The Murder of Harriet Krohn by Karin Fossum

case of sink or swim. We’re in the same line of business, he thinks, this fence and me, and there’s no avoiding it. He stands with his back to the window and dials the number.

6
    THEY’VE ARRANGED TO meet at the railway station, at the far end of the long-term parking lot. Charlo’s heart is pounding. He gets out the silverware and the gold watch and places it in a bag. The jewelry is worth very little and no one would give anything for it, so it remains in Julie’s gym bag at the bottom of the chest. He halts in front of the mirror and looks at the face he must now reveal. His nose seems to be sticking out, and his ears are burning. Exposing himself like this is abhorrent, but he has no choice. He forces his face to relax because the muscles around his eyes and mouth have a tendency to twitch in a creepy, revealing manner.
    He puts the bag in the car and sets off. He constantly checks his mirror; it’s become a habit. He crosses the bridge. At the railway station, he turns to the left, his gaze raking the parked cars. At the far end, he sees a man leaning up against a BMW. The man watches Charlo’s Honda and comes over as soon as he’s parked. Charlo hardly dares to look at him. He sits in the car with his head lowered and waits for the other to take the initiative. And he does. The man taps on the window and looks in. He’s surprisingly young, just a stripling, but shrewd enough for all that. A gangly boy with a long blond mop of hair and listless gestures. He asks no questions. They avoid making eye contact. They’re there to do business. He gets into Charlo’s Honda. The silver makes an impression, as does the gold watch. Charlo holds his breath as the man studies the hallmarks. He’s got a loupe with him; he’s left nothing to chance. He pulls out a pocket calculator and begins to add up. Charlo waits patiently. He doesn’t want to haggle or try to force the price. He just wants to get it over with.
    “The watch is engraved,” he says and looks skeptically at Charlo.
    “But you’ll melt it down, won’t you?”
    The young man weighs the watch in his hand and screws up his eyes for an instant. It’s obvious he’s tempted. Then, finally, it disappears into his pocket and Charlo breathes more easily.
    “I’m only a middleman,” says Charlo. He ventures a smile. The young man sneers, displaying yellow teeth.
    “That’s what they all say.”
    Charlo lowers his head again, feeling a bit naive. The fence continues to study the silver. He appears to have all the time in the world and doesn’t seem to be nervous at all.
    “I think it’s antique,” Charlo says, “a pattern that’s maybe gone out of production. What do you think? I only mention it because it affects the price. Doesn’t it?”
    Still no reply. The man is holding a fork, examining the design. Charlo looks over his shoulder, but few people are around and everything’s quiet. The man delves into the bag once more; he works on imperturbably. Now he weighs the candlesticks in his hand.
    “You can take these back home with you,” he says. “They’re only silver plate.”
    “Silver plate? I’d rather not. I mean, surely you’ve got more contacts than me. Can’t you just get rid of them?”
    The other shrugs and taps his calculator with agile fingers. Charlo looks down at his hands and wrings them hard. A small eternity seems to pass. The man adds, weighs, examines. He’s got an acute, appraising eye.
    Then, finally, he comes to his decision. He looks down at the display, catches Charlo’s eye, and announces authoritatively.
    “Forty thousand for the lot.”
    Charlo sits there gawking.
    “Forty?” he stammers. “But the watch alone is worth seventy for sure. Perhaps even eighty.”
    “In the shops, yes. This isn’t a shop.”
    “No, no, I realize that.”
    “I’ve got to take my cut, of course; you realize that. And then I’m taking a risk, so you’ve got to pay for that as well.”
    “Naturally.” Charlo nods