The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

The cone of light swept over the worn pine floor with large nails between the boards, a plain white
sofa, low bookshelves and an exclusive Linn Systems Loudspeaker. There was an alcove in the
wall, with a tidy, narrow bed, and a kitchenette with a stove and fridge. The impression was austere,
spartan and neat. Like his own place. The light had caught a face staring stiffly at him. And then
another. And one more. Black wooden masks with carvings and painted patterns.
He looked at his watch. Eleven. He let the torch wander further afield.
There were newspaper cuttings pinned up above the only table in the room. They covered the wall
from floor to ceiling. He went closer. His eyes skimmed them as he felt his pulse begin to tick like a
Geiger counter.
These were murder cases.
Many murder cases, ten or twelve, some so old the newspaper had yellowed. But Harry could
remember them all quite clearly. He remembered them because they had one thing in common: he
had led the investigation.
On the table, beside a computer and a printer, lay a heap of folders. Case reports. He opened one of
them. There weren’t any reports of his cases, but Laila Aasen’s murder on Ulriken Mountain.
Another was of Onny Hetland’s disappearance in Fjellsiden. A third folder was about a case of
police violence in Bergen, about complaints against Gert Rafto. Harry flicked through. Found the
same photograph of Rafto that he had seen in Müller-Nilsen’s office. Looking at it now, he thought
it was obvious.
Beside the printer was a pile of paper. Something was drawn on the top sheet. A quick amateur
pencilled sketch, but the motif was clear enough. A snowman. The face was long, as if it had
leaked, melted; the coal eyes had died and the carrot was long and thin and pointed downwards.
Harry leafed through the sheets. There were several drawings. All of snowmen, most just of the
face. Masks, Harry thought. Death masks. One of the faces had a beak, small human arms at the
side and bird feet at the bottom. Another had a pig’s snout and a top hat.
Harry started to search the other end of the room. And told himself the same thing he had said to
Katrine on the island of Finnøy: empty your mind of expectations and look, don’t search. He went
through all the cupboards and drawers, rummaged through kitchen utensils and washing
paraphernalia, clothes, exotic shampoos and bizarre creams in the bathroom, where the smell of her
perfume hung heavy in the air. The floor of the shower was wet and on the sink there was a cotton
bud stained with mascara. He came out again. He didn’t know what he was after, just that it wasn’t
here. He straightened up and looked around.
Wrong.
It was here. He just hadn’t found it yet.
He took the books off the shelves, opened the cistern, checked whether there were any loose boards
in the floor or the walls and turned the mattress in the alcove. Then he was finished. He had
searched everywhere. Without any success, but for the most important premise of any search: what
you don’t find is just as important as what you do find. And he knew now what he hadn’t found.
Harry looked at his watch. Then he began to tidy up.
It was only when he was putting the drawings in order that it occurred to him that he hadn’t checked