The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

‘Basically ’ Harry said, ‘. there’s one hell of a hurry.’
Amazed, the barman looked at the untouched beer, the fifty-krone note on the counter and the broad
shoulders making off through the door as Johnny Cash faded out.
‘Sylvia would never have simply left,’ said Rolf Ottersen.
Rolf Ottersen was thin. Or to be more precise, he was a bag of bones. His flannel shirt was buttoned
all the way up and from it protruded a gaunt neck and a head that reminded Harry of a wading bird.
A pair of narrow hands with long, scrawny fingers that continually curled, twisted and twirled
protruded from his shirtsleeves. The nails of his right hand had been filed long and sharp, 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 hippy 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. The floor was untreated pine, and the
room was lit by a combination of old-fashioned paraffin lamps and brown clay lamps, which looked
as if they might have been home-made. Leaning against the wall in the corner was a guitar with
nylon strings, which Harry took to be the explanation for Rolf Ottersen’s filed nails.
‘What do you mean, “she would never have left”,’ Harry asked.
In front of him on the living-room table Rolf Ottersen had placed a photograph of his wife with
their twin daughters, Olga and Emma, ten years old. Sylvia Ottersen had big, sleepy eyes, like
someone who had worn glasses all her life and then started wearing contact lenses or had laser eye
surgery. The twins had their mother’s eyes.
‘She would’ve said,’ Rolf Ottersen said. ‘Left a message. Something must’ve happened.’
In spite of his despair his voice was muted and gentle. Rolf Ottersen pulled a handkerchief from his
trouser pocket and put it to his face. His nose seemed abnormally big for his narrow, pale face. He
blew his nose in one single trumpet blast.
Skarre poked his head inside the door. ‘The dog patrol’s here. They’ve got a cadaver dog with
them.’
‘Get going then,’ Harry said. ‘Have you spoken to all the neighbours?’
‘Yep. Still nothing.’
Skarre closed the door, and Harry saw that Ottersen’s eyes had become even bigger behind the
glasses.
‘Cadaver dog?’ Ottersen whispered.
‘Just a generic term,’ Harry said, making a mental note that he would have to give Skarre a couple
of tips on how to express himself.
‘So you use them to search for living people as well?’ From his intonation, the husband appeared to
be pleading.