The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

spoke to him he sounded frustrated, depressed even.’
‘Can you imagine him finding a mission that would bring him fame? Something outside medicine
perhaps?’
‘I haven’t thought about it, but maybe. He’s not exactly a born doctor.’
‘In what way?’
‘In the same way that Idar admires the successful and despises the weak and infirm. He’s not the
only doctor to do so, but he’s the only one to say so outright.’ Mathias laughed. ‘In our circle, we all
started as out-and-out idealists who at some point or other became more preoccupied with
consultant positions, paying off the new garage and overtime rates. At least Idar didn’t betray any
ideals; he was the same from the off.’
Idar Vetlesen laughed. ‘Did Mathias really say that? That I haven’t betrayed any ideals?’
He had a pleasant, almost feminine face, with eyebrows so narrow that one might have suspected
him of plucking them, and teeth so white and regular that one might have suspected they were not
his own. His complexion looked soft and touched up; his hair was thick and rippled with vitality. In
short, he looked several years younger than his thirty-seven.
‘I don’t know what he meant by that,’ Harry lied.
They were each ensconced in a deep armchair in the library of a spacious white house, built
according to the old, august Bygdøy style. His childhood home, Idar Vetlesen had explained as he
guided Harry through the two vast, dark lounges and into a room whose walls were lined with
books. Mikkjel Fønhus. Kjell Aukrust. Einar Gerhardsen’s The Shop Steward. A broad range of
popular literature and political biographies. A whole shelf of yellowing issues of The Reader’s
Digest. Harry hadn’t seen a single copy published since 1970.
‘Oh, I know what he meant,’ Idar chuckled.
Harry had an inkling what Mathias had implied by the two of them having a lot of fun at Marienlyst
Clinic: they probably competed to see who could laugh the most.
‘Mathias, the saintly bugger. Lucky bugger, more like. No, by Christ, I mean both.’ Idar Vetlesen’s
laughter pealed out. ‘They say they don’t believe in God, but my God-fearing colleagues are
terrified moral strivers accumulating good deeds because deep down they’re petrified of burning in
hell.’
‘And aren’t you?’ Harry asked.
Idar elevated one of his elegantly formed brows and eyed Harry with interest. Idar was wearing soft,
light blue moccasins with loose laces, jeans and a white tennis shirt with a polo player on the left.
Harry couldn’t remember which brand it was, only that for some reason he connected it with bores.
‘I come from a practical family, Inspector. My father was a taxi driver. We believe what we can
see.’
‘Mm. Nice house for a taxi driver.’