps you’re in shock. But it’ll pass.

  We’re still working hard, my lawyer and me, to get a pardon on grounds of ill health, but that’s not the only avenue we’re looking into. When I think back to that terrible day, November 7, many things become clear to me. Because in here I’ve got plenty of time, and I’ve delved into myself and analyzed the situation and what actually happened. I walked the streets as if delirious. I moved with a fever in my body, as if on greased rails. Before me an abyss, behind me only wretchedness. It was like having a pack of mongrels snapping at my heels—a situation so extreme that it threatened my very sanity, if you know what I mean. All this proved too much for me. I realize now that I was probably psychotic. I dimly recall an argument raging inside my head, which is one of the symptoms. I’m sure you know, mental illness must lead to acquittal. There’s plenty of documentation from similar cases. I’ve at last realized that I probably wasn’t of sound mind. If they make me serve time for this, it should be in a hospital. It’s true I’ve confessed, but I haven’t admitted criminal liability, according to my excellent counsel, whose name is Friis. Now you know how the matter stands.

  The disease continues to develop. I often fall on the way to the exercise yard, in the corridor. The prison officers converge from all directions to try to get me back on my feet again. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Sometimes I hear snarky comments, but I try to laugh them off. I try to understand why this has happened to me. In the evenings, I lie on my bunk and think about the future. It doesn’t look bright, but even so I’ve settled down and I don’t complain. I just daydream a lot about the good times with you and Crazy. I’ve made no friends. I don’t feel any affinity with the others who are locked up here.

  Dearest Julie, you mustn’t worry about Crazy. I’ll find a way out and, if necessary, I’ll sell the house, so that you’ll be able to pay for him with honest money. My lawyer will help me—at least there’s someone on my side. I never wanted this to happen, and I think you know that. But it would be nice if you said it out loud. I don’t think that’s too much to ask. Can’t you search within yourself and come up with a little forbearance? Something that would make my days a bit easier?

  The legal system is merciless. It’s a mill that goes grinding on and on. I often feel exhausted and drained of all strength, but I’m impressed with the prison officers. They’re not bothered about what the inmates have done. They do their jobs and are friendly, and I should add: far more understanding than other people.

  Are you looking after yourself? The worst thing of all is that I can’t help you anymore. But I’m always with you in thought, and even though you’ve turned your back on me now, we’re bound together by unbreakable ties. I won’t give up hoping that maybe you’ll write back or come to visit one day. This letter isn’t a long one because it’s lunchtime now, you see, and I’m hungry. I haven’t lost my appetite and I need food. I try to enjoy the small things, try to carry on. And then they bring reading material into my cell. That’s so good, because it makes the time pass quickly. I’ll write again next week. Don’t believe what you read in the newspapers. They don’t tell the whole story. They’re bland and sensationalist, trying to portray me as a cold-blooded killer. And you can’t get further from the truth than that, as you’ll realize because you understand me. But I’m the only one who knows the real truth. No one else saw what happened, and it can all be explained. If only you’ll give me the chance.

  I’m not a wicked man!

  For the love of God, Julie, you must believe me!

  About the Author

  KARIN FOSSUM has won numerous awards, including the Glass Key Award for the best Nordic crime novel, an honor shared with Henning Mankell and Jo Nesbø, and the Los Angeles Times Book Prize. Her highly acclaimed Inspector Sejer series has been published in more than thirty countries. She lives in Sylling, Norway.