The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

Müller-Nilsen gazed at Julie’s quivering red lips and raised misty eyes. ‘We’ll take the time we
need, Hole.’
‘You showed me a photo of Gert Rafto when I was in your office. There was something about it I
recognised.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘And then you said something about his daughter. She had turned out very well, of course, you said.
It was this understood “of course”. As if this was information I already knew.’
‘Yes, but she did turn out well, didn’t she.’ said Müller-Nilsen.
‘Depends on how you look at it,’ Harry said.
24
DAY 19.
Toowoomba.
THERE WAS AN EXPECTANT BUZZ UNDER THE CHANDELIERS in the Sonja Henie Room
at the Plaza Hotel. Arve Støp stood in the doorway where he had received the guests. His jaw was
aching from all the smiling, and the glad-handing had given him back the sensation of tennis elbow.
A young woman from the events agency who was responsible for the technical side slid alongside
him and smiled that the guests were now seated around the table. Her neutral black suit and headset
with an almost invisible microphone made him think of a female agent in Mission Impossible.
‘We’re going in,’ she said, adjusting his bow tie with a friendly, quasi-tender movement.
She wore a wedding ring. Her hips swayed in front of him towards the room. Had those hips given
birth to a child? Her black trousers were tight against her well-exercised bottom, and Arve Støp
visualised the same bottom without trousers, in front of him on the bed in his Aker Brygge
apartment. But she seemed too professional. It would be too much hassle. Too much heavy
persuasion. He met her eyes in the big mirror beside the door, knew he had been caught and beamed
an apology. She laughed at the same time as a slightly unprofessional flush shot up into her cheeks.
Mission impossible? Hardly. But not tonight.
At his table of eight everyone rose as he entered. His dinner partner was his own subeditor. A dull
but necessary choice. She was married, had children and the ravaged face of a woman who works
twelve to fourteen hours every day. Poor kids. And poor him the day she found out that life
consisted of more than Liberal. The table reacted with a skål for him as Støp’s gaze swept across
the room. The sequins, jewels and smiling eyes sparkled under the chandeliers. And the dresses.
Strapless, shoulderless, backless, shameless.
Then the music erupted. The vast tones of Also Sprach Zarathustra boomed out of the
loudspeakers. At the meeting with the events agency Arve Støp had pointed out that it wasn’t
exactly an original introduction, it was pompous and made him think of the creation of man. And
was told that was the idea.