The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

They emerged into open terrain. A young man straightened up on catching sight of Skarre and
Harry and went towards them.
‘Thomas Helle, Missing Persons Unit,’ he said. ‘We’re glad you’re here, Hole.’
Harry sent the young officer a look of surprise, but saw that he really meant it.
On a hill in front of him Harry watched the Crime Scene Unit at work. Skarre crawled under the red
police cordon and Harry stepped over. A path marked out where they were to walk so as not to
destroy any forensic evidence that had not already been destroyed. The Crime Scene officers
became aware of Harry and Skarre’s presence and silently moved aside to observe the newcomers.
As if they had been waiting for this: a chance to display. To collate reactions.
‘Oh, shit,’ Skarre said, recoiling a step.
Harry felt his head go cold, as if all the blood had drained from his brain, leaving a numb, dead
sensation of nothing.
It was not the details, because at first glance the naked woman did not seem to have been brutally
mutilated. Not like Sylvia Ottersen or Gert Rafto. What scared the living daylights out of him was
the construction, the studied, cold-blooded nature of the arrangement. The body sat on top of two
large balls of snow that had been rolled up against a tree trunk, one on top of the other like an
incomplete snowman. The body leaned against the tree but any sideways movement would have
been prevented by a steel wire attached to the thick branch over her head. The wire ended in a rigid
noose around her neck, bent in such a way that it touched neither her shoulders nor her neck, like a
lasso frozen in motion as it falls perfectly over the victim. Her arms were tied behind her back. The
woman’s eyes and mouth were closed, affording the face a peaceful expression; she could have
been asleep.
It was almost possible to believe the body had been arranged with loving attention. Until the
stitches on the naked, pale skin became evident. The edges of the skin under the nigh-on invisible
thread were separated only by a fine, even join of black blood. One welt of stitches ran across her
torso, just under her breasts. The other around her neck. Immaculate workmanship, Harry mused.
Not a stitch hole visible, not a line askew.
‘Looks like that abstract art shite,’ Skarre said. ‘What’s it called?’
‘Installation art,’ said a voice behind him.
Harry cocked his head. They were right. But there was something that conflicted with the
impression of perfect surgery.
‘He chopped her up into chunks,’ he said in a voice that sounded as if someone had him in a
stranglehold. ‘And reassembled her.’
‘He?’ queried Skarre.
‘Maybe to ease transportation,’ Helle said. ‘I think I know who she is. She was reported missing by
her husband yesterday. He’s on his way here now.’
‘Why do you reckon it’s her?’