The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

‘Great.’
The singer closed his eyes, grabbed the microphone with both hands and attacked the song’s
crescendo.
‘This is a boring party, and I’m going home.’ Støp put his empty glass on a tray whistling past. ‘I
live in Aker Brygge. Same entrance as Liberal, top floor. Top bell.’
She gave a thin smile. ‘I know where it is. How much of a head start do you want?’
‘Give me twenty minutes. And a promise that you won’t talk to anyone before you leave. Not even
your girlfriend. Is that a deal, Katrine Bratt?’
He looked at her, hoping he had said the right name.
‘Trust me,’ she said, and he noticed a strange gleam in her eyes, like the gleam of a forest fire in the
sky. ‘I’m just as keen as you that this stays between us.’ She raised her glass. ‘And by the way, you
fucked her four times, not three.’
Støp enjoyed a last glance before making his way to the exit. Behind him the vocalist’s falsetto was
still quivering almost inaudibly under the chandeliers.
A door slammed and loud, enthusiastic voices reverberated down Seilduksgata. Four youths on their
way from a party to one of the bars in Grünerløkka. They passed the car parked at the edge of the
pavement without noticing the man inside. Then they rounded the corner, and the street was quiet
again. Harry leaned towards the windscreen and looked up at the windows of Katrine Bratt’s flat.
He could have rung Hagen, could have sounded the alarm, taken Skarre along and a patrol car. But
he might be wrong. And he had to be certain first, there was too much to lose, both for him and her.
He got out of the car and went to the door and the unmarked second-floor bell. Waited. Rang once
more. Then he went back to his car, fetched the crowbar from the boot, returned to the door and
rang the first-floor bell. A man answered with a sleepy ja, the TV droning in the background.
Fifteen seconds later the man came down and opened up. Harry showed him his police ID.
‘I didn’t hear a domestic dispute,’ the man said. ‘Who called you?’
‘I’ll find my own way out,’ Harry said. ‘Thanks for your help.’
The door on the second floor didn’t have a nameplate, either. Harry knocked, rested his ear against
the cold wood and listened. Then he inserted the tip of the crowbar between the door and the frame
immediately above the lock. As the blocks of flats in Grünerløkka had been built for workers in the
factories along the River Akerselva, and thus with the cheapest possible materials, Harry’s second
forced entry in under an hour was easy.
He stood for a few seconds in the dark of the corridor listening before he switched on the light.
Looked down at the shoe rack in front of him. Six pairs of shoes. None of them big enough to
belong to a man. He lifted one pair, the boots Katrine had worn earlier today. The soles were still
wet.
He went into the living room. Switched on the torch instead of the ceiling light so that she wouldn’t
see from the street that she had a visitor.