The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

‘Lady’s spot on,’ Skarre grinned at Hagen. ‘Strange that Bergen Sexual Offences Unit should
suddenly be so well up on Oslo brothels.’
‘They’re the same everywhere,’ Katrine said. ‘Want a bet on anything I said?’
‘The owner’s a Paki,’ Skarre said. ‘Two hundred kronerooneys.’
‘Done.’
‘OK,’ Harry said, clapping his hands. ‘What are we sitting here for?’
The owner of Leon Hotel was Børre Hansen, from Solør, in the east, with skin as greyish-white as
the slush the so-called guests brought in on their shoes and left on the worn parquet floor by the
counter underneath the sign saying RESEPTION in black letters. As neither the clientele nor Børre
were particularly interested in spelling, the sign had remained there, uncontested, for as long as
Børre had had it: four years. Before that, he had travelled up and down Sweden selling Bibles,
trying his hand at border trade with discarded porno films in Svinesund and acquiring an accent that
sounded like a cross between a dance musician and a preacher. It was in Svinesund that he had met
Natasha, a Russian erotic dancer, and they had only escaped from her Russian manager by the skin
of their teeth. Natasha had been given a new name and now she lived with Børre in Oslo. He had
taken over the Leon from three Serbians who for a variety of reasons were no longer able to stay in
the country, and he continued where they left off, since there had been no reason to alter the
business model: hiring out the rooms on a short-term – often extremely short-term – basis. The
revenue generally came in the form of cash, and the guests were undemanding with regard to
standards and maintenance. It was a good business. A business he did not want to lose.
Consequently he disliked everything about the two people standing in front of him, most of all their
ID cards.
The tall man with the cropped hair placed a picture on the counter. ‘Seen this man?’
Børre Hansen shook his head, relieved in spite of everything that it was not him they were after.
‘Sure?’ said the man, resting his elbows on the counter and leaning forward.
Børre looked at the picture again, thinking he should have scrutinised the ID card more closely; this
guy seemed more like one of the dopeheads hanging round the streets than a policeman. And the
girl behind him didn’t look like a policewoman, either. True, she had that hard look, the whore look,
but the rest of her was lady, all lady. If she had got herself a pimp who didn’t rob her, she could
have earned five times her wage, at least.
‘We know you’re running a brothel here,’ the policeman said.
‘I’m running a legit hotel, I’ve got a licence and all my papers are in order. Do you want to see?’
Børre pointed to the little office directly behind the reception area.
The policeman shook his head. ‘You hire out rooms to prostitutes and their clients. It’s against the
law.’
‘Listen here,’ Børre said, swallowing. The conversation had taken the course he had feared. ‘I’m
not interested in what my guests get up to so long as they pay their bills.’
‘But I am,’ said the policeman in a low voice. ‘Have a closer look at the picture.’