The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

‘When I say run, you run, you bloody idiot.’
He said it in a low voice but with such repressed fury that Oleg blinked in confusion and a tear
rolled over his eyelashes and onto his cheek. Then the boy turned on his heel, rushed out of the door
and was swallowed up by the darkness and the driving snow.
Harry grabbed the walkie-talkie and pressed the talk button. ‘Harry here. Are you far away?’
‘We’re by the stadium. Over.’ Harry recognised Gunnar Hagen’s voice.
‘I’m inside,’ Harry said. ‘Drive up to the front of the house, but don’t enter until I say. Over.’
‘Roger.’
‘Over and out.’
Harry went towards the sound that was still coming from the kitchen. From the doorway he stood
watching the thin stream of water falling from the ceiling. It had been tinted grey by the dissolved
plaster and was drumming furiously on the kitchen table.
Harry took the staircase to the first floor in four long strides. Tiptoed to the bedroom door.
Swallowed. Studied the door handle. From outside he could hear the distant sound of police sirens
approaching. Blood from his cut dripped onto the parquet floor with a gentle plop.
He could feel it now, as pressure on his temples; this was where it would end. And there was a kind
of logic to it. How many times had he stood like this in front of the bedroom door, at daybreak, after
a night when he had promised to be at home with her, how often had he stood there with a bad
conscience knowing she was inside asleep? Carefully he pressed the door handle which he knew
would creak halfway down. And she would wake up, look at him with sleepy eyes, try to punish
him with her glare, until he slipped under the duvet, snuggled up to her body and felt its stiff
resistance melt. And she would grunt with pleasure, but not too much pleasure. And then he would
stroke her more, kiss and nibble at her, be her servant until she was sitting on him, no longer the
queen in her slumbers, but purring and moaning, wanton and offended at the same time.
He closed his fist around the handle, noticed how his hand recognised the flat angular shape. He
pressed with infinite care. Waited for the familiar creak. But it was not forthcoming. Something was
different. There was resistance. Had someone tightened the springs? Gingerly, he let go. Stooped
down to the keyhole and tried to peep in. Black. Someone had blocked the hole.
‘Rakel!’ he shouted. ‘Are you there?’
No answer. He placed his ear against the door. Thought he could hear a scratching sound, but
wasn’t sure. He held the handle again. Wavered. Changed his mind, let go and hastened into the
adjacent bathroom. Pushed open the little window, forced his body through and leaned out
backwards. Light was streaming from between the black iron bars of the bedroom window. He
wedged his heels against the inside of the frame, tensed his leg muscles and stretched out of the
bathroom and along the outside wall. His fingers groped in vain to find a hold between the rough
logs as the snow settled on his face and melted into the blood running down his cheek. He applied
greater force; the window frame was pressing into his leg so hard it felt as if the bone would crack.
His hands crept along the wall like frenetic five-legged spiders. His stomach muscles ached. But it
was too far, he couldn’t reach. He stared down at the ground beneath him, knowing that under the