The Murder of Harriet Krohn, Page 3

  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 older. 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 has 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 workspace. She glances out of the window and sees the heavy sleet. It’s warm in the living room, because she has the heaters on full. Even though she’s a tiny woman, she moves around 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, November 7. 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, so she must get it out and down on paper.

  She switches on the lamp next to the desk, and 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 pristine white paper, 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, 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 steps that lead to the front door.

  No one saw him go through the gate. Harriet is unaware of his proximity, even though he’s only a few meters 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 is simple and carefully chosen; its colors and patterns blend together. There is little decoration, because 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, writing “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 realizes, 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, paralyzed. 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 around 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 realizes. She is a grownup after all. Perhaps it’s someone from the Women’s Institute; they’ve got a habit of calling incessantly.

  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, and 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 realizing 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 is, 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. His teeth in the smiling face are shining white in the lamplight. 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 and it’s so wet on the doorstep. 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.”

  She’s quite flustered. She gives him a smile—it’s not exactly heartfelt, but she thinks a little friendliness won’t go amiss when he has to work in this dreadful weather, while others stay at
home in the warmth. He returns her smile, and again Harriet has the sensation that something is nudging her. However, her anxiety is suppressed by what is taking place. She feels the weight of the flowers in her arms. It’s a large bouquet. She feels suddenly important. It’s high time, she muses. I’ve slaved all my life; I deserve a bit of attention. Could it be from one of the men over at the shopping center, where she and Mosse have dinner occasionally? Could it be someone who frequents the café? Is it some secret admirer, dreaming his dreams? Could this be happening at her age? Her thoughts cause her to pat her hair. She turns her back on him and goes into the kitchen, and Charlo follows her. His boots will leave wet marks on the lino, she thinks. I’ll have to mop up after him or I might slip and break my hip, and that mustn’t happen. I’ve enough problems as it is. Things have been bad for a long time, but now something delightful has happened. She feels excited in a new way. How quickly and unexpectedly her ears can begin to burn. She goes to fetch her glasses in the living room on the leaf of the desk.

  “I’m sorry,” she says again, “but I’m afraid I can’t see a thing without my glasses.”

  Charlo nods. He’s silent now and there’s a sudden seriousness in his face. A paralysis, as if everything is congealing within him. He looks around the kitchen with rapid, secretive glances, but Harriet can’t see them; she’s on her way to the living room. Charlo waits with his thudding heart. It feels as if he has several hearts and that each is trying to beat faster than the next. On the floor by the kitchen unit is a bowl. It’s as hot as hell in the kitchen; the heat courses through his cheeks. He knows what he has to do, but suddenly he feels bewildered. Harriet is shuffling across the floor. He pulls himself together, gets himself back on that track. It’s important to concentrate, to follow the plan he’s worked out. Harriet returns with her glasses. She’s wearing a plain green dress and her hair is unkempt. He doesn’t want to look at her too closely; he doesn’t want to remember her face. She may be old, but her eyes are sharp. He realizes that he’s inside now, and soon he must get to work. He goes out quickly into the hall. Harriet sees him disappear but doesn’t understand the significance of it. She hears a noise, a familiar click, and realizes that he’s locked the front door from the inside. She stares after him in disbelief, dumbstruck. She can feel the grain of wholemeal no longer; there’s the taste of blood in her mouth. He’s locked the door and now he’s returning. He looks at her with a sideways glance. He has such a hounded expression, she thinks, so strange. She sways slightly, leaning heavily on the kitchen table because she thinks she’s going to faint. Her head feels boiling hot and there’s a great rushing in her ears. Confused, she gazes down at the paper she’s supposed to sign. It’s blank. Harriet feels nauseated.

  Suddenly she feels her meal repeating, the taste of pâté mixed with beetroot, and something else acidic. Her cheeks prickle as the color gradually leaves her face. Why doesn’t he say something? He’s just staring breathlessly at her. She opens her mouth to scream, but only a whimper emerges. Harriet is paralyzed. She won’t ask; she’ll pretend nothing has happened. She fumbles for the package of flowers. If she unpacks the flowers, time will pass and her hands will have something to do. She starts frantically tearing at the paper, feeling his eyes on her the whole time. If he’d just say something, explain. But he only stands there watching, like an unspoken threat. She needs something for the string and she keeps a pair of sharp scissors on a hook above the kitchen unit. It’s several paces from where she’s standing, but with a huge effort she pulls herself together and goes to the unit. It occurs to her that scissors are a weapon. But the idea of stabbing a living person with them is quite out of the question for her. She gets the scissors down and walks back to the table.

  It’s November 7 and it’s snowing. It doesn’t matter. It’ll soon be over. She is thirsty and her tongue is dry as sandpaper in her mouth. She cuts the string and begins unwrapping the flowers. It’s a big, well-filled bouquet. She’s never seen anything like it, never been given anything like it. She’s lost control of her hands. They won’t do what she wants at all. Her arthritic fingers are like bent claws, the skin over her knuckles is smooth and shiny. These flowers, she thinks, mean nothing at all. He wants something from the house. I see that now. I opened the door because I was greedy, and this is my punishment. She begins to sway again. She can feel nothing at all from her waist down; her legs are like posts. She opens a cupboard and finds a vase. Fills it with water and puts the flowers into it, pushes the arrangement toward the wall. The light above the unit catches the blue anemones. She wants to say a prayer but can’t utter a word, and anyway she sees more clearly than ever that God doesn’t exist. No God, no other people, only the empty street outside and her terrified breathing. Only the silent man who’s behaving so oddly. She stands with her back to him and hears that he’s drawing out a chair, as if he wants to settle down in her kitchen. She half turns and sees that he’s sitting. He’s buried his face in his black gloves. He’s in despair about something and she doesn’t know what. She stands there in perplexity, her heart fluttering.

  The bouquet, oddly beautiful, pink, blue, and white, fills the vase. It looks out of place on the shiny draining board, in her house with all its grays and browns. She crumples up the cellophane and fumbles with the paper. Folds it in half and in quarters, until it’s flat. As long as her hands have something to do, her heart will contract in ever-repeated spasms. This must be a dream. I’ll wake up soon. She puts it all in the garbage can in the cupboard under the unit. She doesn’t dare bang the door, because she wants to make herself invisible. This isn’t what I thought, she tells herself. He’s a deeply disturbed man, and soon he’ll explain. But he explains nothing. He gets up suddenly and composes himself, looking at her with tear-filled eyes, and Harriet thinks, he’ll go now. Go now!

  But he doesn’t go. He opens his parka and begins to fumble around underneath it. His hand comes out holding a revolver.

  She doesn’t understand about the revolver. Parts of her consciousness are no longer working. Everything turns black at the sight of the weapon, so she turns away and collapses over the counter, letting go of everything, wet and warm down her thighs.

  “Where’s your silver? Jewelry? Cash? Quick!”

  His voice barely holds. He feels like some farcical amateur and curses his cracking voice. He’s squeaking like a mouse, as he waves his revolver angrily. Harriet shakes her head distractedly. She doesn’t want to part with anything; she doesn’t want to move.

  “Money,” he says again. “Have you got any money?”

  She makes no answer. She’s standing with her back to him, pretending that none of this is happening. Charlo goes into the living room. There’s a large dark sideboard along the wall, and he opens the drawers. They’re full of silverware. He puts down his gun and begins to root around in the drawers. Harriet has turned now and can see him rummaging through her things, her family heirlooms. She can’t bear it. Something starts smoldering deep within her: a prodigious feeling of injustice, because it’s her silver. She’s fond of it and it’s worth a lot of money. Rage replaces fear. She follows him into the room and tugs at his shoulders, screaming hoarsely, her fury giving her unguessed-at strength. Charlo is thoroughly distracted. It’s so quiet outside that people may hear. He hates being disturbed and this old woman is completely deranged. He pushes her away, but she doesn’t stop. She charges at him again, her face blotched with red. Charlo loses all reason. He’s got to stop this screaming. He can’t do anything or think clearly while she’s standing there shrieking like this. He grabs his revolver by the barrel and lifts it like a hammer. Just one smack in the face and she’ll huddle into a corner and shut up. So that he can get on with what he’s come for. Harriet sees the raised arm and shuffles out to the kitchen, back to the counter, still screeching—a long drawn-out wail of lament. He runs after her and hits her hard with the stock. The first blow finds a neck vertebra and it breaks with a dry click. He thinks, Julie! Help me! Harriet sinks
to the floor. Horrified, he sees that her body is jerking in appalling, cramp-like spasms. He can’t bear her being like this, so he strikes again as hard as he can, striking her head repeatedly. Suddenly a stream of blood wells up from her skull. He backs away in horror, gasping for air, looking at the thing lying on the floor. He thinks she’s still moaning and there are still spasms in her legs, so he lashes out again with even more force.

  Then, suddenly, weakness comes over him. The hand clutching the weapon is lowered. He wipes his forehead and gazes at the bloody butt. He gives his head a hard shake so that he can think. Because he knows that he must think now; he can’t just let himself go. Deep down he realized this would happen. People don’t part with their things without a struggle. She might be as greedy as him, mightn’t she? He turns his back to the object on the floor, puts the weapon on the counter, and feels in the pocket of his parka. He pulls out a cotton bag with a string closure. It’s Julie’s old gym bag that Inga Lill made. He returns to the sideboard in the living room. Now that all is quiet he works quickly and efficiently. He places knives and forks and spoons in the bag. There’s a lot of silver of considerable value. He opens a cupboard next to the sideboard and pulls out the contents, searching for money. When the sideboard is empty, he turns and looks around the living room. He notices the letter that’s been started lying on the leaf of the desk, notices the little bowl of candy. For reasons he doesn’t understand, he goes over to it and peers at the assortment. Automatically, he picks one he likes—the brown one with caramel and licorice—and pops it into his mouth.