The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

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
witticism because the head of Krimteknisk, Beate Lønn, was still laughing. On her lap sat a redcheeked
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 ends will grow a
millimetre 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.’
‘A high price.’
‘No,’ Harry said. ‘Small beer.’
Aune nodded.
‘Any news about when the case is due to come up?’ asked Beate who had got to her feet to put the
baby in the carrycot.
‘No,’ Harry said, watching the forensic officer’s efficient movements.
‘The defence will try to have Lund-Helgesen declared mad,’ Aune said, preferring the demotic form
‘mad’ which in his opinion was not only a suitable description but also poetic. ‘And not to achieve
that would take an even worse psychologist than me.’
‘Oh yes, he’ll get life anyway,’ Beate said, angling her head and straightening the baby’s blanket.
‘Just a shame life isn’t life,’ Aune growled and put out a hand for the glass on his bedside table.
‘The more aged I become, the more I tend to the view that evil is evil, mental illness or no. We’re
all more or less disposed to evil actions, but our disposition cannot exonerate us. For heaven’s sake,
we’re all sick with personality disorders. And it’s our actions which define how sick we are. We’re
equal before the law, we say, but it’s meaningless as long as no one is equal. During the Black
Death seamen who coughed were immediately heaved overboard. Of course they were. For justice
is a blunt knife, both as a philosophy and as a judge. All we have is fortunate or less fortunate
medical prospects, my dears.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Harry said, staring down at the still bandaged stump of a middle finger, ‘in this case,
it’ll be for life.’
‘Oh?’
‘Unfortunate medical prospects.’