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Speaker 1: The figure stood slightly outside the radius of the steel wire, tilted its head and watched Sylvia. Until your stomach is so frozen and full that it can't melt the snow any longer. Until it's ice inside. Until you've become your true self. Something that can't feel. Sylvia's brain perceived the words, but could not absorb the meaning. Never! She screamed. A sound came from the figure and blended into the gurgle of the stream. | |
Speaker 1: Big boots, said the young technician, a hollow-cheeked coastal man from Sutra. At least size 48. Guy must have been pretty beefy. Not necessarily, Rafto said, sniffing the air. The print is uneven, and yet the ground here is flat. That suggests the man's foot is smaller than his boot. Perhaps he was trying to fool us. Rafto felt everyone's eyes on him. He knew what they were thinking. There he went again, trying to dazzle, the star of bygone times, the man the media had adored, big gob, hard face, and driving energy to match. | |
Speaker 1: He went on. The stream wound hither and thither but he wasn't concerned about losing his bearings. All he had to do was retrace his steps. An owl, which must have been close by, hooted in admonitory tootoo. The dial on his watch glowed green and showed that he had been walking for over fifteen minutes. Time to go back and sent in the team with proper footwear, gear and a dog that was not afraid of foxes. Harry's heart stopped. | |
Speaker 1: He looked around with disapproval that the other three squeezed into Harry's office. Katrina Brat, Harry Hula, and Bjorn Holm from Krimteknisk, the forensics unit. That's what Hargan has given me, Harry said, tipping back on his chair. And this is not a murder investigation for the moment. What is it, actually? Katrina Brat asked. For the moment. A missing persons case, Harry said. But one which bears a certain similarity to other recent cases. | |
Speaker 1: There were no empty gaps in the felt. The bedroom had a door leading into a newly decorated bathroom with a steam shower and two steel washstands. In Eunice's room Harry sat down on a small chair by a small desk. On the desk there was a calculator with a series of advanced mathematical functions. It looked new and unused. Above the desk there was a poster with a picture of seven dolphins inside a wave and a calendar for the whole year. Several of the dates were ringed and had tiny reminders added. | |
Speaker 1: Who? Oni Hetland inhaled with a tremble. Lila told me only the first name and profession and that it was a secret. No one was to know, especially not Bastion. Rafto looked down into his notebook to hide his excitement. And the first name and profession were? He noted down what Oni had said. Peered at his pad. It was a relatively common name and a relatively common profession. | |
Speaker 1: She stared out of the windscreen and turned the key again. Had the battery died? And what did the snowman look like? She asked, pressing the accelerator to the floor and desperately turning the key so hard it felt as though she would break it. He answered, but his answer was drowned by the roar of the engine. Sarah put the car in gear and let go of the clutch as if in a sudden hurry to get away. The wheels spun in the soft, slushy snow. She accelerated harder, but the rear of the car slid sideways. By then the tyres had spun their way down to the tarmac, and they lurched forward and skidded into the road. | |
Speaker 1: steering through the tollbooth without breaking. It may have been an unhappy marriage and if so, she was the one who suffered more. Hmm. What made you think that? It's obvious, Katrina smiled, glancing in the mirror. Clash of taste. Explain. Didn't you see the dreadful sofa and the coffee table? Typical 80s style bought by men in the 90s? Well, she chose a dining table in white oiled oak with aluminium legs and vitra. Vitra. | |
Speaker 1: The darkness that could erase her footprints in the snow and conceal her. She knew her way around here. She could find her bearings so that she didn't run back to the farm or straight into... into its arms. The problem was that the snow had changed the landscape overnight, covered the paths, the familiar rocks, and leveled out all the contours. And at dusk, everything was distorted and disfigured by the blackness. And by her own panic. She stopped to listen. Her heaving, rasping breathlessness rent the tranquillity. | |
Speaker 1: The black row of teeth came into view. And the eyes. Jonas automatically sucked in his breath and recoiled two steps. The pebble eyes were gleaming. And they were not staring into the house. They were looking up. Up here. Jonas drew the curtains and crept back into bed. The eyes were gleaming. Chapter 3. Day 1. Cochineal Harry was sitting on a barstool in Palace Grill, reading the signs on the walls, the good-natured reminders to bar clientele not to ask for credit, not to shoot the pianist, and to be good or be gone. | |
Speaker 1: to have me examined. Mum. His voice suddenly failed him. She'll be back soon, you'll see, Harry said, putting her hand on his narrow shoulders. She didn't take the scarf with her, did she? The pink one on your bed. Someone hung it round the snowman's neck, Jonas said. I brought it in. Your mother didn't want the snowman to freeze then. She would never have given her favourite scarf to the snowman. Then it must have been your dad. | |
Speaker 1: of the mobile phone. Magnus rang Harry and informed him of the situation. The inspector was out of breath and in the background he heard the shrill twittering of birds. Harry asked a couple of questions about the mobile before ringing off. Then Scara got up and went into the corridor. The door to Katrina Bratt's office was open and the light was on, but no one was there. He climbed the stairs to the canteen on the floor above. No food was being served, but there was warmish coffee in a thermos and crisp bread and jam on a trolley by the door. | |
Speaker 1: was a test? You test people all the time, Harry, including me. Harry didn't answer until they were well down Bokstad vein. People are often smarter than you think, he said, and then said nothing until they were in the police HQ car park. I have to work on my own for the rest of the day. And he said that because he had been thinking about the pink scarf and come to a conclusion, that he urgently needed to go through Skara's missing persons report and he urgently needed to have his nagging suspicion confirmed. | |
Speaker 1: anatomy department. And he's a blood donor and a member of Amnesty International. She sighed. B- is a rare blood group, Harry. And you also support Amnesty. I know that for a fact. She stirred her drink with an orange plastic stick that had a horse on top. The red mixture swirled round the ice cubes. Cochineal. Harry, she said. Something in her inflection made him tense up. Matthias is going to move in with me. | |
Speaker 1: means it's not money that's the problem. She isn't allowed to change his sofa and table. And when a man with no taste or no apparent interest in interior design does that kind of thing, it tells me something about who dominates whom. Harry nodded, mostly as a marker for himself. Her first impression had not been mistaken. Katrina Bratt was good. Tell me what you think, she said. It's me who should be learning here. Harry looked out of the window at the old, traditional, though never particularly venerable, licensed café, Lipsvig. | |
Speaker 1: Harry walked to the front door and rang the bell. Philip Becker opened up. His hair was disheveled and his tie askew. He blinked hard several times, as though he had been sleeping. Yes, he answered to Harry's question. That's the kind of phone she's got. Could I ask you to ring her number? Philip Becker disappeared into the house and Harry waited. Suddenly Jonas poked his face out of the porch doorway. Harry was about to say hi, but at that moment the red phone began to play a children's tune. | |
Speaker 1: But before the seals leave the bearing straits to search for food in the open sea, the male will try to kill the female. Why? Because a female bear house seal will never mate twice with the same male. For her, this is about spreading the biological risk of hereditary material, just like on the stock market. For her, it makes biological sense to be promiscuous, and the male knows this. By taking her life, he wants to stop the young of other seals competing with his own progeny for the same food. | |
Speaker 1: changing down to tackle the steep drive. He drove a Honda Accord of older vintage. She didn't know why, but she liked the idea of that. He parked in front of the garage, never inside. And she liked that, too. She liked the fact that he brought a change of underwear and a toilet bag in the hold-all he then took away with him the next morning. She liked him asking her when she wanted to see him again, and taking nothing for granted. That might change now, of course, but she was ready for it. | |
Speaker 1: married woman with children. She wasn't at home when the husband and children returned a few hours ago. They live way out in the woods in Solihugda. None of the neighbours has seen her and she can't have left by car because the husband had it and there are no footprints on the path. Footprints? There's still snow up there. The beer was banged down in front of Harry. Harry, are you there? Yes, I am, I'm thinking. What about? Is there a snowman there? Eh? Snowman? How should I know? Well, let's go and find out. | |
Speaker 1: His name was Bjarne Muller, Scara said, looking at the map at the ring around Bergen. That was where Muller had been seen last, before he disappeared. And that people at HQ don't like the media turning him into a kind of pop idol. Scara chewed his lower lip. He's a bloody good detective. That's enough for me. You like him? Brat asked. Scara grinned. He turned and looked straight into her eyes. Like? Dislike? He said. I don't think I could say one or the other. | |
Speaker 1: Rafto didn't like the sloping district of Bergen known as Fjällsieden, with its oh-so-picturesque, crooked, uninsulated timber houses with stairs and cellars situated in narrow alleys where the sun never shone. Trendy children of rich parents frequently paid millions to own an authentic Bergen house, then did them up until there wasn't an original splinter left. Here you no longer heard the sound of children's running feet on the cobblestones. The prices had driven young Bergensian families into the suburbs on the other side of the mountains a long time ago. | |
Speaker 1: and so on, Oleg said, sending a quick wink to Harry when her eyes were off the mirror. Thank you, Harry, she said. My pleasure. Drive carefully. Who was that woman inside? A colleague, new on the job. Oh? Looked as if you knew each other pretty well already. Ah, so. You? She stopped in mid-sentence. Then she slowly shook her head and laughed. A deep but bright laugh that came from down in her throat, confident and carefree at the same time. | |
Speaker 1: Sylvia ran as fast as she could. She ran towards the trees where they were most dense in the growing murk. She was running for her life. She hadn't tied up her boots, and now they were full of snow. She held the little hatchet in front of her as she burst through layer after layer of low, leafless branches. The blade was red and sleek with blood. She knew the snow that had fallen yesterday had melted in town. But even though Solihugda was barely a half an hour's drive away, the snow could lie on the ground until spring up here. | |
Speaker 1: petient forgot to inform you. She pronounced the word with a slightly exaggerated stress on all the syllables of Gunnar Hagen's rank. But you should show me round and take care of me for the next few days, until I'm up and running. Can you do that, do you think? Harry eased off a smile. So far he liked her, but of course he was open to changing his opinion. Harry was always willing to give people another chance to wind up on his blacklist. I don't know, he said, stopping by the coffee dispenser. | |
Speaker 1: She wished she were running on black tarmac in a city where the noise drowned the sounds of escape, and she could hide in the secure mass of humanity. But here she was completely alone. No. Not completely. Chapter 8 Day 3 Swan Neck Sylvia ran into the forest. Night was on the way. Usually she hated the way November evenings drew in so early. | |
Speaker 1: The last of the daylight leaked out through a crack in the cloud cover. He looked at his watch. Oleg had insisted on going early so that they could take in Slayer as well. "'Where are we going to begin, then?' Bjorn Holm mumbled. "'Eh?' Scara said. "'Where are we going to begin, then?' Holm repeated with exaggerated diction. Harry went back to the desk. "'Holm goes over Becker's house and garden as if it were a murder scene. | |
Speaker 1: She walked over to him, and their cheeks touched. He made sure he let go first. What are you looking at? she asked, unbuttoning her coat. You know, Harry said, and heard that he should have cleared his throat first. She chuckled, and the laughter had the same effect on him as the first swig of Jim Beam. He felt warm and relaxed. Don't, she said. He knew exactly what her don't meant. Don't start. | |
Speaker 1: Nevertheless, it's self-explanatory, like most things here. What are your thoughts on the case of the missing woman? Harry pressed the button for Americana, which in this machine was as American as Norwegian ferry coffee. What about it? Brat asked. Do you think she's alive? Harry tried to ask in a casual manner so that she wouldn't realise it was a test. Do you think I'm stupid? she said, and watched with undisguised revulsion as the machine coughed and spluttered something black into a white plastic cup. | |
Speaker 1: where at once he pressed an orange hairdryer-like apparatus against the wall. It squeaked twice. Damp detector, the man said, studying something that was obviously an indicator. Just as I thought. Sure you haven't seen or smelt anything suspicious? Harry didn't have a clear perception of what that might be. A coating, like on stale bread, the man said. Mouldy smell. Harry shook his head. Have you had sore eyes? The man asked. | |
Speaker 1: The wire was fastened around the trunk of a solid young birch tree. She searched for and found the knot under the snow. The metal had frozen into a stiff, unyielding lump. She had to open it, had to get away. Another twig cracked. Closer this time. She leaned against the trunk, on the opposite side to where she had heard the sound. Told herself not to panic, that the knot would come loose after she had yanked at it for a while, that her leg was intact, that the sounds she heard coming closer were made by a deer. | |
Speaker 1: What is it, actually? Katrina Brat asked. For the moment. A missing persons case, Harry said. But one which bears a certain similarity to other recent cases. Housewives are one day in late autumn suddenly up stakes, asked Bjorn Holm, with remnants of the rural Toten dialect he had added to the goods he had removed from the village of Sklea, along with an LP collection consisting of Elvis, Hardcore Hillbilly, the Sex Pistols, Jason and the Scorchers, three hand-sewn suits from Nashville, an American Bible, a slightly undersized sofa bed, and a dining-room suite that had outlived three generations of Holmes. | |
Speaker 1: looked back and tried to fix the spot in his mind. It was about fifteen meters from the stream. He crouched down. Just the steel stuck up, but he didn't need to brush away the snow to see what it was. A hatchet. If there had been blood on it after killing the chickens, it was gone now. There were no footprints around the hatchet. Harry shone the torch and saw a snapped twig on the snow a few meters away. | |
Speaker 1: Regarded himself in the mirror. November there, too. Drawn, greyish, pale and overcast. As usual, his eyes were bloodshot, and the pores on his nose large black craters. The bags under his eyes, with their light blue alcohol-washed irises, would disappear after his face had been ministered to with hot water, a towel and breakfast. He assumed they would, that is. Harry was not sure exactly how his face would fare during the day, now that he had turned forty. | |
Speaker 1: The ambitious officer had sent the usual security fax to all the hotels in Oslo and Arcuswus, and finally instructed all operational units, including the patrol cars, in Oslo to keep their eyes peeled. The only thing left was the question of the mobile phone. Magnus rang Harry and informed him of the situation. The inspector was out of breath and in the background he heard the shrill twittering of birds. Harry asked a couple of questions about the mobile before ringing off. | |
Speaker 1: For now it was seven minutes past eight, and she was standing by the door. With that erect posture of hers, the arch of her back he could feel on his fingertips, and the high cheekbones under the glowing skin he could feel against his. He had hoped she wouldn't look so good, so happy. She walked over to him, and their cheeks touched. He made sure he let go first. What are you looking at? she asked, unbuttoning her coat. You know, Harry said, and heard that he should have cleared his throat first. | |
Speaker 1: by people who wish us the world's richest country well. Norway, a gibbering, pea-brained blonde who gets lost in a back street in the Bronx and is now indignant that her bodyguard is so brutal with muggers. Harry dialed Rockle's number. Aside from Sissi's, Rockle's telephone number was the only one he knew off by heart. When he was young and inexperienced, he thought that a bad memory was a handicap for a detective. Now he knew better. And the bodyguard is Bush and the U.S.A.? The host asked. | |
Speaker 1: beloved hands hanging down, empty. It was broad daylight, close to the centre of Norway's second-largest city. Despite his age, after the last years without alcohol, he was in good physical shape. His reflexes were fast, and his combat techniques were more or less intact. Drawing the revolver would take a fraction of a second. So why was he so frightened that his teeth were chattering in his mouth? Chapter 6 Day 2 Cellular Phone Police officer Magnus Scara leaned back in his swivel chair and closed his eyes, and the image that immediately appeared to him wore a suit and stood facing the other way. | |
Speaker 1: What? It? Last night I found Birte Becker's mobile phone in a snowman. I don't know quite what it is, boss, but I think we need to find out. Quick. These statistics are interesting, Hargan said, absentmindedly taking battalion commander Yasuda's little finger and pressing his thumb into it, and I also appreciate that this latest disappearance is grounds for concern. But it's not enough. So tell me, what was it that actually made you ask Skara to write this report? Harry looked at Hargan. | |
Speaker 1: you do have. Harry sipped his Coke. How's Oleg getting on with your doctor? His name's Matthias, Raquel said with a sigh. They're working on it. They're different. Matthias tries hard, but Oleg doesn't exactly make it easy for him. Harry experienced a sweet tingle of satisfaction. Matthias works long hours as well. I thought you didn't like your men working, Harry replied and regretted it the moment he had said it. | |
Speaker 1: interrupted Ryan Adams' shakedown on Ninth Street. A woman introduced herself as Oda, said she was calling from Bosa and it was nice to talk to him again. Harry couldn't remember her but he did remember the TV programme. They had wanted him to talk about serial killers because he was the only Norwegian police officer to have studied with the FBI and furthermore he had hunted down a genuine serial killer. Harry had been stupid enough to agree. He had told himself he was doing it to say something important and moderately qualified about people who kill not so that he could be seen on the nation's most popular talk show. | |
Speaker 1: but nothing was forthcoming, just this clear, open expression. That, Harry said, strictly speaking, is a private matter. The man gave the suggestion of a smile in response to a joke he was heartily sick of hearing. Fungus in your flat? Mould? I have no reason to believe that I have, said Harry. That's the thing about mould. It seldom gives anyone reason to believe that it's there. The man sucked at his teeth and rocked on his heels. | |
Speaker 1: He should be here soon. Yes, thank God, Ebba said. So when we rang Beata's workplace this morning and she hadn't turned up at the customary time, we rang you back. Skara nodded in confirmation. Harry signalled that Skara could continue his conversation with Ebba Bendixson, went over to the TV, and sat down on the floor beside the boy. On the screen, a wolf was lighting the fuse on a stick of dynamite. Hello, Jonas. Jonas, my name's Harry. Did the other policemen tell you that things like this almost always turn out fine? People disappear, and then they turn up of their own accord? The boy shook his head. | |
Speaker 1: In the end they had closed the restaurant. Harry had always liked driving up here above the town's lair of yellow exhaust fumes and running along the network of paths on the steep terrain that provided a challenge and caused the lactic acid to burn in his muscles. He had liked to stop by the crumbling beauty of a restaurant, sitting on the rain-wet, overgrown terrace overlooking the town that had once been his, but which was now emotionally bankrupt, all assets transferred, an ex-lover with transferred affections. | |
Speaker 1: He told her about the mould in his flat. How are you doing? Harry asked. Fine. I'm good. Oleg's fine. But he misses you. Has he said that? You know he has. You should keep tabs on him better. Me? Harry looked at her, dumbfounded. It wasn't my decision. So? She said, taking the drink from the barman. Just because you and I are not together doesn't mean that you and Oleg don't have an important relationship. For you both. | |
Speaker 1: before his time, that the town below belonged to him, not to the social workers, to the cream puffs, to the smooth talkers sitting in their offices with tongues so long they could lick the limp arseholes of both the local politicians and the pinko journalists. Take a few snaps and get me an ID, Rafto said to the technician with the camera. And who'll be able to identify this? The young man pointed. Rafto didn't care for his tone. Someone has reported, or will soon report, this woman missing. | |
Speaker 1: And, well, before he had been broad-shouldered and what Raquel called a natural athlete, now he had begun to resemble the photograph he had once seen of a skinned polar bear, a muscular but shockingly gaunt predator. Quite simply, he was fading away. Not that it actually mattered. Harry sighed. November. It was going to get even darker. He went into the kitchen, drank a glass of water to relieve his headache, and peered through the window in surprise. | |
Speaker 1: Hmm. Then the prints of the carrier would have been deeper. Shame no one stepped in the blood. Harry peered at the dark walls outside the range of the bulb. From the yard they heard a dog's pitiful whine and a policeman's furious curses. Can't see what's up, Skara, Harry said. Skara went, and Harry switched the torch back on and walked towards the wall. He ran his hand along the unpainted boards. What's, Holm began, but stopped when Harry's boot hit the wall with a dull thud. | |
Speaker 1: He put a fingertip into his mouth. It tasted of salt. Did mould taste like that? Or was it just salt bloom, the structure sweating? Harry flicked a lighter and leaned over to the wall. Nothing to smell, nothing to see. When he had gone to bed and was lying staring into the room's hermetically sealed blackness, he thought about Jonas and his own mother, about the smell of illness and her face slowly fading into the pillow's whiteness. | |
Speaker 1: putting them straight into a pan. Aren't you going to peel the potatoes Dad? Mummy usually your mother isn't here Jonas so we'll have to do it my way. He hadn't raised his voice yet there was an irritation that made Jonas cringe. He never quite knew what made his father so angry or now and then even whether he was angry. until he saw his mother's face with the anxious droop round the corners of her mouth which seemed to make Dad even more irritable. He hoped she would soon be there. | |
Speaker 1: outside, Holm? The forensic officer shook his head. Too trampled, and I need more light. I found several of Rolf Otteson's boot prints, plus a couple of others going to the barn, but none from the barn. Perhaps she was carried out of the barn. Hmm. Then the prints of the carrier would have been deeper. Shame no one stepped in the blood. Harry peered at the dark walls outside the range of the bulb. From the yard they heard a dog's pitiful whine and a policeman's furious curses. | |
Speaker 1: coating the two men's faces in grey. P.O.B. Hargan was listening to Harry with a pensive furrow over bushy black eyebrows that met in the middle. On the huge desk stood a small plinth bearing a white knuckle bone which, according to the inscription, had belonged to the Japanese battalion commander Yoshito Yasuda. In his years at the military academy, Hargan had lectured about this little finger that Yasuda had cut off in desperation in front of his men during the retreat from Burma in 1944. It was just a year since Hargan had been brought back to his old employer, the police, to hedge crime squad, and, as a lot of water had passed under the bridge in the meantime, he listened with relative patience to his veteran inspector holding forth on the theme of missing persons. | |
Speaker 1: like claws. His eyes behind thick glasses in plain round steel frames, the type that had been popular among seventies radicals, seemed unnaturally large. A poster on the mustard-yellow wall showed Indians carrying an anaconda. Harry recognised the cover of a Joni Mitchell LP from hippie Stone Age times. Next to it hung a reproduction of a well-known self-portrait by Frida Kahlo, a woman who suffered, Harry thought, a picture chosen by a woman. | |
Speaker 1: He thought he could hear a faint rustle outside in the hall. As if the invisible puppet strings were multiplying, lengthening and sneaking around as they consumed the darkness and formed a faint shimmering light which quivered and shook. The frail morning light seeped through the blinds in the P.O.B.'s office, coating the two men's faces in grey. | |
Speaker 1: I'm afraid this is the it. The POB gave him a nonplussed look. I hope I'm wrong, Harry said, but I think we have some hellishly dark days ahead of us. Hargan sighed. What do you want, Harry? I want an investigation team. Hargan studied Harry. In common with most other officers at Police HQ, he regarded Harry as a self-willed, arrogant, argumentative, unstable alcoholic. | |
Speaker 1: Two immense fire-engine red, cutlet-shaped sideburns framing Bjorn Holm's plump, round face emerged from the hat, and he had a pair of slightly protruding eyes, which gave him a fish-like expression of constant wonderment. He was the only person Harry had insisted on having in his small investigation team. "'There's one more thing,' Harry said, reaching out to switch on the overhead projector between the piles of paper on his desk. Magnus Scara cursed and shielded his eyes as blurred writing suddenly appeared on his face. | |
Speaker 1: and promised with a smile never to take them anywhere ever again, unless they asked him, of course. After that, Matthias had gone to Botswana for a week, and had rung her the evening he came home to ask if he could meet her again. She heard the sound of a car changing down to tackle the steep drive. He drove a Honda Accord of older vintage. She didn't know why, but she liked the idea of that. He parked in front of the garage, never inside. And she liked that, too. | |
Speaker 1: The hatchet must have fallen in the stream. She crawled back into the black water, put her hands down and searched the stony bottom. Nothing. In despair she sank to her knees, scanning the snow on both banks. And then she caught sight of the blade, poking up out of the water two metres in front of her. And already she knew, before she felt the wire jerk, before she lay down flat in the water with the melted snow gurgling over her, so cold that she thought her heart would stop, stretching like a desperate beggar for the hatchet, already she knew that it was half a metre too far. | |
Speaker 1: Harry said. It's the dog, Skara said on his return. It won't budge. Won't budge? Harry lit up the trail of footprints. The snow reflected the light, but the trail vanished in the darkness beneath the trees. The dog handler doesn't understand. He says the dog seems petrified. At any rate, he refuses to go into the forest. Perhaps he can smell fox, Holm said. Lots of foxes in this forest. Foxes? Skara snorted. | |
Speaker 1: After a lecture in Trondheim, he invited her up to his room. She was interested, but drew his attention to the fact that she'd had a mastectomy. He said he would give that some thought and went to the bar, and came back and took her with him. Hmm. I hope expectations were fulfilled. Nothing fulfills expectations. No, Harry said, wondering what they were talking about. What's happening this evening? Ruckel asked. Palace Grill at eight is fine, but what's all this rubbish about not being able to reserve tables in advance? It gives the whole place cachet, I suppose. | |
Speaker 1: so much like to have you. You're so so rock and roll. She laughed with an enthusiasm whose sincerity he could not be sure of but he recognised her voice now. She had been with them at Kunstnernesfuss that night. She had been good looking in a boring young way had talked in a boring young way and had eyed Harry hungrily as though he were an exotic meal she was considering. Was he too exotic? Try someone else Harry said and rang off. | |
Speaker 1: For her, it makes biological sense to be promiscuous, and the male knows this. By taking her life, he wants to stop the young of other seals competing with his own progeny for the same food. We're entering Darwinian waters here, so why don't humans think like the seal? Another voice said. But we do, don't we? Our society is not as monogamous as it appears, and never has been. A Swedish study showed recently that between fifteen and twenty percent of all children born have a different father from the one they, and for the matter the postulated fathers, think. | |
Speaker 1: to the stove, checking the pans and turning up the temperature on two of the hot plates. Just have it ready, his father said, turning to the pile of newspapers on the worktop, and I'll be home at some point. Okay. Mummy went over to Dad's back and put her arms around him. Would you really have to go to Bergen tonight, already? My lectures at eight tomorrow, Dad said. It takes an hour to get to the university from the time the plane lands, so I wouldn't make it if I caught the first flight tomorrow. | |
Speaker 1: when a fingernail broke down the middle. But it was no use. She bent over and her teeth crunched as she bit into the steel. Shit! She could hear light, quiet footsteps in the snow and held her breath. The steps paused somewhere on the other side of the tree. She might have been imagining things, but she thought she could hear it scenting the air, inhaling the smell. She sat utterly motionless. Then it began to move again. The sounds were softer. | |
Speaker 1: We don't have many customers, almost none until the Christmas sales, to be honest. How? Norad. They support shops and our suppliers as part of the government trade programme with third world countries. He coughed quietly. The message it sends is more important than money and short-sighted gain, isn't it? Harry nodded, even though he wasn't thinking about development aid and fair trade in Africa, but about the clock and driving time in Oslo and District. From the kitchen where the twins were eating a late snack came the sound of a radio. | |
Speaker 1: hung lifelessly down both sides of her face, which was finely chiselled, pale, and wore the same serious, weary features Harry had seen on other stunning women, who had become so used to being observed that they had stopped liking or disliking it. Katrina Bratt was dressed in a blue suit that underlined her femininity, but the thick black tights under the edge of her skirt and her practical winter boots invalidated any possible suspicions that she was playing on it. She stood, letting her eyes run over the gathering, as if she had risen to see them and not vice versa. | |
Speaker 1: Explain. Didn't you see the dreadful sofa and the coffee table? Typical 80s style bought by men in the 90s? Well, she chose a dining table in white oiled oak with aluminium legs and vitra. Vitra. Dining room chairs. Swiss. Expensive. So expensive that with what she could have saved by buying slightly more reasonably priced copies, she could have changed all the bloody furniture. Harry noticed that bloody didn't sound like a regular swear word in Katrina Bratt's mouth. | |
Speaker 1: the press and his colleagues. Indirect jibes had begun to circulate that Gert Rafto was only thinking about himself and his place in the limelight, that in his egotism he was treading on a few too many toes and over a few too many dead bodies. But he hadn't taken any notice. They didn't have anything on him. Not much, anyway. The odd trinket had disappeared from the crime scenes, a piece of jewellery or a watch belonging to the deceased, things you assumed no one would miss. But one day one of Rafto's colleagues had been searching for a pen and had opened a drawer in his desk. | |
Speaker 1: Harry turned and looked into Katrina Bratt's face, wondering how attractive she would be if she made an effort. Or you to me, she said, showing a line of even teeth, but without letting the smile reach her eyes. Whichever way you look at it. She spoke Bergen-flavoured standard Norwegian with moderately rolled hours, which suggested, Harry wagered, that she was from Farna or Kalfare, or some other solidly middle-class district. He continued on his way, and she hurried to catch up with him. | |
Speaker 1: Rafto felt everyone's eyes on him. He knew what they were thinking. There he went again, trying to dazzle, the star of bygone times, the man the media had adored, big gob, hard face, and driving energy to match. In short, a man made for headlines. But at some point he had become too grand for them, for all of them, the press and his colleagues. Indirect jibes had begun to circulate that Gert Rafto was only thinking about himself and his place in the limelight, that in his egotism he was treading on a few too many toes and over a few too many dead bodies. | |
Speaker 1: And soon Gerd Rafto would be king of Bergen Police HQ again. He turned down the radio from which Whitney Houston had insisted all autumn that she would always love you but before he could lift the telephone it rang. Rafto, he said with irritation, impatient to get going. It's me you're looking for. The voice was what immediately told the discredited detective that this was not just a hoax or a crank. It was cool and controlled with clear business-like diction which excluded the usual nutters and drunks. | |
Speaker 1: An ice-cold draft seemed to run through the wall and the room. Harry and Katrina drove down Circa Dalswain towards Meierstuen. What was the first thing that struck you when we went in? Harry asked. That the couple living there were not exactly soulmates? Katrina said, steering through the tollbooth without breaking. It may have been an unhappy marriage and if so, she was the one who suffered more. Hmm. What made you think that? It's obvious, Katrina smiled, glancing in the mirror. | |
Speaker 1: hunted down a genuine serial killer. Harry had been stupid enough to agree. He had told himself he was doing it to say something important and moderately qualified about people who kill not so that he could be seen on the nation's most popular talk show. In retrospect he was not so sure about that but that wasn't the worst aspect. The worst was that he'd had a drink before going on air. Harry was convinced that it had only been one but on the programme it looked as if it had been five. | |
Speaker 1: But, Harry said at length, but it is. What makes you think that? Your neighbour's got it. Uh-huh. And you think it may have spread? Mould doesn't spread. Dry rot does. So, then, there's a construction fault with the ventilation along the walls in this block. It allows dry rot to flourish. May I take a peep at your kitchen? Harry stepped to the side. | |
Speaker 1: he had had the feeling he was being observed, and stood scanning the audience, studying the wall of faces around them. Slipknot rules, Oleg said, and the masks were uber cool, especially the one with the long thin nose. It looked like a... sort of... Harry was listening with half an ear, hoping Raquel would come soon. The air inside the kebab shop suddenly felt dense and suffocating, like a thin film of grease lying on your skin and over your mouth. He tried not to think his next thought, but it was on its way, had already rounded the corner. | |
Speaker 1: down to the cellar all the time. Matthias frowned. Raquel put on a sad smile. Harry's not exactly a child psychiatrist, and Oleg wouldn't listen to me if Harry had given his opinion first. On the other hand, there are no monsters down there. Matthias turned a knob on the stove and said in a low voice, How can you be so sure of that? Matthias? Raquel laughed. Were you afraid of the dark? Who's talking about was? Matthias grinned mischievously. | |
Speaker 1: His heart was beating slower now, pumping blood and transmitting calm, regular signals to the brain that there was still life. Like a mobile phone to a base station. Heart, Harry thought. Signal. The letter. It was a sick thought. So why hadn't he already dismissed it? Why was he already calculating how long it would take him to run to the car, drive to Hove, and check which of them was sicker? Raquel stood by the kitchen window, looking across her property to the spruce trees blocking her view of the neighbours. | |
Speaker 1: Scara shrugged. I think so. Why? Katrina Brat ran her hand over the desktop. Why did he change offices? Magnus walked around her and plopped down on the swivel chair. It hasn't got any windows. And he shared the office. First with Ellen Yelton, and then Jack Halverson, Katrina Brat said. And both were killed. Magnus Scara put his hands behind his head. This new officer had class. | |
Speaker 1: Just with you? The boy turned and looked at Harry. Jonas had brown eyes, like Oleg. And in the brown, Harry saw the horror he had been expecting and the anger he had not. Why did they go? The boy asked. The ones who come back. Same eyes, Harry thought. Same questions. The important ones. For all sorts of reasons, Harry said. Some got lost. There are various ways of getting lost. | |
Speaker 1: aloud twice, took his time as if to show that he had not been taken aback. Who am I talking to? You know. Rafto closed his eyes and cursed silently and roundly. Damn, damn, damn, the killer was going to give himself in and that would not have anywhere near the same impact as if he, Rafto, arrested the perpetrator. What makes you think I'm looking for you? The policeman asked between clenched teeth. I just know, said the voice, and if we can do this my way, you'll get what you want. | |
Speaker 1: The sound of hoarse cries came from the penguin run at the aquarium. Will you tell me why you killed her? Rafto said, and noticed that he too had gone hoarse. Shame the game's over, Rafto. It's been fun. And how did you find out that I was on your trail? The other person raised a hand, and Rafto automatically stepped back a pace. There was something hanging from it. A necklace. At the end, there was a green, tear-shaped stone with a black crack. | |
Speaker 1: November Harry was thinking they were definitely heading for dark times. He threw off the duvet and placed his feet on the floor. The lino was so cold it stung. He left the news blaring from the radio alarm clock and went into the bathroom. Regarded himself in the mirror. November there, too. Drawn, greyish, pale and overcast. As usual, his eyes were bloodshot, and the pores on his nose large black craters. | |
Speaker 1: might be cut down to let in more light, but the unspoken absence of enthusiasm that greeted her was so obvious that she didn't even ask for a vote. The spruce trees prevented people from looking in, and that was how they liked it on Holman-Collen Ridge. The snow still lay on the ground, high above the town, where BMWs and Volvos gently threaded their way up through the bends, on their way home to electric garage doors and dinners on tables, prepared by fitness centre slim housewives, taking their career breaks with just a little help from nannies. | |
Speaker 1: How'd you know? Katrina smiled. How'd you know? Living on Holman-Collen Ridge as you do, shouldn't you say, how do you know? Is Harry teaching you bad habits? Blood suffused Oleg's cheeks. Katrina laughed quietly and patted Oleg's shoulder. Sorry, I'm just curious. The boy's face went so red that the whites of his eyes were shining. I'm also curious, Harry said, passing a burger to Oleg. I assume you've found the pattern I asked for, Brat, since you've got time to come to a gig. | |
Speaker 1: unlaid table. How good you are! Jonas could hear the smile in her breathless voice as she stood in the kitchen doorway behind him while he set out glasses and cutlery as quickly as he could. And what a big snowman you've made! Jonas turned in surprise to his mother, who was unbuttoning her coat. She was so attractive. Dark skin, dark hair, just like him, and those gentle, gentle eyes she almost always had. Almost. | |
Speaker 1: a door close, and the car start up outside and fade into the distance. They were alone again. His mother switched on the TV. He thought about something she had asked. Why Jonas hardly ever brought his friends home to play anymore. He hadn't known what to answer. He hadn't wanted her to be sad. But now he became sad instead. He chewed the inside of his cheek, feeling the bittersweet pain extend into his ears, and stared at the metal tubes of the wind chime hanging from the ceiling. | |
Speaker 1: a guy we should be pleased is going to be re-elected president today. I assume you mean that ironically. Not at all. Such a weak president listens to his advisers, and the White House has the best, believe you me. Even though on that laughable TV series about the Oval Office one may have formed the impression that the Democrats have a monopoly on intelligence, it is on the extreme right wing of the Republicans, surprisingly enough, that you find the sharpest minds. | |
Speaker 1: Isis Audiobooks presents an unabridged recording of The Snowman, written by Yul Nisbe, read by Sean Barrett. The moral right of the author has been asserted. This performance is owned by Isis Publishing Ltd. Part 1 Chapter 1 Wednesday 5th November, 1980 The Snowman It was the day the snow came. | |
Speaker 1: The wheels spun in the soft, slushy snow. She accelerated harder, but the rear of the car slid sideways. By then the tyres had spun their way down to the tarmac, and they lurched forward and skidded into the road. Dad's waiting for us, she said. We'll have to get a move on. She switched on the radio and turned up the volume to fill the cold interior with sounds other than her own voice. A newsreader said for the hundredth time today that last night Ronald Reagan had beaten Jimmy Carter in the American election. | |
Speaker 1: My lectures at eight tomorrow, Dad said. It takes an hour to get to the university from the time the plane lands, so I wouldn't make it if I caught the first flight tomorrow. Jonas could see from the muscles in his father's neck that he was relaxing, that once again Mummy had managed to find the right words. Why is the snowman looking at our house? Jonas asked. Go and wash your hands, Mummy said. They ate in silence, broken only by Mummy's tiny questions about how school had been, and Jonas's brief, vague answers. | |
Speaker 1: what he said and found three rings. Rafto had been summoned to the P.O.B. and had explained himself and had been told to keep his mouth shut and his fingers to himself. That was all. But the rumours had started. Even the media had picked up on it. So perhaps it was not so surprising that when charges of police brutality were levelled against the station, there was one man against whom concrete evidence was soon found. The man who was made for headlines. Gerd Rafto was guilty of the accusations. | |
Speaker 1: The air inside the kebab shop suddenly felt dense and suffocating, like a thin film of grease lying on your skin and over your mouth. He tried not to think his next thought, but it was on its way, had already rounded the corner. The thought of a drink, It's an Indian death mask, a woman's voice behind them said. And Slayer was better than Slipknot. Harry spun round in surprise. Lots of posing with Slipknot, isn't there? She continued. Recycled ideas and empty gestures. | |
Speaker 1: Perhaps she had escaped. With her body hunched over, she moved swiftly towards the gurgling sounds. The stream looked as though it was flowing over a white bedsheet through a depression in the forest floor. Sylvia trampled straight in. The water, which reached mid-ankle, soon penetrated her boots. It was so cold that it froze her leg muscles. Then she began to run again, in the same direction as the water flowed. She made loud splashes as she lifted her legs for long, ground-gaining strides. | |
Speaker 1: just like before. Yet she was glad it was over, that she had put it behind her, that this man had become a person with whom she would not share her future, a person who would not bring his grubby reality into their lives. She was better now, much better. She looked at her watch. He would be here soon, for unlike Harry, he tended to be on time. Matthias had suddenly stood there one day, at a garden party, under the auspices of the Holman-Collen Residence Association. | |
Speaker 1: Katrina scrunched up the greaseproof paper and lobbed it towards the rubbish bin behind Scarra. He didn't even need to turn to know that she hadn't missed. She packed her file and stood up, but by then Scarra had managed to collect himself to some degree. I don't know what you're imagining, brat. You're a married slug who maybe doesn't get enough at home, so you're hoping a guy like me can be bothered to... He couldn't find the words. Shit, he couldn't find the words. I'm just offering to teach you a thing or two, you whore. | |
Speaker 1: evening, mostly about her in fact, and he had listened attentively, a bit like doctors do, she had thought. But then he had rung her two days later and asked her whether she would like to see an exhibition at the Hene-Urnstall Art Centre in Hovikollen. Oleg was welcome to join them, because there was a children's exhibition, too. The weather had been terrible, the art mediocre, and Oleg fractious. But Matthias had managed to lift the mood with his good humour and acid comments about the artist's talent. | |
Speaker 1: desperately trying to throw away the stick of dynamite that had got stuck to his hand. Is there a cabin or something like that where you go? Jonas shook his head. A special place where she likes to go if she wants to be on her own. She doesn't want to be on her own, Jonas said. She wants to be with me. Just with you? The boy turned and looked at Harry. Jonas had brown eyes, like Oleg. And in the brown, Harry saw the horror he had been expecting and the anger he had not. | |
Speaker 1: All you could see under the coat was a pair of black boots. Her face was pale and her eyes made up. I would never have believed it, Harry said. You liking that kind of music? Katrina Brat managed a brief smile. I suppose I would say the opposite. She gave him no further explanation and signaled to the man behind the counter that she wanted a faris mineral water. Slayer sucks, Oleg mumbled under his breath. Katrina turned to him. | |
Speaker 1: of the clothes hangers hung with equal distance from each other, as they would if they had been allowed to hang undisturbed for a while. Black dresses with slits, short jumpers with pink motifs and glitter. At the bottom of the wardrobe there was a drawer section. He pulled out the top drawer. Underwear, black and red. Next drawer, suspender belts and stockings. Third drawer, jewellery placed in holes in bright red felt. He noticed a large gaudy ring with precious stones that glittered and sparkled. | |
Speaker 1: You were obsessed. You are your job, and what drives you isn't love or a sense of responsibility. It's not even personal ambition. It's anger and the desire for revenge. And that's not right, Harry. It shouldn't be like that. You know what happened. Yes, thought Harry. I allowed the disease to enter your house as well. Well, he cleared his throat. But your doctor is driven by the right things, then. | |
Speaker 1: . . . . . . . . . |
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