The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

‘He’s still sitting in the chair.’
‘Roger. We’re going in. Over and out.’
One officer nodded and produced a crowbar while the other backed away and braced himself.
Harry had seen the technique used before; one man prises open the door so that the other can charge
in. Not because they couldn’t have broken it open, but because it is the effect of the loud bang, the
power and speed that paralyses the target and in nine cases out of ten he freezes on the chair, sofa or
bed.
But Harry held up a restraining hand. He pressed the door handle and pushed.
Mathias hadn’t lied; it was unlocked.
The door slid open without a sound. Harry pointed to his chest to say he would go first.
The flat was not minimalist in the way that Harry had imagined.
It was minimalist in the sense that there was nothing there: no shoes in the hall, no furniture, no
pictures. Only bare walls begging for new wallpaper or a lick of paint. It looked as if it had been
abandoned for a substantial amount of time.
The living-room door was ajar and through the gap Harry could see the arm of the chair, a hand on
top. A small hand with a watch. He held his breath, took two long strides, gripped the revolver with
both hands and nudged the door open with his foot.
He sensed the other two – who had moved into the edge of his vision – stiffen.
And heard a barely audible whisper. ‘Jesus Christ ’
A large illuminated chandelier hung above the armchair and lit up the person sitting there and
staring straight at him. The neck bore bruising from strangulation, the face was pale and beautiful,
the hair black and the dress sky blue with tiny white flowers. The same dress as in the photo on his
kitchen calendar. Harry felt his heart explode in his chest as the rest of his body turned to stone. He
tried to move, but could not tear himself away from her glazed eyes. The accusatory glazed eyes.
Which accused him of not having acted; he had known nothing of this, but he should have acted, he
should have stopped this happening, he should have saved her.
She was as white as his mother had been on her death bed.
‘Check the rest of the flat,’ Harry said in a thick voice, lowering his revolver.
He took an unsteady step towards the body and held her wrist in his hand. It was ice-cold and
lifeless, like marble. Yet he could feel a ticking, a weak pulse, and for one absurd moment he
thought she had only been made up to look dead. Then he looked down and saw it was the watch
which was ticking.
‘There’s no one else here,’ he heard one of the officers behind him say. Then a cough. ‘Do you
know who she is?’