The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

‘Slipknot rules,’ Oleg said. ‘And the masks were übercool. Especially the one with the long, thin
nose. It looked like a sort of ’
Harry was listening with half an ear, hoping Rakel would come soon. The air inside the kebab shop
suddenly felt dense and suffocating, like a thin film of grease lying on your skin and over your
mouth. He tried not to think his next thought. But it was on its way, had already rounded the corner.
The thought of a drink.
‘It’s an Indian death mask,’ a woman’s voice behind them said. ‘And Slayer was better than
Slipknot.’
Harry spun round in surprise.
‘Lots of posing with Slipknot, isn’t there?’ she continued. ‘Recycled ideas and empty gestures.’
She was wearing a shiny, figure-hugging, ankle-length black coat buttoned up to her neck. All you
could see under the coat was a pair of black boots. Her face was pale and her eyes made up.
‘I would never have believed it,’ Harry said. ‘You liking that kind of music.’
Katrine Bratt managed a brief smile. ‘I suppose I would say the opposite.’
She gave him no further explanation and signalled to the man behind the counter that she wanted a
Farris mineral water.
‘Slayer sucks,’ Oleg mumbled under his breath.
Katrine turned to him. ‘You must be Oleg.’
‘Yes,’ Oleg said sulkily, pulling up his army trousers and looking as if he both liked and disliked
this attention from a mature woman. ‘How d’ya know?’
Katrine smiled. ‘“How d’ya know?” Living on Holmenkollen Ridge as you do, shouldn’t you say
“How do you know?”’ Is Harry teaching you bad habits?’
Blood suffused Oleg’s cheeks.
Katrine laughed quietly and patted Oleg’s shoulder. ‘Sorry, I’m just curious.’
The boy’s face went so red that the whites of his eyes were shining.
‘I’m also curious,’ Harry said, passing a burger to Oleg. ‘I assume you’ve found the pattern I asked
for, Bratt. Since you’ve got time to come to a gig.’
Harry looked at her in a way that spelt out his warning: Don’t tease the boy.
‘I’ve found something,’ Katrine said, twisting the plastic top off the Farris bottle. ‘But you’re busy
so we can sort it out tomorrow.’
‘I’m not so busy,’ Harry said. He had already forgotten the film of grease, the feeling of
suffocation.