The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

was lit by a single bulb hanging from a cable wrapped around one of the beams. At one end of the
barn there was a lathe and, behind it, a board with tools attached: hammers, saws, pliers, drills. No
electric gadgets. At the other end there was a wire fence and behind it chickens perched on shelves
in the wall or strutted around, stiff-legged, on the straw. In the middle of the room, on grey,
untreated, bloodstained floorboards, lay three headless bodies. Harry poked a cigarette between his
lips without lighting it, entered, taking care not to step in the blood, and squatted down beside the
chopping block to examine the chicken heads. The light from his penlight flashed on matt-black
eyes. First he held half a white feather that looked as if it had been scorched black along the edge,
then he studied the smooth severing of the chickens’ necks. The blood had coagulated and was
black. He knew this was a quick process, not much more than half an hour.
‘See anything interesting?’ asked Bjørn Holm.
‘My brain has been damaged by my profession, Holm. Right now it’s analysing chickens’ bodies.’
Skarre laughed and painted the newspaper headlines in the air: ‘Savage Triple Chicken Murder.
Voodoo Parish. Harry Hole Assigned.’
‘What I can’t see is more interesting,’ Harry said.
Bjørn Holm raised an eyebrow, looked around and began to nod slowly.
Skarre looked at them sceptically. ‘And that is?’
‘The murder weapon,’ Harry said.
‘A hatchet,’ Holm said. ‘The only sensible way to kill chickens.’
Skarre sniffed. ‘If the woman did the killing, she must have put the hatchet back in its place. Tidy
sorts, these farmers.’
‘I agree,’ Harry said, listening to the cackle of the chickens, which seemed to be coming from all
sides. ‘That’s why it’s interesting that the chopping block is upside down and the chickens’ bodies
scattered around. And the hatchet is not in its place.’
‘Its place?’ Skarre faced Holm and rolled his eyes.
‘If you can be bothered to take a peek, Skarre,’ Harry said without moving.
Skarre was still looking at Holm, who nodded towards the board behind the lathe.
‘Shit,’ said Skarre.
In the empty space between a hammer and a rusty saw was the outline of a small hatchet.
From outside came the sound of a dog barking, whimpering, and then the policeman’s loud shout
which was no longer encouraging.
Harry rubbed his chin. ‘We’ve searched the whole barn, so for the moment it looks as if Sylvia
Ottersen left the place while slaughtering the chickens, taking the hatchet with her. Holm, can you
take the body temperatures of these chickens and estimate the time of death?’