The Murder of Harriet Krohn by Karin Fossum Read Free Book Online Page A

forceful expression. That’s better. He looks more collected. But there are those gray eyes—there’s something about them. The irises seem metallic. He leans close to the mirror and looks at his own pupils. They’re not completely round. His brow wrinkles in concern. Is it possible? Aren’t all pupils round? He moves right up to the glass. They’re cloudy at the edges and elongated, like oval slits. But this is what I must look like, he thinks. I’ve never noticed it before. How strange, how horrible. It makes him start; then the goose pimples rise. He leans forward once more. No, they’re definitely not round. It worries him enormously and he turns his back on the mirror. He stands there, unmoving, his naked body winter pale and hairy. Again he stops, freezes up. He can’t budge. He tries talking sternly to himself, tries to tear free. He turns on the tap and stands under the jet of water. Then at last his mind moves on and the hot water streams down. She’s dead, he thinks, and it’s my fault. But I couldn’t help it. She was hysterical. She went for me like an angry terrier. I was caught off guard, I was frightened, I lost control. But I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t plan it; I’ve never been cold-blooded. Never. He wants the water to splash over him, warm and soothing. He stands there resting for a while. Steps out of the shower and puts on a dressing gown. Picks up the parka and retrieves the money from the pocket. His heart beats faster. There’s a lot of money, a lot more than he’d hoped for. He settles in his chair with the wad of notes in his lap and starts counting. It’s hard because his hands are shaking. His eyes grow large. The money is dry and smooth between his fingers, masses of thousand-krone notes. He counts them ten by ten, and places them on the table. Two hundred and twenty thousand.
    He rushes across to the phone and stands with the roll of notes in his hand as he dials Bjørnar Lind’s number. It’s late, but he can’t wait. He clutches the money tightly as he hears the ring tone in his ear. One ring, two rings. It seems to go on ringing for an eternity. But nobody answers. As frustrated as a child, he has to put down the phone without doing what he wanted. He places the money in the desk drawer. He goes into the kitchen and makes coffee. He pulls out a chair from the kitchen table, sits down, and drinks the coffee with sugar in it. She’s dead and it’s my fault. She’s still lying there. It’s night now, and no one knows what’s happened. He can’t sit still; he’s got a lot to do. He tries to move around slowly. It’s important to maintain his composure. But he has no composure. His thoughts are working faster than his body.
    Later he stands at the utility sink and starts scrubbing the revolver with a nailbrush. Lightly bloodstained water runs down the drain. He fetches the rubber mat from the car and cleans it thoroughly. Finally he gets some bleach, squirting it directly from the bottle. He imagines this will remove all traces. His clothes must be thrown away, or perhaps he can burn them in the oven. He rushes around the house tidying and hides the silverware and jewelry somewhere he thinks is safe. He bags up the bloody clothes and stuffs them into a cupboard together with the revolver. He wants to go to bed, but he’s scared that he’s forgotten something. He tramps from room to room, from the living room to the kitchen, from the kitchen to the bathroom, a lost creature with aching eyes. He speaks severely to himself, attempts to take himself in hand. Nobody witnessed the collision. Nobody saw him go to the house. Nobody saw him leave it. Nobody except the cat with the yellow eyes.
    At last, he goes to bed. He takes the money from the desk drawer and places it on his bedside table. If Lind’s thugs come in the middle of the night, he has only to wave the cash and save his skin. Soon he’ll be a man with no debts. He consoles himself with the thought, as he