The Murder of Harriet Krohn by Karin Fossum Page A

mechanically. He’d hoped to make fifty or sixty, but he doesn’t dare push it. The man takes the money from his inside pocket and begins counting it out.
    “I’ll throw in the bag as well,” Charlo says.
    Once more he attempts a smile. It isn’t reciprocated. He feels tense and needs to lighten the mood. It’s a relief to be rid of the silver. All he wants is his money. He gets it. He counts it and nods that it’s right.
    The fence opens the door, sets one foot on the ground, and sends him a sharp glance.
    “We need each other, so keep your mouth shut.”
    Charlo nods and returns his gaze. The man goes off to his own vehicle, revs up the engine, and drives off. His car disappears. Charlo puts the money in his left inside pocket, close to his heart. Now at last he can do business.
     
    The bay will greet him with great, dark eyes and ears laid amicably forward. Perhaps a small whinny of pleasure. He will lower his big head and lick his salty fingers, nuzzle his jacket a bit. He sets out for the riding center and slows down as soon as he approaches the paddocks. He parks his car and jogs over to the stable and enters. He walks to the last box and stops dead. It’s empty.
    He stands there staring, stunned. Has someone beaten him to it? No, that’s impossible, the bay was for him! Just then he hears the door slam, and shortly after Møller comes up, his riding boots thumping the cement.
    “My girl is working out in the ring,” he says. “Now’s your chance to see what the horse can do.”
    Charlo breathes a sigh of relief. Møller stops in front of him, legs astride, manly in his green jacket.
    “Are you still interested?”
    “Absolutely,” Charlo says, nodding. “But what about your daughter? What does she think?”
    “It’s fine by her.” He stands square and looks intently at Charlo. “If you can manage forty thousand, we’ve got a deal.” Charlo looks at him wide-eyed, his thoughts whirling around his head. Forty thousand. He can manage that. His heart pounds. He nods, smiling broadly.
    “I’ll go and take a look.”
    “Do that,” Møller says. “She’s not bothered by people watching her. She’s used to it, and she’s good.”
    Ah, but not
that
good, Charlo thinks. He opens the heavy stable door again and trudges down to the riding ring. The wide door is open. He walks in slowly and immediately catches sight of the bay. His heart leaps. A teenage girl is sitting on the horse, appropriately dressed in white breeches and black polo-neck sweater. She gives him a quick look and then concentrates on the horse again. Charlo finds a seat. She steers the horse to the wall where a sound system has been installed, and he can see her rooting on the shelf for a CD. She wants to show what she can do. The horse stands patiently. She finds what she’s looking for, reaches up and inserts the CD, and then grips the reins again. A second later, music fills the great space. At first he can’t recognize it. The opening is unfamiliar to him, but then the drums come in and a choir of festive voices. It’s Vangelis’s “Conquest of Paradise.” It’s certainly loud enough. The music fills the entire ring, which he estimates must be around two thousand square meters. He feels the music centering on his breastbone. It numbs and suffuses him, makes him surrender completely. His eyes are wet and he’s got goose pimples. The girl puts the horse into a walk. Charlo takes in the sight as his pulse pounds at his temples. She’s riding with short, tight reins and tiny commands. A girl of fifty kilos is directing a horse weighing six hundred. She’s doing it with imperceptible tickles of her whip on the horse’s hindquarters, shifting her body weight almost indiscernibly from side to side, or backward and forward, and with small jerks on the reins. The horse can do most things. He takes small steps, trots on the spot, and does pirouettes and traverses and lead changes. His transitions are superb. He trots the