The Snowman

by Jo Nesbo

  Out jumped a man from the passenger seat, and Odin Nakken immediately recognized him. He signaled to the photographer, and they ran after the police officer, who was sprinting for the door.

  “Harry Hole,” panted Nakken when he had caught up. “What are the police doing here?”

  The red-eyed policeman turned to him. “Going to a party, Nakken. Where is it?”

  “Sonja Henie Room on the first. But I reckon it’s finished now.”

  “Mm. Seen anything of Arve Støp?”

  “Støp went home early. What do you want with him?”

  “Nothing. Was he alone?”

  “To all outward appearances.”

  The inspector pulled up sharply and turned to him. “What do you mean?”

  Odin Nakken angled his head. He had no idea what this was about, but he was in no doubt that there was something.

  “A rumor was going around that he was negotiating with a pretty foxy lady. With fuck-me eyes. Nothing we can print, more’s the pity.”

  “So?” growled the inspector.

  “A woman answering the description left the party twenty minutes after Støp. She got into a taxi.”

  Hole was soon walking back the same way he had come. Odin hung onto his coattails.

  “And you didn’t follow her, Nakken?”

  Odin Nakken ignored the sarcasm. It was water off a duck’s back. Now.

  “She wasn’t a celebrity, Hole. A celeb screwing a non-celeb is non-news, if I can put it like that. Unless the lady decides to talk, of course. And this one’s long gone.”

  “What did she look like?”

  “Slim, dark. Good-looking.”

  “Clothes?”

  “Long black leather coat.”

  “Thanks.” Hole jumped into the Amazon.

  “Hey,” Nakken shouted. “What do I get in return?”

  “A good night’s sleep,” Harry said. “The knowledge that you’ve helped to make our town a safer place.”

  Grimacing, Odin Nakken watched the old boat of a car embellished with rally stripes accelerate away with a throaty roar of laughter. It was time to get out of this. Time to hand in his notice. It was time to grow up.

  “Deadline,” the photographer said. “We’ll have to go and write this shit up.”

  Odin Nakken heaved a sigh of resignation.

  Arve Støp stared into the darkness of the mask wondering what she was doing. She had dragged him into the bathroom by the handcuffs, pressed what she claimed was a revolver against his ribs and ordered him into the bathtub. Where was she? He held his breath and heard his heart and a crackling electric hum. Was one of the neon tubes in the bathroom on its way out? The blood from his temple had reached the corner of his mouth; he could taste the sweet metallic tang with the tip of his tongue.

  “Where were you the night Birte Becker disappeared?” Her voice came from over by the sink.

  “Here in my apartment,” Støp answered, trying to think. She had said she was from the police and then he remembered where he had seen her before: in the curling hall.

  “Alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the night Sylvia Ottersen was killed?”

  “The same.”

  “Alone all evening, without talking to anyone?”

  “Yes.”

  “So no alibi?”

  “I’m telling you I was here.”

  “Good.”

  Good? thought Arve Støp. Why was it good that he didn’t have an alibi? What was it she wanted? To force a confession out of him? And why did it sound as if the electric hum was getting louder as she came closer?”

  “Lie down,” she said.

  He did as instructed and felt the cold bath enamel sting the skin of his back and thighs. His breath had condensed on the inside of the mask, made it wet, made it even more difficult to breathe. Then the voice was there again, close by now.

  “How do you want to die?”

  Die? She was out of her mind. Insane. Stark raving mad. Or was she? He told himself to keep a clear head; she was just trying to frighten him. Could Harry Hole be behind this? Could it be that he had underestimated the drunken asshole? But his whole body was shaking now, shaking so much that he could hear his TAG Heuer watch clink against the enamel, as if his body had accepted what his brain still had not. He rubbed the back of his head against the bottom of the tub, trying to straighten the pig mask so that he could see through the small holes. He was going to die.

  That was why she had put him in the bathtub. So that there wouldn’t be so much mess, so all the traces could be quickly removed. Bullshit! You’re Arve Støp and she’s with the police. They know nothing.

  “OK,” she said. “Lift up your head.”

  The mask. At last. He did as she said, felt her hands touch his forehead and at the back, but she didn’t loosen the mask. Something thin and strong tightened around his neck. What the fuck? A noose!

  “Don’t …,” he began, but his voice died as the noose pressed against his windpipe. The handcuffs rattled and scraped against the bottom of the tub.

  “You killed them all,” she said, and the noose was tightened a notch. “You’re the Snowman, Arve Støp.”

  There. She had said it out loud. The lack of blood to his brain was already making him dizzy. He shook his head frantically.

  “Yes, you are,” she said, and as she jerked the noose he felt as if his head were being severed. “You’ve just been appointed.”

  The darkness came all of a sudden. He raised a leg and let it fall again, the heel of his foot banging impotently against the bathtub. A hollow boom reverberated around.

  “Do you know that rushing sensation, Støp? It’s the brain not getting sufficient oxygen. Quite wonderful, isn’t it? My ex-husband used to jerk himself off while I had him in a stranglehold.”

  He tried to scream, tried to force the little air that was left in his body past the iron grip of the noose, but it was impossible. Jesus, didn’t she even want a confession? Then he felt it. A slight swishing sound in his brain, like the hiss of Champagne bubbles. Was that how it would happen? So easy. He didn’t want it to be easy.

  “I’m going to hang you in the living room,” said the voice by his ear as a hand affectionately patted his head. “Facing the fjord. So that you have a view.”

  Then came a thin peeping sound, like the alarm on one of those heart monitors you see in films, he thought. When the curve flattens out and the heart no longer beats.

  26

  DAY 20

  The Silence

  Harry pressed Arve Støp’s doorbell again.

  A night owl was walking over the canal bridge and peering down at the black Amazon parked in the middle of the car-free square in Aker Brygge.

  “Not gonna open up if he’s got a dame there, I s’pose,” Bjørn Holm said, looking up at the ten-foot-high glass door.

  Harry pressed the other doorbells.

  “Those are just offices,” Holm said. “Støp lives alone at the top. I’ve read that.”

  Harry looked around.

  “No,” said Holm, who had guessed what he was thinking. “It won’t work with the crowbar. And the steel glass is unbreakable. We’ll have to wait until the care—”

  Harry was on his way back to the car. And this time Holm was unable to follow the inspector’s train of thought. Not until Harry got into the driver’s seat and Bjørn remembered that the key was still in the ignition.

  “No, Harry! No! Don’t …”

  The remainder was drowned in the roar of the engine. The wheels spun on the rain-slippery surface before gaining purchase. Bjørn Holm stood waving in the road, but caught a glimpse of the inspector’s eyes behind the wheel and leaped out of the way. The Amazon’s bumper hit the door with a muffled crash. The glass in the door turned to white crystals, as for one noiseless second it hovered in the air before tinkling to the ground. And before Bjørn could gauge the extent of the damage, Harry was out of the car and striding through the now-glassless entran
ce.

  Bjørn ran desperately after him, cursing. Harry had grabbed a pot containing a six-foot-high palm tree, dragged it over to the elevator and pressed the button. As the shiny aluminum doors slid apart, he jammed the pot between them and pointed to a white door with a green exit sign.

  “If you take the fire escape and I take the main stairs we have all the escape routes covered. Meet you on the sixth, Holm.”

  Bjørn Holm was drenched with sweat before he reached the second floor on the narrow iron staircase. Neither his body nor his head was prepared for this. He was a forensics officer, for Christ’s sake! His bag was reconstructing dramas, not constructing them.

  He stopped for a moment. But all he could hear was the fading echo of his own footsteps and his own panting. What would he do if he met someone? Harry had told him to bring his service revolver along to Seilduksgata, but had Harry meant that he would have to use it? Bjørn took hold of the railing and started running again. What would Hank Williams have done? Buried his head in a drink. Sid Vicious? Shown him a finger and legged it. And Elvis? Elvis. Elvis Presley. Right. Bjørn Holm wrapped his fingers around his revolver.

  The steps finished. He opened the door and there, at the end of the corridor, was Harry, leaning back against the wall beside a brown door. He had his revolver in one hand and was holding the other to his mouth. Forefinger over his lips as he watched Bjørn and pointed to the door. It was ajar.

  “We’ll do it room by room,” Harry whispered when Bjørn was alongside. “You take the ones on the left, I’ll take the ones on the right. Same rhythm, back to back. And don’t forget to breathe.”

  “Wait!” Bjørn whispered. “What if Katrine’s there?”

  Harry studied him and waited.

  “I mean …,” Bjørn Holm went on, trying to articulate what he meant. “In a worst-case scenario would I shoot … a colleague?”

  “In the worst-case scenario,” Harry said, “a colleague would shoot you. Ready?”

  The young forensics officer from Skreia nodded and promised himself that if this went well he would wear goddamned hair oil.

  Harry silently prodded the door open with his foot and went in. He felt the current of air at once. The draft. He reached the first door to the right and grabbed the handle with his left hand as he pointed the revolver. Pushed the door open and went in. It was a study. Empty. Over the desk hung a large map of Norway with pins stuck in it.

  Harry walked back into the hall, where Holm was waiting for him. Harry motioned to Holm to keep his revolver raised the whole time.

  They moved through the apartment with stealth.

  Kitchen, library, fitness room, conservatory, guest room. All empty.

  Harry felt the temperature drop. And as they came into the living room he saw why. The sliding door to the terrace and pool was wide open; white curtains flapped nervously in the wind. On either side of the room ran narrow pathways, each leading to a door. Harry pointed to Holm to take the door on the right while he took up position in front of the other.

  Harry breathed in, huddled up to make the target as small as possible and opened.

  In the darkness he could make out a bed, white linen and something that might have been a body. His left hand groped for a switch inside the door.

  “Harry!”

  It was Holm.

  “Over here, Harry!”

  Holm’s voice was excited, but Harry turned a deaf ear and concentrated on the darkness in front of him. His hand found the switch, and the next moment the room was bathed in light from overhead spots. It was empty. Harry checked the closets, then left. Holm stood outside the other door with his gun pointing into the room.

  “He’s not moving,” Holm whispered. “He’s dead. He …”

  “Then you needn’t have called me so urgently,” Harry said, walking to the bathtub, bending over the naked man and removing the pig mask. A thin red stripe ran around his neck, his face was pale and swollen and his eyes were bulging out from beneath the eyelids. Arve Støp was barely recognizable.

  “I’ll call the Crime Scene people,” Holm said.

  “Hang on.” Harry held a hand in front of Støp’s mouth. Then he took the editor’s shoulder and shook him.

  “What are you doing?”

  Harry shook harder.

  Bjørn laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder. “But, Harry, can’t you see …”

  Holm recoiled. Støp had opened his eyes. And now he was drawing breath—like a skin diver breaking the surface—deep, painful and with a rattle in his throat.

  “Where is she?” Harry said.

  Støp was unable to focus his eyes, and short gasps were all that emerged from his mouth.

  “Wait here, Holm.”

  Holm nodded and watched his colleague leave the bathroom.

  Harry stood on the edge of Arve Støp’s roof terrace. Twenty-five yards below glittered the black water of the canal. In the moonlight he could discern the sculpture of the woman on stilts in the water and the deserted bridge. And there … something shiny bobbing on the surface of the water, like the belly of a dead fish. The back of a black leather coat. She had jumped. From the sixth floor.

  Harry stepped up to the edge of the terrace, between the empty flower boxes. An image from the past flashed through his brain. Østmarka, and Øystein, who had dived from the mountain into Lake Hauktjern. Harry and Tresko dragging him to the shore. Øystein in bed at Rikshospitalet with what looked like scaffolding around his neck. What Harry had learned from this was that you should jump from great heights, not dive. And remember to keep your arms against your body so that you don’t break your collarbone. But above all you have to make up your mind before you look down, and jump before terror has engaged your common sense. And that was why Harry’s jacket slid to the terrace floor with a soft smack while Harry was already in the air, listening to the roar in his ears. The black water accelerated toward him. As black as pavement.

  He put his heels together, and the next moment it was as if the air had been knocked out of him and a large hand were trying to tear off his clothes, and all sound was gone. Then came the numbing cold. He kicked and rose to the surface. Got his bearings, located the coat and began to swim. He had already started losing sensation in his feet and knew he only had a few minutes before his body would stop functioning in this temperature. But he also knew that if Katrine’s laryngeal reflex was working and closed itself when it came into contact with water it would be the sudden cooling down that could save her; it would stop the metabolism, send the body’s cells and organs into hibernation mode and allow the vital functions to survive on a minimum of oxygen.

  Harry lunged and glided through the thick, heavy water toward the glistening leather.

  Then he was there and he grabbed her.

  His first unconscious thought was that she was already heaven-bound, consumed by demons. For only her coat was there.

  Harry cursed, spun around in the water and stared up at the terrace. Followed the edge up to the eaves, the metal pipework and the sloping roofs that led down the other side of the building, to other buildings. Other terraces and the multitude of fire escapes and routes through the labyrinth of façades in Aker Brygge. He treaded water with legs that could no longer feel while confirming to himself that Katrine had not even underestimated him; he had fallen for one of the oldest tricks in the book. And for a moment of madness he considered death by drowning; it was supposed to be pleasant.

  It was four o’clock in the morning, and on the bed in front of Harry, wearing a bathrobe, was a trembling Arve Støp. The tan seemed to have been sucked from his complexion, and he had shrunk into an old man. But his pupils had regained their normal size.

  Harry had taken a boiling hot shower and seated himself in a chair, wearing a sweater from Holm and sweatpants he had borrowed from Støp. In the living room they could hear Bjørn Holm trying to organize the hunt for Katrine Bratt via a mobile phone. Harry had told him to contact the Incident Room to put out a general alert; the police
at Gardermoen Airport in case she attempted to take one of the early-morning flights; and the Special Forces Unit, Delta, to raid her apartment, even though Harry was fairly sure that they wouldn’t find her there.

  “So you think this was not just a sex game but Katrine trying to kill you?” Harry asked.

  “Think?” Støp said with chattering teeth. “She was trying to strangle me!”

  “Mm. And she asked you if you had an alibi for the times of the murders?”

  “For the third time, yes!” Støp groaned.

  “So she thinks you’re the Snowman?”

  “Christ knows what she thinks. The woman’s obviously out of her mind.”

  “Maybe,” Harry said. “But that doesn’t prevent her from having a point.”

  “And what sort of point would that be?” Støp looked at his watch.

  Harry knew that Krohn was on his way and that the lawyer would muzzle his client as soon as he got there.

  He made up his mind and leaned forward. “We know that you’re the father of Jonas Becker and Sylvia Ottersen’s twins.”

  Støp’s head shot up. Harry had to take a risk.

  “Idar Vetlesen was the only person who knew. You’re the one who sent him to Switzerland and paid for the Fahr’s Syndrome course he enrolled in, aren’t you? The disease you yourself inherited.”

  Harry could see he wasn’t far off the mark by the way Arve Støp’s pupils dilated.

  “It’s my guess Vetlesen told you we were putting the squeeze on him,” Harry persisted. “Perhaps you were frightened he would crack. Or perhaps he was exploiting the situation to extort favors? Money, for example.”

  The editor stared at Harry in disbelief and shook his head.

  “Nevertheless, Støp, you would obviously have had a lot to lose if the truth about these paternities had come out. Enough to give you a motive for killing those who could expose you: the mothers and Idar Vetlesen. Isn’t that correct?”