The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

‘I wish,’ sniffled Holm. ‘Soddin’ cold. Freezing under two duvets. Ache all over –’
‘Listen,’ Harry interrupted. ‘Do you remember when I asked you to take the temperature of the
chickens to find out how long it had been since Sylvia had been in the barn slaughtering them?’
‘Yes?’
‘And you said afterwards that one was warmer than the other two.’
Bjørn Holm sniffed. ‘Yes. Skarre suggested it had a temperature. A theory that’s perfectly
plausible.’
‘I think it was warmer because it was killed after Sylvia was killed, in other words, at least an hour
later.’
‘Oh? Who by?’
‘By the Snowman.’
Harry heard a long, loud snort as snot travelled backwards before Holm answered. ‘You mean she
took Sylvia’s hatchet, went back and –’
‘No, it was in the forest. I should have reacted when I saw it, but of course I’d never heard of this
cutting loop when we were there looking at the chicken carcasses.’
‘And what did you see?’
‘A sliced feather with a blackened edge. You see, I think the Snowman was using the cutting loop.’
‘Right,’ said Holm. ‘But why on earth would she kill a chicken?’
‘To paint the whole wall red.’
‘Eh?’
‘I’ve got an idea,’ Harry said.
‘Shit,’ mumbled Bjørn Holm. ‘I suppose this idea means I have to get out of bed.’
‘Well ’ Harry began.
The snowy weather must have just been taking a breather, for at three it started again and thick,
furry flakes began to sweep down over Østland. A grey glazed coat of slush lay on the E16 winding
upward from Bærum.
At the highest point on the road, Sollihøgda, Harry and Holm turned off and skidded their way
along the forest road.
Five minutes later Rolf Ottersen was standing in front of them in the doorway. Behind him, in the
sitting room, Harry could see Ane Pedersen sitting on the sofa.