The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

was at work. She leaned over to the passenger seat, grabbed her gym holdall and the bag of
shopping from ICA supermarket, snatched a customary glance at herself in the rear-view mirror
before getting out. She looked good, her friends said. Not yet thirty and a detached house, second
car and country retreat outside Nice, they said. And they asked what it was like living in the East
End. And how her parents were after the bankruptcy. Strange how their brains automatically linked
the two questions.
Camilla looked in the mirror again. They were right. She did look good. She thought she saw
something else, a movement at the edge of the mirror. No, it was just the door tipping back into
position. She got out of the car and was searching for her house keys when she realised her mobile
phone was still in the hands-free holder in the car.
Camilla turned and uttered a short scream.
The man had been standing behind her. Terrified, she took a step back with a hand over her mouth.
She was about to apologise with a smile, not because there was anything to apologise for, but
because he looked entirely innocuous. But then she caught sight of the gun in his hand. It was
pointing at her. The first thing she thought was that it looked like a toy.
‘My name’s Filip Becker,’ he said. ‘I rang. There was no one at home.’
‘What do you want?’ she asked, trying to control the quiver in her voice as her instinct told her she
must not show her fear. ‘What’s this about?’
He flashed a quick smirk. ‘Whoring.’
In silence, Harry watched Hagen, who had interrupted the team meeting in Harry’s office to repeat
the Chief Superintendent’s order that the ‘theory’ of Vetlesen’s murder was not to be leaked under
any circumstances, not even to partners, marital or otherwise. At length, Hagen caught Harry’s eye.
‘Well, that was all I wanted to say,’ he concluded quickly and left the room.
‘Carry on,’ Harry said to Bjørn Holm, who had been giving feedback on their findings at the curling
hall crime scene. Or, to be more accurate, the lack of findings.
‘We’d only just got going when it was determined it was a suicide. We didn’t find any forensic
evidence, and now the crime scene’s contaminated. I had a look this morning and there’s not a lot to
see, I’m afraid.’
‘Mm,’ Harry said. ‘Katrine?’
Katrine looked down at her notes. ‘Yes, well, your theory is that Vetlesen and the killer met at the
curling club and this must have been prearranged. The obvious conclusion to draw is that they were
in phone contact. You asked me to check the list of calls.’
‘Yes,’ said Harry, stifling a yawn.
She flicked through. ‘I got lists from Telenor for Vetlesen’s clinic phone and mobile. I took them to
Borghild’s house.’
‘House?’ Skarre queried.