The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

thermometer. ‘What did you bloody say, you snot-nosed whelp?’
‘As a rule too much alcohol is the cause of polyneuropathy. If you continue to drink you risk
permanent brain damage. Have you heard of Korsakoff, Rafto? You haven’t? Let’s hope you never
do because if you hear his name it’s generally in connection with an extremely unpleasant
syndrome named after him. When you look in the mirror and ask yourself if you’re a dipso, I don’t
know what you answer, but I suggest that next time you ask an additional question: Do I want to die
now or do I want some more time?’
Gert Rafto scrutinised the young man in the doctor’s coat. Then he swore under his breath, marched
out and slammed the door behind him.
Four weeks later Rafto rang. He asked if Mathias could come and see him.
‘Drop in tomorrow,’ Mathias said.
‘I can’t. It’s urgent.’
‘Then get yourself to A&E.’
‘Listen to me, Lund-Helgesen. I’ve been in bed for three days without being able to move. You’re
the only one who’s asked me straight out if I’m a dipso. Yes, I am a dipso. And no, I don’t want to
die. Not yet.’
Gert Rafto’s flat stank of rubbish, empty beer bottles and him. But not of leftovers, for there was no
food in the house.
‘This is a B1 vitamin supplement,’ Mathias said, holding the syringe to the light. ‘It will get you
back on your feet.’
‘Thank you,’ Gert Rafto said. Five minutes later he was asleep.
Mathias walked around the flat. On the desk there was a photograph of Rafto with a dark-haired girl
on his shoulders. Above the desk on the wall hung photographs of what must have been murder
scenes. Many photographs. Mathias stared at them. Took a couple of them down and studied the
details. Goodness, how sloppy they had been, the murderers. Their inefficiency was especially
noticeable on the bodies with wounds from both sharp and blunt instruments. He opened drawers
and looked for more photographs. He found reports, notes, a few valuables: rings, ladies’ watches,
necklaces. And newspaper cuttings. He read them. Gert Rafto’s name ran right through them, often
with quotes from press conferences at which he talked about the murderers’ stupidity and how he
had caught them. Because it was clear he had caught them, every single one.
Six hours later, when Gert Rafto awoke, Mathias was still there. He was sitting by the bed with two
murder reports in his lap.
‘Tell me,’ Mathias said. ‘How would you commit a murder if you didn’t want to get caught?’
‘Avoid my beat,’ Rafto said, looking round for something to drink. ‘If the detective’s good, you
haven’t got a hope in hell anyway.’
‘And if I still wanted to do it on the beat of a good detective?’