The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

Above the Liberal editorial offices in Aker Brygge, on the top floor with a view of Oslo fjord,
Akershus Fortress and the village of Nesoddtangen, are situated 230 of Oslo’s most expensive
privately owned square metres. They belong to the owner and editor of Liberal, Arve Støp. Or just
Arve, as it said on the door where Harry rang the bell. The stairway and landing had been decorated
in a functional, minimalist style, but there was a hand-painted jug on either side of the oak door, and
Harry caught himself wondering what the net gain would be if he made off with one of them.
He had rung once and now at last he could hear voices inside. One was a bright twitter, and one
deep and calm. The door opened and a woman’s laughter tinkled out. She was wearing a white fur
hat – synthetic, Harry assumed – from which cascaded long blonde hair.
‘I’m looking forward to it!’ she said, turning and only then catching sight of Harry.
‘Hello,’ she said in a neutral tone, until recognition caused her to replace it with an enthusiastic
‘Well, hi!’
‘Hi,’ said Harry.
‘How are you?’ she asked, and Harry could see she had just recalled their last conversation. The one
that ended against the black wall in Hotel Leon.
‘So you and Oda know each other?’ Arve Støp stood in the hallway with his arms crossed. He was
barefoot and wearing a T-shirt with a barely perceptible Louis Vuitton logo and green linen trousers
that would have looked feminine on any other man. For Arve Støp was almost as tall and broad as
Harry and had a face an American presidential candidate would have killed for: determined chin,
boyish blue eyes edged with laughter lines and thick grey hair.
‘We’ve just exchanged greetings,’ Harry said. ‘I was on their talk show once.’
‘I have to run, guys,’ Oda said, imparting air-kisses on the hoof. Her footsteps drummed down the
stairs as if her life depended on it.
‘Yes, this was about that bloody talk show, too,’ Støp said, beckoning Harry in and grasping his
hand. ‘My exhibitionism is approaching pathetic levels, I’m afraid. This time I didn’t even ask what
the topic was before agreeing to take part. Oda was here doing her research. Well, you’ve done this,
so you know how they work.’
‘In my case, they just phoned,’ Harry said, still feeling the heat from Støp’s hand on his skin.
‘You sounded very serious on the telephone, Hole. What can a miserable journalist help you with?’
‘It’s about your doctor and curling colleague, Idar Vetlesen.’
‘Aha! Vetlesen. Of course. Shall we go in?’
Harry wriggled out of his boots and followed Støp down the corridor to a living room which was
two steps lower than the rest of the apartment. One look was enough to know where Idar had found
the inspiration for his waiting room. The moonlight glittered on the fjord outside the window.
‘You’re running a kind of a priori investigation, I understand?’ Støp said, flopping into the smallest
item of furniture, a single moulded plastic chair.