The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

In the drawer beneath there were two unopened boxes of bullets for her service revolver. The only
personal belongings Harry found were two rings. One was studded with gems that glinted angrily in
the light of the desk lamp. He had seen it before. Harry closed his eyes trying to visualise where. A
large, gaudy ring. Covered in all sorts. Las Vegas-style. Katrine would never have worn such a ring.
And then he knew where he had seen it. He felt his pulse throbbing: hard, but steady. He had seen it
in a bedroom. In Becker’s bedroom.
In the Sonja Henie Room dinner was over and the tables cleared away. Arve Støp stood leaning
against the rear wall while staring at the stage, where the guests had huddled together and were
gazing in rapture at the band. It was a big sound. It was an expensive sound. It was the sound of
megalomania. Arve Støp had had his doubts, but in the end the events agency had convinced him
that investing in an experience was a way to buy his employees’ loyalty, pride and enthusiasm for
their workplace. And by buying a bit of international success he was underscoring the magazine’s
own success and building the Liberal brand, a product with which advertisers would want to be
associated.
The vocalist held a finger against his earpiece as he attacked the highest note of their international
hit of the eighties.
‘No one hits a bum note as beautifully as Morten Harket,’ said a voice next to Støp.
He turned. And knew at once that he had seen her before, because he never forgot a beautiful
woman. What he was beginning to forget more and more was who, where and when. She was slim
and wearing a plain black dress with a slit that reminded him of someone. Of Birte. Birte had a
dress like that.
‘It’s scandalous,’ he said.
‘It’s a difficult note to hit,’ she said without taking her eyes off the vocalist.
‘It’s scandalous I can’t remember your name. I only know we’ve met before.’
‘We haven’t met,’ she said. ‘You just gave me the once-over.’ She brushed her black hair off her
face. She was attractive in a stern, classical way. Kate Moss-attractive. Birte had been Pamela
Anderson-attractive.
‘That I think can definitely be excused,’ he said, with a feeling that he was waking up, that his
blood was beginning to surge through his body bringing champagne to parts of his brain that
relaxed him rather than making him drowsy.
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m Katrine Bratt,’ she said.
‘Oh yes. Are you one of our advertisers, Katrine? A bank connection? A lessor? A freelance
photographer?’
To every question Katrine shook her head with a smile.
‘I’m a gatecrasher,’ she said. ‘One of your female journalists is a friend of mine. She told me who
was playing after dinner, and said I could just put on a dress and slip in. Feel like throwing me out?’