The Snowman

by Jo Nesbo

“Oleg,” she repeated.

  “He’s OK,” Harry said and responded to her hand pressure. “He’s with the neighbors. It’s over now.”

  He saw her trying to focus her eyes.

  “Promise me?” she whispered, barely audible.

  “I promise you.”

  “Thank God.”

  She sobbed once, buried her face in her hands and began to cry.

  Harry looked down at his injured hand. Either the ties had stopped the bleeding or he was empty.

  “Where’s Mathias?” he said quietly.

  Her head bobbed up, and she gaped at him. “You just promised me that—”

  “Where did he go, Rakel?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  Her hand squeezed his. “Don’t go now, Harry. I’m sure someone else can—”

  “What did he say?”

  He could tell by the way her body recoiled that he had raised his voice.

  “He said that it was finished now and he would bring it to a conclusion,” she said as tears welled in her dark eyes again. “And that the end would be an homage to life.”

  “An homage to life? Those were the words he used?”

  She nodded. Harry loosened his hand from hers, stood up and went to the window. Scoured the night sky. It had stopped snowing. He looked up at the illuminated monument that could be seen from almost everywhere in Oslo. The ski jump. Like a white comma against the black ridge. Or a full stop.

  Harry went back to her bedside, bent down and kissed her on the forehead.

  “Where are you going?” she whispered.

  Harry raised the bloodstained hand and smiled. “To see a doctor.”

  He left the room. Stumbled down the stairs. Came out into the cold, white darkness of the yard, but the nausea and giddiness would not release their grip.

  Hagen stood beside the Land Rover talking on a mobile phone.

  He broke off the conversation and nodded when Harry asked if they could drive him.

  Harry sat in the back. He was thinking about how Rakel had thanked God. She couldn’t know, of course, that someone else deserved her thanks. Or that the buyer had accepted the offer. And that payback time had already started.

  “Down to the city center?” the driver asked.

  Harry shook his head and pointed upward. The right index finger looked strangely alone between the thumb and the ring finger.

  36

  DAY 21

  The Tower

  It took three minutes to drive from Rakel’s house to Holmenkollen ski jump. They drove through the tunnel and parked on the viewing promontory among the souvenir shops. The slope looked like a frozen white waterfall that plunged down between the stands and broadened into a flat out-run a hundred yards below.

  “How do you know he’s here?” Hagen asked.

  “Because he told me he would be,” Harry said. “We were sitting by a skating rink and he said the day his life’s work was over and he was so ill he wanted to die he would jump from that tower there. As an homage to life.” Harry pointed to the illuminated ski tower and the in-run soaring up against the black sky above them. “And he knew I would remember.”

  “Insane,” whispered Gunnar Hagen, peering up at the darkened glass cage perched on the top of the tower.

  “Could I borrow your handcuffs?” Harry asked, turning to the driver.

  “You’ve already got some,” Hagen said, nodding toward Harry’s right wrist, where he had attached one cuff. The other hung open. “I’d like two pairs,” Harry said, taking the leather case from the driver. “Can you help me? I’m a couple of fingers short here …”

  Hagen shook his head as he attached half of the driver’s handcuffs around Harry’s other wrist.

  “I’m not happy with you going on your own. It frightens me.”

  “There’s not a lot of room up there and I can talk to him.” Harry produced Katrine’s revolver. “And I’ve got this.”

  “That’s what frightens me, Harry.”

  Inspector Hole sent his boss a quick glance before twisting around and opening the car door with his healthy hand.

  The police officer accompanied Harry to the entrance of the Ski Museum, which he had to pass through to get to the tower lift. They had taken along a crowbar to smash in the door. But as they approached, the flashlight caught fragments of glass glinting on the floor over by the ticket counter. A distant alarm from somewhere inside the museum was inhaling and exhaling with a howl.

  “OK, so we know our man’s here,” Harry said, making sure his revolver was in position at the back of his waistband. “Place two men by the rear exit as soon as the next patrol car arrives.”

  Harry took the flashlight, stepped into the dark building and hurried past the posters and pictures of Norwegian ski heroes, Norwegian flags, Norwegian ski grease, Norwegian kings and Norwegian Crown princesses, all accompanied by succinct texts proclaiming that Norway was one hell of a nation, and Harry remembered why he had never been able to stomach this museum.

  The elevator was right at the back. A narrow, enclosed space. Harry studied the elevator door. Felt the cold sweat on his skin. There was a steel staircase next to it.

  Eight landings later he regretted his decision. The dizziness and nausea had returned and he was retching. The sound of footsteps on metal echoed up and down the flight of stairs, and the handcuffs dangling from his wrists played iron pipe music against the handrail. His heart ought to have been pumping adrenaline and preparing his body for action at this point. Perhaps he was too drained, too spent. Or perhaps he knew it was all over. The game was up, the outcome obvious.

  Harry went on. Set his feet down on the steps, didn’t even bother to try to be quiet, knew he had been heard ages ago.

  The staircase led directly to the dark cage. Harry switched off his flashlight and felt a cold current of air as soon as his head appeared above the floor. Pale moonlight fell into the room. It was about forty square feet with glass all around and a steel railing that tourists clung to with a mixture of terror and joy as they enjoyed the view of Oslo or imagined what it must be like to set off down the in-run on skis. Or fall off the tower, sink like a stone toward the houses and be smashed between the trees far below them.

  Harry climbed to the top step, turned to the silhouette outlined against the blanket of light that was the town beneath. The figure was sitting on the railing, by the large open window from where the cold air was flowing.

  “Beautiful, eh?” Mathias’s voice sounded light, almost cheerful.

  “If it’s the view you mean, I agree.”

  “I didn’t mean the view, Harry.”

  One of Mathias’s feet was dangling outside, and Harry was standing by the stairs.

  “Did you or the snowman kill her, Harry?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you did it. After all, you’re a clever guy. I was counting on you. Feels dreadful, doesn’t it? Of course, it’s not so easy to see the beauty then. When you’ve just killed the person you love most.”

  “Well,” Harry said, taking a step closer, “I don’t suppose you would know much about that, would you.”

  “Wouldn’t I?” Mathias leaned his head back against the frame and laughed. “I loved the first woman I killed more than anything else on this earth.”

  “So why did you do it?” Harry felt a stab of pain as he moved his right hand behind his back and around the revolver.

  “Because my mother was a liar and a whore,” Mathias said.

  Harry swung his hand around and raised the revolver. “Come down from there, Mathias. With your hands in the air.”

  Mathias eyed Harry with curiosity. “Do you know there’s a twenty percent chance that your mother was the same, Harry? A twenty percent chance that you’re the son of a whore. What do you say to that?”

  “You heard me, Mathias.”

  “Let me make it easier for you, Harry. First, I refuse to obey. Second, you can say you couldn
’t see my hands, so I could have been armed. Fire away, Harry.”

  “Get down.”

  “Rakel was a whore, Harry. And Oleg’s the son of a whore. You should thank me for letting you kill her.”

  Harry switched the gun to his left hand. The loose ends of the handcuffs banged against each other.

  “Think about it, Harry. If you arrest me I’ll be declared of unsound mind, pampered in some psychiatric ward for a few years before being released. Shoot me now.”

  “You want to die,” Harry said, moving nearer. “Because you’re going to die of scleroderma.”

  Mathias smacked a hand against the window frame. “Well done, Harry. You checked what I said about antibodies in my blood.”

  “I asked Idar. And afterward I researched scleroderma. If you’ve got the disease, it’s easy to choose another death. For example, a spectacular death that would appear to crown this so-called life’s work of yours.”

  “I can hear your contempt, Harry. But one day you’ll understand, too.”

  “Understand what?”

  “That we were in the same business, Harry. Fighting disease. But the diseases you and I are fighting can’t be eradicated. All victories are temporary. So it’s just the fight that is our life’s work. And mine finishes here. Don’t you want to shoot me, Harry?”

  Harry met Mathias’s eyes. Then he turned the revolver around in his hand. Held it out to Mathias, butt first. “Do it yourself, you bastard.”

  Mathias frowned. Harry saw the hesitation, the suspicion. Which gradually gave way to a smile.

  “As you wish.” Mathias stretched across the railing and took the weapon. Caressed the black steel.

  “You made a great error there, my friend,” he said, pointing the revolver at Harry. “You’ll make a nice period at the end of the sentence, Harry. The guarantee that my work will not be forgotten.”

  Harry stared into the black muzzle, watching the hammer raise its ugly little head. Everything seemed to move slower and the room began to revolve. Mathias took aim. Harry took aim. And swung his right arm. The handcuff made a low whine through the air as Mathias pressed the trigger. The dry click was followed by a metallic smack as the open cuff struck his wrist.

  “Rakel survived,” Harry said. “You failed, you satanic bastard.”

  Harry saw Mathias’s eyes widen. Then narrow. Saw them stare at the revolver that had not fired, at the iron around his wrist binding him to Harry.

  “You … you removed the bullets.”

  Harry shook his head. “Katrine Bratt never had bullets in her revolver.”

  Mathias looked up at Harry and leaned backward. “Come on.”

  Then he jumped.

  Harry was jerked forward and lost his balance. He tried to hold on but Mathias was too heavy and Harry a diminished giant, weakened by the loss of flesh and blood. The policeman screamed as he was dragged over the steel rail and sucked toward the window and the abyss. What he saw as he threw his free left arm above his head and behind him was a chair leg and himself sitting alone in a filthy, windowless Chicago apartment. Harry heard the sound of metal on metal, then he tumbled through the night in free fall. The game was at an end now.

  · · ·

  Gunnar Hagen stared at the ski jump tower but the swirling snowflakes that had started again obscured his vision.

  “Harry!” he repeated on his walkie-talkie. “Are you there?”

  He released the button, but again the answer was intense, rustling nothingness.

  There were four patrol cars in the open parking lot by the jump now, and total confusion had reigned when they had heard the scream from the tower a few seconds before.

  “They fell,” said the officer beside him. “I’m sure I saw two figures falling out of the glass cage.”

  Gunnar Hagen lowered his head in resignation. He didn’t quite know how or why, but for a moment it seemed to him there was an absurd logic in things ending this way; there was a kind of cosmic balance.

  Nonsense. What utter nonsense.

  Hagen couldn’t see the police vehicles in the drifting snow, but he could hear the lament of the sirens, like wailing women; they were already on their way. And he knew that the sound would attract the scavengers: the media vultures, the nosy neighbors, the bloodthirsty bosses. They would come to get their favorite tidbit off the body, their delicacy. And this evening’s two-course meal—the repugnant snowman and the repugnant policeman—would be to their liking. There was no logic, no balance, just hunger and food. Hagen’s walkie-talkie crackled.

  “We can’t find them! Over.”

  Hagen waited, wondering how he would tell his superiors that he had let Harry go alone. How he would explain that he was only Harry’s superior, not his boss and never had been. And that there was a logic there, too, and that actually he didn’t give a damn whether they understood or not.

  “What’s going on?”

  Hagen turned. It was Magnus Skarre.

  “Harry fell,” Hagen said, nodding toward the tower. “They’re searching for the body now.”

  “Body? Of Harry? No chance.”

  “No chance?”

  Hagen turned to Skarre, who was squinting up at the tower. “I thought you’d have known the guy by now, Hagen.”

  Hagen could feel that despite everything he envied the young officer his conviction.

  The walkie-talkie crackled again. “They’re not here!”

  Skarre turned to him, their eyes met and Skarre rolled his shoulders in a What did I tell you? shrug.

  “Hey, you!” Hagen shouted to the Land Rover driver and pointed at the searchlight on the roof. “Shine it on the glass cage. And get hold of some binoculars for me.”

  A few seconds later a beam cut through the night.

  “Can you see anything?” Skarre asked.

  “Snow,” Hagen said, pressing the binoculars against his eyes. “Shine a bit higher. Stop! Wait … my God!”

  “What?”

  “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  At that moment the snow retreated like a theater curtain being drawn. Hagen heard several policemen shout. It looked like two men shackled together were dangling from the rearview mirror of a car. The lower of the two held a hand above his head in a kind of triumphant flourish; the other had both arms stretched out vertically as if he were being crucified sideways. And both were lifeless, with sunken heads as they slowly gyrated in the air.

  Through the binoculars Hagen could see the handcuff holding Harry’s left hand to the railing on the inside of the glass cage.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Hagen repeated.

  As chance would have it, the young officer from the Missing Persons Unit, Thomas Helle, was crouched down by Harry Hole when he regained consciousness. Four policemen had hauled him and Mathias Lund-Helgesen back up into the glass cage. And in the years to come Helle would tell the story of the infamous inspector’s strange first reactions again and again.

  “He was all wild-eyed and asked if Lund-Helgesen was still alive! As though he was terrified the guy had died. As though that was the worst thing that could have happened. And when I said yes and that he was being taken away in the ambulance he yelled that we had to remove Lund-Helgesen’s shoelaces and belt and make sure he didn’t commit suicide. Have you ever heard anything like it? Showing that much care for a guy who’d just tried to murder your ex?”

  37

  DAY 22

  Dad

  Jonas thought he had heard the metallic jangle of the wind chimes, but had gone back to sleep. It was only when he heard the choking sounds that he opened his eyes. There was someone in the room. It was Dad; he was sitting on the edge of his bed.

  And the choking sounds were him crying.

  Jonas sat up in bed. He placed a hand on his father’s shoulder and felt it shaking. It was odd; he had never noticed that his father had such narrow shoulders.

  “They … they’ve found her,” he sobbed. “Mom’s …”

  “I know,” Jonas said. �
�I dreamed it.”

  The father swiveled around in surprise. In the moonlight seeping through the curtains Jonas could see the tears running down his cheeks.

  “It’s just us now, Dad,” he said.

  His father opened his mouth. Once. Twice. But nothing came out. Then he stretched out his arms, wrapped them around Jonas and drew him close. Held him tight. Jonas laid his head against his father’s neck, felt the hot tears wetting his scalp.

  “Do you know what, Jonas?” he whispered through the tears. “I love you so much. You’re the dearest thing I have. You’re my boy. Do you hear? My boy. And you always will be. We’ll manage, won’t we? Don’t you think?”

  “Yes, Dad,” Jonas whispered. “We’ll manage. You and me.”

  38

  DECEMBER 2004

  The Swans

  It was December and the fields outside the hospital windows lay bare and brown under a steel-gray sky. On the highway, studded tires crunched on dry pavement and pedestrians scuttled across the footbridge with coat collars turned up and faced closed. But inside the walls of the building people huddled closer. And on the table in the ward the two candles marked the second Sunday of Advent.

  Harry pulled up in the doorway. Ståle Aune was sitting up in bed and had obviously just made a joke because the head of the Forensics Unit, Beate Lønn, was still laughing. On her lap sat a red-cheeked baby, looking at Harry with big round eyes and an open mouth.

  “My friend!” Ståle growled as he caught sight of the policeman.

  Harry walked in, stooped, gave Beate a hug and offered Ståle Aune a hand.

  “You look better than when I saw you last,” Harry said.

  “They say I’ll be discharged before Christmas,” Aune said and turned Harry’s hand in his. “That’s some fiendish claw. What happened?”

  Harry allowed him to study his right hand. “The middle finger was chopped off and couldn’t be saved. They sewed together the sinews in the index finger, and the nerve endings will grow a fraction of an inch a month and try to find each other. Though the doctors say I’ll have to live with permanent paralysis on one side of it.”