The Snowman ( PDFDrive )

Børre looked. The photo must have been taken some years before because he seemed so young.
Young and carefree, without a trace of despair or anguish.
‘Last time I checked, prostitution in Norway was not illegal,’ Børre Hansen said.
‘No,’ the policewoman said. ‘But running a brothel is.’
Børre Hansen did his best to assume an indignant expression.
‘As you know, at regular intervals the police are obliged to check that hotel regulations are being
complied with,’ the policeman said. ‘Such as emergency exits from all rooms in case of fire.’
‘Submission of foreign guests’ registration forms,’ added the policewoman.
‘Fax machine for incoming police inquiries about guests.’
‘VAT account.’
He was teetering. The policeman delivered the knockout blow.
‘We’re considering bringing in the Fraud Squad to check the accounts you hold for certain
customers who undercover police have observed coming and going in recent weeks.’
Børre Hansen could feel the nausea coming. Natasha. The mortgage. And incipient panic at the
thought of freezing cold, pitch-black winter evenings on unfamiliar steps with Bibles under his
arms.
‘Or we might not,’ the policeman said. ‘It’s a question of priorities. A question of how to use the
police’s limited resources. Isn’t it, Bratt?’
The policewoman nodded.
‘He rents a room twice a week,’ Børre Hansen said. ‘Always the same room. He’s there all
evening.’
‘All evening?’
‘He has several visitors.’
‘Black or white?’ the woman asked.
‘Black. Only black.’
‘How many?’
‘I don’t know. It varies. Eight. Twelve.’
‘At the same time?’ the policewoman exclaimed.
‘No, they change. Some come in pairs. They’re often in pairs on the street as well of course.’