The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

She put down the phone.
‘Well?’ Katrine asked.
‘Jonas and the twins have been to the same doctor,’ Harry said, leaning back in the chair. ‘And that
means we’re in business.’
Harry could feel the adrenalin rush, the trembling that always came when he got first scent of the
brute. And after the rush came the Great Obsession. Which was everything at once: love and
intoxication, blindness and clear-sightedness, meaning and madness. Colleagues spoke now and
then about excitement, but this was something else, something special. He had never told anyone
about the Obsession or made any attempt to analyse it. He hadn’t dared. All he knew was that it
helped him, drove him, fuelled the job he was appointed to perform. He didn’t want to know any
more. He really didn’t.
‘And now?’ Katrine asked.
Harry opened his eyes and leapt off his seat. ‘Now we’re going shopping.’
The shop Taste of Africa was situated close to the busiest street in Majorstuen, Bogstadveien. But
unfortunately its location fourteen metres down a side street meant that it was still on the periphery.
A bell rang as Harry and Katrine entered. In the muted lighting – or to be more precise: the lack of
lighting – he saw brightly coloured coarse-weave rugs, sarong-like materials, large cushions with
West African patterns, small coffee tables that looked as if they had been carved straight out of the
rainforest, and tall thin wooden figures representing Masai tribesmen and a selection of the
savannah’s best-known animals. Everything seemed carefully planned and executed: there were no
visible price tags, the colours complemented each other and the products were placed in pairs like in
Noah’s ark. In short, it looked more like an exhibition than a shop. A somewhat dusty exhibition.
This impression was reinforced by the almost unnatural stillness after the door closed behind them
and the bell stopped ringing.
‘Hello?’ called a voice from inside the shop.
Harry followed the sound. In the darkness at the back of the room, behind an enormous wooden
giraffe and illuminated only by a single spotlight, he saw the back of a woman who was standing on
a chair. She was hanging up a grinning wooden black mask on the wall.
‘What is it?’ she said without turning.
She gave the impression she was conditioned to expect the unexpected, not customers though.
‘We’re from the police.’
‘Oh, yes.’ The woman turned and the spotlight fell on her face. Harry felt his heart stop, and he
automatically took a step back. It was Sylvia Ottersen.
‘Something wrong?’ she asked with a frown between the lenses of her glasses.
‘Who are you?’
‘Ane Pedersen,’ she said, instantly twigging the obvious reason for Harry’s perplexed expression.