The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

‘Sure we shouldn’t fire her up?’ shivered Bjørn Holm, pulling the leather jacket round him more
tightly. ‘When the Amazon came out she was well known for having a helluva heater.’
Harry shook his head and looked at his watch. Half past one. They had been sitting in Bjørn Holm’s
car outside Katrine’s flat for over an hour. The night was blue-grey, the streets empty.
‘She was actually California white,’ Bjørn Holm continued. ‘Volvo colour number 42. Previous
owner sprayed it black. Qualifies as a veteran car and all that now. Mere 365 kroner road tax a year.
A krone a day ’
Bjørn Holm paused when he saw Harry’s warning look and instead turned up David Rawlings and
Gillian Welch, which was the only new music he could tolerate. He had recorded it from a CD onto
a cassette, not just so that it could play on the newly installed cassette player in the car, but because
he belonged to that extremely small yet unbending faction of music lovers who opined that the CD
had never managed to reproduce the cassette’s uniquely warm sound quality.
Bjørn Holm knew he was talking too much because he was nervous. Harry hadn’t told him any
more than that Katrine had to be eliminated from some inquiries. And that Bjørn Holm’s daily grind
for the next few weeks would be eased if he didn’t know the details. And being the peaceful, laidback,
intelligent person he was, Bjørn Holm didn’t try to cause any trouble. That didn’t mean he
liked the situation though. He checked his watch.
‘She’s gone back to some guy’s place.’
Harry reacted. ‘What makes you think that?’
‘She’s not married after all. Wasn’t that what you said? Single women are like us single guys
nowadays.’
‘And by that you mean?’
‘Four steps. Go out, observe the herd, select the weakest prey, attack.’
‘Mm, you need four steps?’
‘The first three,’ said Bjørn Holm, adjusting the mirror and his red hair. ‘Just prick-teasers in this
town.’ Bjørn Holm had considered hair oil, but concluded it was too radical. On the other hand,
perhaps that was just what was needed. Go the whole hog.
‘Fuck,’ Harry burst out. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’
‘Eh?’
‘Wet shower cabinet. Perfume. Mascara. You’re right.’ The inspector had taken out his mobile,
maniacally punched the numbers in and got an almost immediate answer.
‘Gerda Nelvik? This is Harry Hole. Are you still doing the tests? OK. Anything on the
preliminary results?’
Bjørn Holm watched as Harry mumbled two mms and three rights.