Free The Murder of Harriet Krohn by Karin Fossum Page B

lighter, so I’m pretty sure she won’t mind.”
    Charlo nods gratefully. “And another thing. What are your stabling costs? If I wanted to keep him here?”
    Møller runs a hand under his nose.
    “Three thousand eight hundred kroner. That includes mucking out weekdays. We put them into the paddock, and sometimes we can arrange for people to look after them.”
    “Well, that’s what it costs then,” Charlo says, engaged in febrile mental arithmetic yet again. But he can no longer make sense of the figures without paper.
    He lays his hand on the horse’s rump and feels the firm muscles. Runs his hand down his long, powerful leg. He looks closely at the pasterns; they look fine. Searches for the ribs. He can feel them, but not see them, and he knows that’s how it should be.
    “Ten years old, did you say?”
    Møller nods. “I think ten is the best age. They’re out of puberty, properly grown up, and old age is a long time off. Satisfied?”
    “Yes, thanks,” says Charlo. He feels ecstatic. He’s standing here with a stranger and a beautiful bay, and his voice is steady. Standing here in an old quilted jacket with his nasty, slit-shaped pupils, and no one notices them.
    “Well, I’ll think about it and come back to you,” he says, and watches Møller leading the horse back to his box. Then he lays a horse blanket over his back and tightens the straps.
    Charlo leaves the stable. He feels mildly intoxicated. He gets into his car and checks himself in the mirror, keeping his features under observation. Each time he looks again he sees that watchful expression. A man stares back at him, a man he has to get to know. It’ll take time, he thinks. Time is a great healer. Just drive now and take it easy. He drives slowly down the forest track, and soon he’s back on the main road. He stops off at a shopping center to buy food. Takes a quick look at his watch, presses the button on the radio. Waits. A couple of minutes pass. There’s the fanfare heralding the news. His heart beats faster again, because now it’s broken. They’re talking about the murder at Hamsund. A few words force their way in and stick in his memory. Particularly brutal. Elderly and alone. She probably let him in. Objects of value are missing from the house.
    Charlo lays his forehead on the steering wheel, listening, his entire body tense. Particularly brutal. Was it? He doesn’t see it that way. He hit her until she lay still, and that took time. The woman was found by a neighbor. The police have some clues. They’re encouraging people who were in the vicinity of Hamsund last night to get in touch if they saw any suspicious vehicles near Fredboesgate.
    The words seem to come from far away. He doesn’t recognize himself or the crime; it’s become a case. As dry as all other cases, stripped of all drama. It’s so strange, he thinks. It has nothing to do with me. Well it does if I let it, but I won’t let it. I must push it away. I was in that room for only a few minutes, and now I’m in another room. I’ve closed the door and locked it, and I’ll never go back there.
    The newsreader turns to politics. That was all it was, just a few seconds, before being jostled aside by other news. He turns off the radio and ponders. The police have some clues, but what could they be? Suspicious vehicles, he thinks next. Could one describe the collision and his uncontrolled outburst as suspicious? Obviously. A grown man doesn’t lose his temper like that over a dent. Harriet Krohn is discovered now, and her house is full of photographers and technicians. Minute examination, tiny brushes, chemicals. With an effort, he pulls himself together, gets out of the car, and locks it. Walks away with his head down and his hands thrust deep into his pockets.
    The shopping center consists of four or five shops. He’s just about to turn into the grocery store when he catches sight of something. A slot machine. A Twin Runner with flashing lights. He stands staring