Contents
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Also by Karin Fossum
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Copyright
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted inwriting by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Epub ISBN: 9781448182633
Version 1.0
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Published by Harvill Secker 2014
2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1
Copyright © Cappelen Damm AS 2004
English translation copyright © James Anderson 2014
Karin Fossum has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
First published with the title Drapet på Harriet Krohn in 2004 by Cappelen Damm AS, Oslo
First published in Great Britain in 2014 by
HARVILL SECKER
Random House
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road
London SW1V 2SA
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Addresses for companies within The Random House Group Limited can be found at: www.randomhouse.co.uk/offices.htm
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781846557958
Charlo Torp has problems.
He’s grieving for his late wife, he’s lost his job, and gambling debts have alienated him from his teenage daughter. Desperate, his solution is to rob an elderly woman of her money and silverware. But Harriet Krohn fights back, and Charlo loses control.
Wracked with guilt, Charlo attempts to rebuild his life. But the police are catching up with him, and Inspector Konrad Sejer has never lost a case yet.
Told through the eyes of a killer, The Murder of Harriet Krohn poses the question: how far would you go to turn your life around, and could you live with yourself afterwards?
Karin Fossum has won numerous awards, including the Glass Key Award for the best Nordic crime novel, an honour shared with Henning Mankell and Jo Nesbo, and the Los Angeles Times Book Prize. Her highly acclaimed Inspector Sejer series has been published in more than thirty countries.
Broken
I Can See in the Dark
The Inspector Sejer Series
In the Darkness
Don’t Look Back
He Who Fears the Wolf
When the Devil Holds the Candle
Calling Out For You
Black Seconds
The Water’s Edge
Bad Intentions
The Caller
A MAN IS walking through the darkness.
He is visible beneath the street lights for a few moments, then is swallowed up by shadow until he emerges again under the next light, as if his existence only flares up momentarily. That’s how he experiences it, that’s what his life is now. He comes to life and starts to glow, only to go out again, on and off like a hot, quivering fever. His fists are clenched in his pockets as he thrusts on through the darkness, but he arouses no interest. Nobody turns to look at him, he’s an ordinary middle-aged man with thinning hair, and as he walks along he thinks, with something approaching amazement, that it’s not visible from the outside. The thing I’m just about to do. How little people know. I’m moving in the midst of them, and look, they walk the streets immersed in their own affairs.
The faces coming towards him are expressionless. There’s no happiness in them, no joy over life or the day, or the falling snowflakes. The life they own for just a brief span, and take for granted, glides past slowly as they dream of another life in another place. Of love, tenderness, all the things that human beings need. He walks on and on, he’d rather turn back, but he knows it’s too late, he’s come too far. He can barely comprehend how he’s got to this point, but he pushes the thought away and allows himself to drift onwards, spurred by necessity and fear. He stares into the chasm that opens in front of him, it’s bottomless. The leap scares him out of his wits, the leap is enticing. He curls his fingers inside his pockets, he’s so fearful for them, he imagines the secateurs going through the thin skin, and the blood spurting from the stumps. He feels faint. He’s unable to banish the image. He must get to a different place, even if the name of that place is disaster. He bears a huge shame, a miserable life, he can’t take any more, he must act now. Occasionally, he raises his eyes and peers at the unsuspecting passers-by. They can’t see all the horror that’s slowly growing inside him. Is this really happening? Isn’t the town a set, isn’t this a film? The facades seem like papier mâché and everyone else like extras. No, this is real; he clenches his fists, feels the muscles tightening. He’s on the move now, he gets ready, it’s as if he’s being propelled along a track.
His lower lip is cut, he doesn’t know when it happened, there’s the sweet tang of blood in his mouth, he thinks it tastes good. Later, when it’s all over, people will grieve, cover their eyes and condemn. Even though he can explain. He knows he can explain, step by step, about the weary way, about the great abyss beneath him, if he’s given time. If they’ll only listen to his story. But people haven’t got time, they’ve got their own tales of hard luck; oh, his burden is so heavy, he’s so alone! Such are his thoughts as he walks along the street, with his hands deep in his pockets, and his face turned to the slushy pavement.
He’s of medium height and powerfully built, and he’s wearing a green parka. The parka has a hood, which is gradually filling with snow. His face is wide, his eyes grey and close-set, not a handsome man, and not all that shy, either. A high forehead, a wide jaw and a strong, unshaven chin. He’s wearing decent boots, but the leather is worn and leaking water, his toes are numb. He hardly notices, there’s so much to think about. No, he daren’t think at the moment, he empties his mind, turning himself into a purely purposeful organism that doesn’t look back. He must reach his goal now, not allow fear to intervene. It surrounds him, lying there like a colourless gas; he hardly dares draw breath. He passes a shop selling mirrors and catches a glimpse of his own face that makes him look away in horror. His face is so naked, his eyes deep in shadow. He keeps moving on, his figure strong and compact, his shoulders broad and round, and he walks with a resolute step. Each time his boots make contact with the pavement, the slush spurts in all directions with a sodden, slurping sound. Nothing can stop him. All the same, if I met someone now, he thinks, an old friend for example, we might make small talk or reminisce about the past. We might have a beer at The Dickens, and everything would be different. But no old friend appears. He has no friends, not any more, no work either; he’s become reclusive, turned in on himself. He lives with fear and sorrow and worry. His world is small and mean. It’s 7 November and sleet is falling. Great wet flakes. He lights a cigarette, inhales deeply, filling his lungs with smoke. It makes him cough, but he knows it will pass. Soon he catches sight of a Jet service station with its garish, neon-yellow signs. He gazes up at the large H&M posters. They cover the front of the block on his right. How strange, he thinks, that the buxom girl in the lacy underwear is naked on a bleak evening like this. She looks relaxed in spite of it all, though he is wet and chilled, but this is hardly something that troubles him. It’s a fact he registers only vaguely, as if looking at himself from the outside. Soon he sees the door to the florist’s. He slackens his pace at once. He makes his final approach peering furtively in through the shop window. He can’t stop now, he’s on that track, and before him is the plummeting slope that vanishes into darkness. At the same time he feels himself flinching, he feels shaken, he can’t understand how it’s happened, how he’s come so close to the precipice. That before him lies a deceitful mission, a despicable purpose. Before him: good old Charlo. Charles Olav Torp. A perfectly ordinary man. A little unlucky perhaps, a little weak, but apart from that a thoroughly decent chap. Or is he a decent chap? He thinks he is, clenches his teeth and pushes at the heavy door. It opens inwards. He hears the sound of a bell. Its delicate tinkle disturbs him. He would prefer to arrive soundlessly, unnoticed and unheard.
He stands in the middle of the shop. Immediately the smell of the place assails him, sweet and stupefying. It’s too much, for an instant he feels giddy and has to take a sideways step to regain his balance. He hasn’t eaten for a long time, did he forget? He can’t remember any more. The day has passed in a fog, for him it’s as if he’s only now waking up on the edge of the abyss. His eyes take in the premises. It’s like a mini-jungle of flowers and greenery, leaves and petals. He can make out artificial blooms and watering cans, plant food and leaf shine, wreaths of dried roses. An indescribable profusion of flowers. He reads their exotic names: chrysanthemum and erica, hibiscus and monstera. A young girl is standing behind the counter. She reminds him of his daughter Julie, but she isn’t so beautiful because Julie is the loveliest, the best. His heart beats tenderly whenever he thinks of his daughter, but he also feels a gnawing pain, and his own betrayal hits him with its full horror.
He swallows and straightens and looks at the young girl once more; she’s slender, her fair hair is in long plaits, and he notices her thin wrists, so amazingly pale and delicate. She’s young, he thinks, and her bones are as pliable as a kitten’s. She could probably do the splits or a backbend. Her skin is healthy and pink and almost unbelievably clear. Her eyes are lowered modestly. The floor is covered with flowers in blue and red plastic buckets. He can see roses, crimson and yellow, and other flowers whose names he doesn’t know. He stands looking around diffidently with his hands in his pockets. For a moment he’s overcome. He feels terribly exposed in the bright light, alone with this young girl who is still waiting. She’s looking at him now, uncertain but receptive. She likes being there, likes her work, soon the shop will close and she can go home to her little flat and a hot bath. Something nice to eat, perhaps, maybe something good on television. Or a long chat on the phone to a close friend. He doesn’t know why, but he can tell that she’s happy, that she’s content with the way things are. Some people are content, he thinks, they must be or the world would stop, and the undergrowth would spring up and hide all traces of humanity. How beautiful, a bright green planet with no people, just a few grazing animals, and flapping, shrilling birds. The girl is thin, but she looks healthy. She probably eats only as much as she needs, he thinks, maybe she takes exercise and doesn’t put on any weight. Or she’s inherited the trait from a slim family.
He muses, kills time, feels that his heart is thumping tirelessly, and that his cheeks are hot, even though he’s just been trudging the streets for an eternity, going round and round the town that’s grey with sleet and mist. He stood on the river bank and stared down into the water, and considered that as a solution. To jump from the bank and allow himself to sink to the bottom. It would be quick, he thought, he’d see his life pass in front of his eyes. Inga Lill’s illness, Julie’s despair, his own sick mania for gambling. He pushes the thoughts away. It’s all becoming real for him. What he’d pictured in his head for days and weeks, is now materialising. This is the first step. So harmless, so respectable, buying a bunch of flowers. The girl waits patiently, but she’s becoming uneasy because he doesn’t speak. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, withdraws her hands then rests them on the counter once more. Her fingers are adorned with thin rings and her nails are painted red. She pushes her plaits over her shoulders, they are as bright and shiny as nylon rope, but a moment later they’ve fallen forward again and are hanging over her breasts. And he knows that when she gets into bed at night and takes the bands off, her hair will be fluffy and full after the plaiting. How young these girls are, he thinks, how smooth, how translucent. They make him think of rice paper, porcelain and silk, they make him think of fragile glass. He can see her veins, a delicate network of green beneath the skin of her wrists. Life is pulsing there, with nutrition and oxygen and everything she needs to keep herself alive. He takes another deep breath. The light inside the shop, the powerful scent of roses and the cloying heat is almost overpowering. He sees stars. He feels his pulse rise and clenches his fists hard, he feels the nails pressing into his skin. Pain, he thinks, this is really happening. No, nothing has happened, not yet, but time is moving on, and sooner or later I’ll get there. When I do, will it be awful? The girl behind the counter makes another attempt, she smiles pleasantly, but he doesn’t return the smile. His face is immobile. He knows that he ought to smile, so that he’ll seem like an ordinary customer, a man about to do something gratifying. Buy a bunch of flowers. But he’s no ordinary customer and this is not enjoyable.
He approaches the counter hesitantly, his sturdy body moving with a rolling gait. He’s uncertain about his voice as he hasn’t used it for a while, so he puts some extra force behind it.
‘I want a mixed bunch,’ he says, and the loudness of his own words makes him start. My feet are wet, he thinks, my boots aren’t watertight. Cold perspiration is trickling down my back, but my cheeks are boiling hot. I’m not certain this is real. Shouldn’t it feel different, shouldn’t I feel more present within myself? I’m having so many strange thoughts. Am I losing control? No, I’m focused, I’m secure. I’ve made a plan and I’m going to stick to it. His chain of thought is interrupted by the girl speaking.
‘Is it a special occasion?’ she’s asking.
The voice is sweet and childish, slightly put on; she’s making herself sound younger than she is, protecting herself, so that he’ll treat her gently. It’s what women do, and he forgives her for it, but only because she’s young. Grown-up women should behave like grown-ups, he can’t abide the same affectation in older women, making the most of their reputation as the weaker sex, when they’re really tough, resilient and clever, and more calculating than men. It makes him think of Inga Lill. She did it frequently, especially in the beginning. She would make her voice sugary sweet, ingratiating herself and hiding behind all that femininity. It made him feel boorish because he was simple and direct. Inga Lill, you’re dead now, you don’t know what’s happening, and thank God for that. I’m losing the plot, he realises, I’m getting hung up on details; I must get to the point soon. How old is she? he asks himself, and studies the girl, could she be eighteen? She’s older than Julie, who’s sixteen. It doesn’t matter, I don’t know her, we won’t ever see each other again. They’ve got so many customers here, and she’ll remember hardly any of them because she’s young and lives like all young girls, in a dream for much of the day, a dream of all the wonderful things in store for her.
She pulls up her sleeves and comes out to stand amongst the flowers.
Her jumper is tight-fitting and deep red; she’s like a flower, a slender tulip, fresh, taut and vivid. Oh yes, it’s a special occasion all right. Good God, if only she knew! But he doesn’t want to speak, doesn’t want to reveal more of himself than necessary. Buying flowers is a normal daily activity and can hardly be linked to the other thing he’ll be doing later on. What is it he’s about to do? Where will it end? He doesn’t know. He’s heading for the edge of the precipice to find a solution. A transition to something else. He looks round the place. The business has a good reputation. A large number of customers come in every day, he imagines a steady stream of people in and out. An infinite number of faces, an infinite number of orders, bouquets of many colours. He’ll hardly stand out in his green parka. He’s careful to lower his eyes, drawing the girl’s attention away from himself. What blooms there are in the large buckets! He can barely believe they emerge from the damp, black earth. To earth shall you return, he thinks, and out of the earth come the flowers. Dandelions, or nettles. It’s precisely the way it should be: death isn’t as bad as its reputation, on that point he’s quite decided. The girl waits patiently. She’s a floral designer. She has professional pride. She’s an artist with flowers. She can’t just throw something together, any old mixture, it’s all about creating a composition, about shape and colour and scent, she never makes two bouquets the same. She’s got her own signature, but she needs something to get her started. A little inspiration, an idea. It’s not forthcoming. Charlo is taciturn and uncooperative.
‘For a lady?’ she probes. She notes his unwillingness, she can’t comprehend it, and it makes her feel uncomfortable. He seems disinterested, as if he’s running an errand for someone, he seems awkward and nervy. He appears to be pouring sweat, his body swaying gently, his jaw clenched. Perhaps he’s going to visit someone who’s ill, she thinks. You never can tell.
Charlo nods without meeting her eyes. But then he begins to realise that if he’s helpful and pliant, he’ll be able to leave the shop sooner. He must clear his head now, he mustn’t become preoccupied, he’s got to see the plan through. My nerves, he thinks, are as taut as wires. He knew it would be this way. Once more he focuses on his objective.
‘Yes,’ he says, ‘for a lady.’ Again his voice has too much of a bark about it, and on a sudden whim, which he feels is wise, he adds: ‘It’s her birthday.’
Relieved, the florist’s assistant begins working. Everything falls into place and the slight frame gathers itself. The shoulders relax, the delicate fingers pick up a pair of tongs, she bends over the buckets and picks out the flowers, one by one. Her fingers hold the stalks so gently. She seems to have a plan, there’s no more hesitating, no uncertainty. Her eyes survey the buckets, it’s a professional gaze, self-assured now. White lilies, blue anemones, sweet peas and roses. Slowly, a plump, pastel spray takes shape in her hands. She begins in the centre of the bunch with a lily, around which the other flowers cluster, nodding and dipping, but still held firm, each flower protecting and supporting the other; it’s an art. He watches this, he becomes deeply fascinated and falls in love with what’s being created, but shivers when he recalls that the flowers are to serve an evil purpose.
He stands waiting edgily. His heart is thudding hard under his parka, he wants to pacify it but can’t, his heart won’t listen to him any more. Oh, well, he thinks, let it beat as much as it wants, I’ve still got a mind, and that’s working all right. I’m the one who decides, I’m the one who orders my body to do things. It’s still my decision. He sighs, so heavily that she hears and glances up. She’s wise to him, she knows that something’s afoot, but she can’t interpret the meaning of his behaviour. Instinctively, she retreats into her craft, the thing she knows. Arranging flowers. Charlo breathes easily again. Pull yourself together, says the voice inside him, nothing has happened, not yet. Nobody’s got anything on you. You can still turn back, you can pull out and life will go on, go on until death. He throws quick glances at the bouquet, his thoughts wander far away again, he’s only half there. He’s a cipher, a nobody; now at last he wants to set himself free. Mentally he thinks he knows something about how the whole thing will come off. He’s been through it again and again. He’ll take charge of the moment, he’ll direct all that takes place. There is no room for unforeseen circumstances, he brushes them hastily aside. He stares out of the window, sees that sleet is still falling fast. Tracks, he thinks, and feels in his pockets. He wants to check that he’s remembered everything. He has; he’s thought of the whole lot, he’s thought about it for weeks. He’s practised mentally, and sometimes, in his sleep, he’s cried out in fear.
The bouquet grows.
The shop bell chimes brightly in the silence, and he starts. A woman enters dressed in a green coat with a black fur collar, her shoulders covered in sleet. She brushes it off with a hand in a beige-coloured glove and regards him with hard, painted eyes. She’s weighing him up, isn’t she? A sharp old trout who takes everything in, Charlo thinks. All the details, a personal trait that she may later be able to describe. But he has no personal traits, he’s sure he hasn’t, and he simmers down again. She leans over one of the buckets, draws out a rose and studies the stalk intently. He quickly turns his face away. The face that feels so large, as if it’s hanging there, proclaiming itself like a pennant. He stands looking out at the sleet. It’s most visible under the streetlights, a thick, greyish-white drift cutting across the darkness. He feels miserable. Because of his terrible destiny. I don’t deserve this, he thinks, I’m a kind-hearted man. But dread destroys the soul. He’s in the process of losing himself. The girl works on. Will she never be finished? The bouquet is big and becoming expensive. He thinks about the time that’s passing, how he’s standing in here exposed and susceptible. About how it could be dangerous for him. From now on everything will be dangerous. He’s prepared for this fear. It’s physical, but he can keep it at bay if he can control his breathing.
‘The bouquet’s two hundred and fifty kroner at the moment,’ the assistant says. She looks up at him, but just as quickly looks away, still uncertain because of his sullenness.
He nods and says: ‘That’s fine.’ In a clumsy attempt at sociability, he adds, ‘It looks lovely.’
She sends him a smile of relief. There is something nice about him after all, she thinks, and rejoices.
I ought to have chatted and smiled, Charlo thinks. Charmed her, because I can when I want to. Then she would have forgotten me with all the others.
‘Will it be long before they’re put in water?’ she asks.
Now her voice is brighter, more open.
He stands there cogitating dumbly. Will they be put in water at all? He doesn’t know. It’s coming up to eight o’clock and he realises the shop will shut in a few minutes. He’ll have to wait a while before setting his plan in motion. Until the traffic dies down in the streets. Until people have got home and he can wander past the houses unseen.
‘About an hour or two,’ he replies, and watches as she packs the stems in damp tissue. She wraps them in cellophane, which crackles ominously, then in white paper.
Charlo has turned away once more, and when he turns back, he sees that she’s putting the bouquet in a cone-shaped carrier bag. The bag has the words ‘Tina’s Flowers’ prominently printed on it in blue and red. He gets out his wallet to pay, his hands shaking slightly. The girl avoids looking at him and instead stares at his wallet, which is brown and tattered. Her young, alert eyes notice that the zip is broken, the leather is worn and the seams are gaping. She sees the small red-and-white sticker announcing that he’s a blood donor. He pays, replaces his wallet and gives her a little smile. She smiles back, noticing that his left front tooth is chipped, and that he’s never bothered to repair it. It makes his smile rather charming. Charlo glances quickly at the elderly woman who’s waiting. The snow on her shoulders has melted, the wet patches shine in the light. She looks at the time, she’s in a hurry and marches up to the counter. Her nose is sharp and red in her long, lean face. Deep creases at the corners of her mouth, blue bags under her eyes. He knows that he’ll always remember this face. At last he can leave. The door bangs, the bell jingles.
The air outside seems strangely fresh. He walks through the streets carrying the bag. He’s visible under a streetlight for a few seconds, gets swallowed up by darkness, only to become visible again under the next. The bag swings in his hand. All that trouble she went to over the bouquet, all that skill and experience, all to no purpose. The flowers are merely an entry ticket. That’s how he’ll get into the house.
And right into Harriet Krohn’s kitchen.
SHE LIVES IN Fredboesgate, Hamsund.
It’s a seventeen-kilometre drive. Harriet’s house is one of a cluster of listed timber buildings dating from the middle of the nineteenth century, and is situated in a very quiet street. They are small, pretty wooden houses with beautifully framed windows. Most of the inhabitants are elderly, and most are well off. In summer, the frontages are decorated with flourishing window boxes full of geraniums, nasturtiums and marguerites. The house is only a few minutes away from the railway station; there are twelve houses in all, six on each side of the street. Harriet lives in number four. The house is lichen-green, the sills and bargeboards are painted yellow.
Charlo approaches Hamsund. It’s still sleeting heavily, and he concentrates hard on keeping the car on the road, he doesn’t want to end up in the ditch, not tonight. On the seat next to him is an old Husqvarna revolver, which isn’t loaded. It’s only for show, he thinks, she won’t be uncooperative, she won’t dare to be, she’s elderly. He also has a pair of black leather gloves and a cotton bag for anything he finds of value. It is rolled up in his pocket. He’s on the E134, driving by the river, which is surging along on his left, rough and black. He knows the river is full of salmon, but he’s never bothered to fish. When he thinks about fishing, he remembers his boyhood. He remembers his father, who always wanted to go fishing, while he sat there getting bored, his rod dipping lethargically over the water. Fishing was too slow for him, too dull. This was something he never articulated, he didn’t want to hurt his father, he didn’t want to complain. I used to be a considerate boy then, he thinks. And what am I thinking about my father for, he’s dead now and at peace. People pass away, just as I’ll pass away, and that’s good. It certainly is good, he decides, and squints at the road ahead.
The markings in the middle of the carriageway are only just visible, the sleet is settling like grey porridge on the tarmac, the windscreen wipers struggle with the slush. But the Honda doesn’t let him down, the Honda is matchless and reliable. He’s already worked out a good place to park. He’ll do the last bit on foot, it’s only a couple of hundred metres. There’s an old, derelict hotel at Hamsund, and a car can be parked in the courtyard there, out of sight of the street. He’s aware that the car could give him away, and that he must conceal it. He turns to the right and on to the R35, catches sight of Hamsund church, which is floodlit, and its gravestones. He passes an Opel showroom, a couple of shopping centres, and cruises slowly past the railway station on his right. It’s a really elegant building, like a great layer cake covered with icing. How strange, he thinks, that his mind is running on cakes; everything seems odd this evening, as if he’s playing a part in a film. There’s hardly any traffic. People are indoors.
Now he sees the hotel, it’s called The Fredly. A handsome white timber building with much fine ornamentation and dark, unseeing windows. He turns into the courtyard and parks; there are no other cars there. A notice on the wall facing him announces that unauthorised vehicles will be towed away, but he knows that no one will come here tonight, everyone is sheltering from the weather. Then he hears a noise. A sort of click and something ringing faintly, and he heaves himself round in his seat and looks through the windows. Is someone coming after all? Has someone seen the car? Again, he has an acute attack of nerves. I don’t have to do this, he mumbles into the darkness. I’m not quite myself. Can’t anybody stop me, isn’t there another way? But nobody comes, and there is no other way. The voice within him is frail and attenuated.
He looks back on his life, how wretched it’s been. Guilt and betrayal, weakness. Lies and deceit. Promises he hasn’t kept. Has there been anything good about it? Inga Lill was good. Julie is the most precious thing he has. He tries to breathe evenly. He believes he’s thought of everything, but he knows it’s easy to overlook a detail, which could be crucial and might give him away later on. But this ‘give him away’ doesn’t seem so terrifying. It’s in the future, and he hasn’t arrived there yet, it’s almost as if he doesn’t believe in it. He’s living for the moment, he’s doing what he has to do and time is running out. That’s what he’ll say if they catch him. I had to do it, I saw no other solution, it was a matter of survival. He turns off the ignition. Sits in the car round the back of the abandoned hotel listening to the surrounding darkness. He hears his own breathing, it’s rapid and rasping. He looks at his watch, the dial glows green in the darkness of the car’s interior. He pulls the flowers out of the carrier bag and lays them in his lap. The bouquet is heavy, but otherwise nondescript, packed in white paper. What if she has visitors? he thinks. There are lots of things that could go wrong. But he doesn’t believe Harriet Krohn has many visitors. He’s studied her, followed her, listened in as she sat in the cafe with her best friend. She’s a lonely old woman and will certainly hesitate to open her door. But I’m armed, he thinks, with these irresistible flowers and a World War II revolver; she’ll have to do what I say. He pulls on his gloves and gets out of the car. Locks up. He pushes the revolver into the waistband of his trousers. Once again he listens, but he hears nothing, only the sound of his own boots splashing in the slush. If I can just get inside, he thinks, as he walks through the darkness, getting inside the house will be the trickiest bit. Old people are frightened of everything.
Harriet Krohn walks around her living room.
Her thin ankles carry her body’s modest forty-nine kilos, her calves arched like bowed sticks. The veins are right under her skin and look like knotted branches, despite her thick stockings. This is her last day on earth, her last hour. She hears the ticking of the wall clock. The street outside is quiet. She sits down by the coffee table and eats a slice of bread, spread with liver pâté. She has dressed the open sandwich with beetroot, she’s fussy about what she eats. She has a cup of lightly sweetened tea with it. She tastes the fresh tang of the beetroot, it combines with the sweetness of the tea. Now she pauses. A grain of wholemeal from the bread has got stuck between two molars and is pressing like a wedge. She tries pushing one of her nails between the teeth to work it loose. It’s no good, the nail is too thick. She needs a toothpick, but she’ll finish eating first, then tidy up. There’s nothing out of place in her home, everything is cleared away at once. She chews long and thoroughly because it’s good for the digestion, and when she’s finished she carries her cup and plate out to the kitchen, brushes the crumbs into the sink, rinses the cup. After that she fills a bowl with liquorice allsorts and places it on the table in the living room. It’s mainly for decoration; she likes the colours.
It’s too early to go to bed. It’s only ten o’clock and she’s bored. She must pass the evening somehow, and television doesn’t interest her. She feels disgruntled. There’s nothing to look forward to, nothing happy on the horizon. Only old age and a steadily increasing debility. Soon she’ll be seventy-six, but she feels much more. She has plenty of family silver and a lot of money, but she hasn’t the strength to use it, either on herself or others. She makes up her mind to write a letter. She’s got a nephew in Germany with whom she keeps in touch. Writing a letter is pleasant, and she can use it to fill the remaining hour. She always goes to bed at eleven. She has an antique writing desk in the living room with a leaf that opens out, giving her a nice little working space. She glances out of the window, sees the heavy sleet. It’s warm in the living room, she’s got the heaters on full. Even though she’s a tiny woman, she moves about with great effort. She was only thirteen when she was diagnosed with arthritis. Throughout her life she’s battled to keep the disease at bay. But this is one of her better days: the pains can be much worse than they are this evening, 7 November. There are days when she just lies in bed moaning. Cursing her own fate which is so much worse than other people’s. The bitterness makes her hot, she must get it out and down on paper.
She switches on the lamp next to the desk, it warms her left cheek. She can’t see the man coming down the street. She’s found a blank sheet of paper. She gets out her glasses and perches them on her nose, holds the pen over the paper. It’s an almost spiritual moment for Harriet Asta Krohn. The white paper, pristine, all the things she wants to say. The pen won’t stay still between her fingers, which are shaking with effort. But she knows from experience that as soon as it touches the paper, it will steady. Then she’ll be in command of her muscles and manage to write in a fairly decent hand with thin, delicate loops. However, she knows too, that when she reaches the end her fingers will begin to tremble again, as the pain takes over. The grandfather clock ticks, Harriet’s heart beats. And while it does, the blood circulates through her frail body; she’s warm, she’s replete. Then she feels the grain of wholemeal again, pressing. She’d forgotten her intention of finding a toothpick, but now she’ll leave it. She thinks: I can do that later.
Charlo stands at the bottom of the front steps.
No one saw him go through the gate. Harriet is unaware of his proximity, even though he’s only a few metres away. She’s always lived alone, and much of her life has been spent in this house. She knows all its sounds, every creak of the old timber, the lilac that beats against the panes of the living room when the wind blows in the summer. The occasional mouse scurrying across the attic floor. The house is spartan. The rooms are small and hot, the furniture simple and carefully chosen, its colours and patterns blend together. There is little decoration, she doesn’t waste money, she has no time for empty display.
Charlo climbs the steps. Harriet draws a deep breath and puts her pen to the paper, she writes ‘Dear’. A gold bracelet on her wrist rattles on the writing surface. The letter gradually takes shape inside her head; she can hear her own voice within her, it’s authoritative and flows lightly and easily, but her hand is much slower. In the midst of this tranquil interlude she’s disturbed by the doorbell. A sudden, insistent note in the silence. She raises her head and listens in surprise, automatically glancing at the clock on the wall, as if the clock can tell her who’s coming. Five past ten. It’s well past the time for salesmen, and too late for her friend Mosse next door, she’d never call at ten in the evening. Unless it was something very out of the ordinary. Could that be it? Could something have happened? But then if it were Mosse, Harriet realises, she’d have phoned first, because she’s considerate, and both of them are elderly. But the doorbell has rung and she sits in her chair with her pen in her hand, paralysed. She stares at the single word ‘Dear’. Then she thinks, at least the door chain’s on. But there’s silence now, and she’s perplexed. After all, it could just be children playing, excited by the sleet and running about the streets in search of mischief. To leave her chair and walk through the living room and all the way out to the hall would be an effort for her, she won’t get up unless she has to. But the bell rings again, twice. The person at the door isn’t going to give up. It’s silly not to answer, she realises, she is a grown-up after all. Perhaps it’s someone from the Women’s Institute, they’ve got a habit of calling at any time.
She rises now, with difficulty, and walks with short, fumbling steps across the room. Again she feels the wholemeal grain wedged in her teeth. Now she’s in the hall. Through the glass in the door she can make out a figure standing on the top step. A solid, black shadow. Again she hesitates. Who would turn up at this hour? She knows hardly anyone. First she undoes the lock, then she opens the door warily as far as the chain permits. There’s a man in a green parka. He moves slightly so she can see him through the chink. Isn’t there something familiar about him? She racks her brain but can’t find him in the myriad faces stored there. He’s holding a parcel up to his chest. She has no idea what it is. She stands staring at him through the crack as she waits for some explanation. Without realising it, her thin face has assumed a hostile and suspicious expression.
‘Harriet Krohn?’ the man asks.
The voice is friendly and light, as if the white snowflakes have made him merry, with their sudden Christmassy atmosphere at the beginning of November.
‘Yes?’ she says, and stares at the package, the little she can see of it through the gap between the door and the frame. How big it seems, how infinitely white.
‘I’ve got a flower delivery,’ he says, beaming. Harriet is confused. Her birthday isn’t for another month, and even when it comes, no one will send flowers.
‘There must be a mistake,’ she stammers, still mystified. Has she ever been sent flowers before? Not that she can remember. That’s suspicious in itself. But the flowers seem to whisper to her from within their white paper. Just imagine, flowers. Can it be? Has she forgotten something? Mentally, she ransacks the previous day, but comes up with nothing. The man waits patiently on the steps, it’s snowing on his shoulders. The light above the door reveals the wet patches.
‘I don’t know who they’re from,’ he says, ‘but someone’s sent you flowers. I know I’m a bit late,’ he adds, ‘but I had such a long run today and I got stuck back there with the van in all that slush.’
He rolls his eyes in exasperation.
Harriet still holds back. It’s as if something is nagging at the corner of her consciousness. Clearly, she’ll have to accept them. There must be a card inside, an explanation. But if she’s to take the flowers, she’ll have to undo the chain. She does so, her fingers clumsy, opening the door a bit wider. The man remains standing politely at the top of the steps. He doesn’t advance, but is defensive, almost romantic, Harriet thinks, standing there with his flowers in the sleet. Her shoulders relax. She smiles and looks covetously at the white package.
‘Well, this is nice,’ she manages to say. Again, something is tugging at her, trying to hold her back. She looks searchingly at the man, sees his teeth in the smiling face, they’re shining white in the light from the lamp. One of them is damaged, she notices, but in a strange way it suits him.
‘It is, isn’t it,’ he says, and pulls something out of his pocket. A piece of folded paper.
‘I’ll have to trouble you for a signature,’ he says, ‘you’ll have to sign for them.’
Signing for a package sounds perfectly reasonable to her. But there’s the sleet, it’s so wet on the doorstep, so she takes the flowers, presses them to the front of her dress and steps back into the hallway.
‘We’d better go inside,’ she says, ‘I can’t write without something to lean on. And I can’t write without my glasses, either.’