The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

Oda looked at her watch and knew the floor manager was standing behind the camera now, shifting
nervously, as she ran a finger across her throat to show Bosse that they were running over and he
would have to begin the song if they were to manage the first verse before the credits started rolling.
But Bosse was the best. He knew that this was more important than all the singles in the world.
Thus he ignored the raised baton and leaned forward in his chair to show those who might have
been in any doubt about what this was. The scoop. The sensational announcement. Here on his, on
their programme. The quaver in his voice was almost genuine.
‘Are you telling us here and now that the police have been lying, Hole? That the Snowman is out
there and can take more lives?’
‘No,’ Harry said. ‘We haven’t been lying. New details have come to light.’
Bosse swivelled round in his chair, and Oda thought she could hear the technical director shouting
for camera 1, and then Bosse’s face was there, the eyes staring straight at them.
‘And I would guess we’ll hear more about those details on the news tonight. Bosse is back next
Friday. Thank you for watching.’
Oda closed her eyes as the band began to play the single.
‘Jesus,’ she heard the producer wheeze behind her. And then, ‘Jesus bloody Christ.’ Oda just felt
like howling. Howling with pleasure. Here, she thought. Here at the North Pole. We aren’t where it
happens. We are what happens.
22
DAY 18.
Match.
GUNNAR H AGEN WAS STANDING INSIDE THE DOOR AT Schrøder’s, scanning the room.
He had set out from home exactly thirty-two minutes and three telephone conversations after the
credits had rolled on Bosse. He hadn’t found Harry in his flat, at Kunstnernes Hus or in his office.
Bjørn Holm had tipped him off that he might try Harry’s local, Schrøder’s. The contrast between
the young, beautiful and almost-famous clientele at Kunstnernes Hus and Schrøder’s somewhat
dissipated beer drinkers was striking. At the back, in the corner, by the window, alone at a table, sat
Harry. With a large glass.
Hagen made his way to the table.
‘I’ve been trying to call you, Harry. Have you switched off your mobile?’
The inspector looked up, bleary-eyed. ‘There’s been so much hassle. Loads of bloody journos
suddenly after me.’
‘At NRK they said the Bosse crew and guests usually went to Kunstnernes Hus after the
programme.’
‘The press was standing outside waiting for me. So I cleared off. What do you want, boss?’