Free The Murder of Harriet Krohn by Karin Fossum

savoring the name.
    “Would you know anything about the bay?” He looks over at the big horse. Its head is hanging over the door and it’s chewing.
    She pulls the Fjord horse’s forelock over the brow band and arranges it perfectly.
    “He belongs to Møller,” she says, and goes to fetch a broom. She sweeps the passage clear of wood shavings and dung. She opens the hatch in the floor and sweeps it in with practiced strokes.
    “Møller?” Charlo inquires.
    “The man who owns the riding center.”
    Charlo nods. “I’m only having a look,” he says in extenuation. “He’s lovely. That’s all I meant.”
    “Yes,” she replies, and looks at him curiously. “He’s really lovely. But he’s quite a handful.”
    “Have you ridden him?”
    He moves closer to her, enjoying the conversation.
    “Sort of.” She replaces the broom. “He’s a big animal and takes a lot of riding. But he knows a thing or two.”
    He nods, goes to the bay again, and strokes its muzzle.
    “D’you know what age he is?”
    “Ten,” she says. “A gelding.”
    She puts on a riding helmet. Then, finally, a high-visibility vest.
    “And do they sell horses here?” he asks. She shrugs.
    “Occasionally,” she replies. “But you’ll have to speak to Møller about that. He’s feeding in the stable down there.”
    Charlo thanks her and goes out. He walks down a steep slope, turns the corner, and enters the lower stable. This houses ten animals, too. Several are small, fat Shetland ponies, hardly his favorite. Sweet but unpredictable and as stubborn as mules, he thinks. But excellent for really young girls. At the far end are a couple of good-looking animals, a palomino and a rather small piebald. Just then, a man appears in the door and catches sight of him. Something about the way he moves makes Charlo suspect that he’s the owner. He’s short and broad, with a wiry lock of dark hair hanging down over his brow. He continues his work without pausing, seemingly filled with a special serenity. He’s at home here among the animals.
    “Are you the owner?” Charlo squirms slightly, feeling awkward.
    “That’s right.”
    He looks quickly at Charlo but doesn’t interrupt his work. The animals are more important; it’s a matter of sticking to the feeding routines. His work is even and methodical. Just watching him gives Charlo a sense of peace. The man grabs a zinc pail from a shelf, then turns around and holds out his hand.
    “Møller,” he says, nodding.
    “Torp,” says Charlo, and presses the hand. “Do you have horses for sale?” He tries to keep his voice light.
    Møller studies him thoughtfully. Møller’s eyes are dark and deep-set, but his gaze is firm. He’s wearing a green oilskin jacket and long lace-up leather boots.
    “Occasionally.”
    The lock of dark hair falls across his brow. “Is that why you’re here?” He works all the time he’s talking. Charlo thrusts his hands into his pockets, wanting to hide an almost childish embarrassment. Eventually he gets the better of it.
    “I’ve just come to look, mainly. But I am thinking about it. A bit later on. I was wondering what kind of money we’d be talking about.”
    Møller dips the pail into a sack of pellets and walks to the nearest box. His jacket crackles as he moves around and his boots smack against the cement. He empties a liter measure of feed into the manger, and the chubby pony dives in.
    “I’ve sold horses for twenty thousand kroner,” he says, “and I’ve sold them for a hundred and fifty thousand. It depends what you want.”
    Charlo watches Møller as he does the feeding. It looks like nice work, bringing food to the animals.
    “Well, let’s say I could manage something in between,” he says. “But I’ve got to sell some things first, and that could take time. And I need a horse that knows a bit. I couldn’t take a young horse that had to be trained right up from nothing.”
    “I know,” he says, and digs into the pail of