The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

‘Thank you,’ Harry said. ‘And I was wondering if any other officers had called earlier this evening
and asked you the same What? I see. Yes, just ring me when the tests are finished.’
Harry rang off. ‘You can start the engine now,’ he said.
Bjørn Holm twisted the key in the ignition. ‘What’s the deal?’
‘We’re going to the Plaza Hotel. Katrine Bratt called the institute earlier this evening to ask about
paternity.’
‘This evening?’ Bjørn Holm put his foot down and turned right towards Schous plass.
‘They’re running preliminary tests to establish paternity to ninety-five per cent probability. Then
they’ll try to increase the certainty to ninety-nine point nine.’
‘And?’
‘It’s ninety-five per certain that the father of the Ottersen twins and Jonas Becker is Arve Støp.’
‘Holy moly.’
‘And I think Katrine’s followed your recommendations for a Saturday evening. And the prey is
Arve Støp.’
Harry rang the Incident Room and asked for assistance as the old reconditioned engine roared
through the night-still streets of Grünerløkka. And as they passed Akerselva A&E and skidded on
the tramlines in Storgata, the heater was indeed blowing red-hot air on them.
Odin Nakken, a newspaper reporter at Verdens Gang, stood freezing on the pavement outside the
Plaza Hotel cursing the world, people in general and his job in particular. As far as he could judge,
the last guests were leaving the Liberal celebrations. And the last, as a rule, were the most
interesting, the ones who could create the next day’s headlines. But the deadline was approaching;
in five minutes he would have to go. Go to the office in Akersgata a few hundred metres away and
write. Write to the editor that he was a grown-up now, that he was fed up with standing outside a
party like a teenager, with his nose pressed against the windowpane staring in and hoping someone
would come out and tell him who had danced with whom, who had bought drinks for whom, who
had been in a clinch with whom. Write that he was handing in his notice.
A couple of rumours had been floating about that had been too fantastic to be true, but naturally
they couldn’t print those. There was a limit, and there were unwritten rules. Rules to which, at least
in his generation, journalists adhered. For what that was worth.
Odin Nakken took stock. There were only a couple of reporters and photographers still holding out.
Or who had the same deadlines for celebrity gossip as his newspaper. A Volvo Amazon came
hurtling towards them and pulled into the kerb with a squeal of brakes.
Out jumped a man from the passenger seat, and Odin Nakken immediately recognised him. He
signalled to the photographer, and they ran after the police officer 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?’