The Snowman: A Harry Hole Novel

by Jo Nesbo

  “What?”

  “What makes a person like this woman so psychologically sick?”

  Aune groaned. “Everything in existence! And nothing! Nature and nurture.”

  “A violent, alcoholic father?”

  “Yes, yes, yes. Ninety points for that. Add a mother with a psychiatric history, a traumatic experience or two in her childhood and you have the round hundred.”

  “Does it seem likely that if she had become stronger than her violent, alcoholic father she would try to hurt him? Kill him?”

  “By no means impossible. I remember a ca—” Ståle Aune stopped midword. Stared at Harry. Then leaned forward and whispered with a gleam dancing wildly in his eyes. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  Harry Hole studied his fingernails. “I was given a photo of a man at the Bergen Police Station. It struck me there was something strangely familiar about him, as if I had met him before. I’ve only just figured out why. It was the family likeness. Before Katrine Bratt got married her name was Rafto. Gert Rafto was her father.”

  · · ·

  On his way to the airport express train Harry received a call from Skarre. He had been mistaken. They hadn’t found her mobile phone in the bathroom; it had been on the luggage rack in one of the coaches.

  Eighty minutes later he was enshrouded in gray. The captain announced that there were low-lying clouds and rain in Bergen. Zero visibility, Harry thought. They were flying on instruments alone now.

  The front door was torn open seconds after Thomas Helle, from the Missing Persons Unit, had pressed the doorbell over the sign reading ANDREAS, ELI AND TRYGVE KVALE.

  “Thank the Lord you came so quickly.” The man standing in front of Helle looked over his shoulder. “Where are the others?”

  “There’s just me. You still haven’t heard anything from your wife?”

  The man, who Helle presumed was the Andreas Kvale who had called the HQ, stared at him in amazement. “She’s gone, I told you.”

  “We know, but they usually come back.”

  “Who’s they?”

  Thomas Helle sighed. “May I come in, Herr Kvale? This rain …”

  “Oh, sorry! Please …” The man in his fifties stepped aside, and in the gloom behind him Helle caught sight of a dark-haired man in his early twenties.

  Thomas Helle decided to do the business standing in the hallway. They barely had enough staff to man the phones today; it was a Sunday and those who were on duty were out searching for Katrine Bratt. One of their own. It was all hush-hush, but the rumors going around suggested she might be involved in the Snowman case.

  “How did you discover she was missing?” Helle asked, getting ready to take notes.

  “Trygve and I just returned from a camping trip in Nordmarka today. We’d been away for two days. No mobile phone, just fishing rods. She wasn’t here, no messages, and, as I said on the phone, the door was unlocked. It’s always locked, even when she’s at home. My wife is a very anxious woman. And none of her coats is missing. Nor her shoes. Only her slippers. In this weather …”

  “Have you called everyone she knows? Including the neighbors?”

  “Of course. No one has heard from her.”

  Thomas Helle took notes. A familiar feeling had already surfaced. Missing wife and mother.

  “You said your wife was an anxious woman,” he said. “So who might she have opened the door to? And who might she have let in?”

  He saw father and son exchange glances.

  “Not too many people,” the father said with conviction. “It must have been someone she knew.”

  “Or someone she didn’t feel threatened by, maybe,” Helle said. “Like a child or a woman?”

  Andreas Kvale nodded.

  “Or someone with a plausible reason for coming in. Someone from the electric company to read the meter, for example.”

  The husband hesitated. “Perhaps.”

  “Have you seen anything unusual around the house?”

  “Unusual? What do you mean?”

  Helle bit his lower lip. Braced himself. “Something that may resemble a … snowman?”

  Andreas Kvale looked at his son, who energetically shook his head, petrified.

  “Just so that we can eliminate that from our investigation,” Helle said conversationally.

  The son said something. In a low mumble.

  “What?” Helle asked.

  “He said there isn’t any more snow.”

  “No, of course not.” Helle stuffed his notepad in his jacket pocket. “I’ll radio the patrol cars. If she hasn’t turned up by this evening we’ll intensify the search. In ninety-nine percent of cases the person will have found her way home by then. So this is my card …”

  Helle felt Andreas Kvale’s hand on his upper arm.

  “There’s something I want to show you, Officer.”

  Thomas Helle followed Kvale through a door at the end of the hall and down a staircase into the cellar. He opened a door to a room that smelled of soap and clothes hanging out to dry. In the corner stood an old-fashioned clothes mangle beside an Electrolux washing machine of older vintage. The brick floor sloped down to a drain in the middle. The floor was wet and there was water on the wall, as though the floor had recently been sluiced with the green hose lying there. But that was not primarily what attracted Thomas Helle’s attention. It was the garment hanging on the wash line, attached with a clothespin at each shoulder. Or, to be precise, what was left of it. It had been cut off under the chest. The edge was crooked and black with burned, shriveled threads of cotton.

  29

  DAY 20

  Tear Gas

  The rain leaked through the heavens down onto Bergen, which lay bathed in the blue afternoon dusk. The boat Harry had reserved was ready at the quayside by the foot of Puddefjord Bridge when his taxi stopped there.

  The boat was a well-used twenty-seven-foot Finnish cabin cruiser.

  “I’m going fishing,” Harry said, pointing to the nautical chart. “Any submerged rocks or anything I ought to know about if I go here?”

  “Finnøy island?” said the boat-rental man. “Take a rod with a sinker and a spinner, but the fishing’s bad out there.”

  “Soon find out, won’t I. How do you start this thing?”

  As Harry chugged past the Nordnes headland in the gathering gloom, he could make out the totem pole among the bare trees in the park. The sea lay flat under the rain, which whipped up the surface and made it foam. Harry thrust the lever next to the wheel forward, the bow lifted—he had to take a step back for balance—and the boat powered away.

  Fifteen minutes later Harry pulled the lever back and swung in toward a quay on the far side of Finnøy, hidden from Rafto’s cabin. He moored the boat, took out the fishing rod and listened to the rain. Fishing was not his thing. The spinner was heavy, the hook got snagged at the bottom and Harry pulled up seaweed that swirled around the rod as he tugged. He freed the hook and cleaned it. Then he tried to drop the spinner in the water again, but something in the reel had locked and the spinner hung ten inches under the tip of the rod and would go neither up nor down. Harry looked at his watch. If someone had been alerted by the throb of the boat engine he or she would have relaxed by now, and he had to get this done before dark. He placed the rod on the seat, opened his bag, removed the revolver and opened the box of bullets and eased them into the chamber. He then stuffed the thermos-like CS canisters in his pockets and went ashore.

  It took him five minutes to reach the top of the deserted island and descend to the cabins boarded up for the winter on the other side. Rafto’s cabin stood before him, dark and uninviting. He found a place on a rock twenty yards away, from which he had a full view of all the doors and windows. The rain had seeped through the shoulders of his green military jacket a long time ago. He took out one of the CS canisters and removed the safety pin. In five seconds the spring-loaded valve would discharge and the gas would begin to hiss out. He ran toward the cabin with th
e canister held in his outstretched arm and hurled it at the window. The glass smashed, making a thin tinkling sound. Harry retreated to the rock and raised his revolver. Above the rain he could hear the canister hissing and he could see the inside of the window turning gray.

  If she was there she wouldn’t be able to stand more than a few seconds.

  He took aim. Waited, with the cabin in his sights.

  After two minutes still nothing had happened.

  Harry waited for two more.

  Then he prepared the second canister, walked toward the cabin with gun raised and tried the door. Locked. Flimsy, though. He stepped back four paces and then ran forward.

  The door split off along the hinges, and he plunged into the smoke-filled room, right shoulder first. The gas immediately assailed his eyes. Harry held his breath as he groped his way to the cellar trapdoor, flipped it up, pulled out the safety pin of the second canister and let it fall. Then he ran out again. Found a pool of water and sank to his knees with streaming nose and eyes, put his head in with both eyes open, as deep as he could, until his nose scraped the stones. Twice he repeated the shallow dip. His nose and palate still smarted like hell, but his eyes had cleared. He pointed the revolver toward the hut again. Waited. And waited.

  “Come on! Come on, you bitch!”

  But no one came out.

  After fifteen minutes the smoke had stopped issuing from the hole in the pane. Harry went back down to the cabin and kicked open the door. Coughed and cast a final glance inside. Wasteland wreathed in mist. Flying on instruments. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

  As he walked back to the boat it had become so dark that he knew he was going to have visibility problems. He untied the moorings, went on board and grasped the starter lever. A thought went through his mind: He hadn’t slept for nearly thirty-six hours, hadn’t eaten since early morning, was drenched to the skin and had flown to fucking Bergen for absolutely nothing. If this engine didn’t start immediately he would pepper the hull with lead and swim ashore. The engine started with a roar. Harry almost thought it was a shame. He was just about to push the lever forward when he saw her.

  She was standing right in front of him on the steps leading down below deck. Nonchalantly leaning against the door frame, in a gray sweater over a black dress.

  “Hands up,” she ordered.

  It sounded so childish it seemed almost a joke. The black revolver pointing at him was not. Nor was the threat that followed. “If you don’t do as I say I’ll shoot you in the stomach, Harry. Which will smash the nerves in your back and paralyze you. Then one in the head. But let’s start with the stomach …”

  The gun barrel was lowered.

  Harry let go of the wheel and the lever and put up his hands.

  “Back off, if you would be so kind,” she said.

  She came up the stairs, and it was only now that Harry could see the gleam in her eyes, the very same he had seen when they arrested Becker, the very same he had seen in Fenris Bar. But sparks were flying from the quivering irises. Harry retreated until he felt the seat at the stern against his legs.

  “Sit down,” Katrine said, switching off the motor.

  Harry slumped back, sat on the fishing rod and felt the water on the plastic seat soak through his trousers.

  “How did you find me?” she asked.

  Harry shrugged.

  “Come on,” she said, raising the gun. “Satisfy my curiosity, Harry.”

  “Well,” Harry replied, trying to read her pale, drawn face. But this was unknown territory; the face of this woman did not belong to the Katrine Bratt he knew. Thought he knew.

  “Everyone has a pattern of behavior,” he heard himself say. “A game plan.”

  “I see. And what’s mine?”

  “Pointing one way and running the other.”

  “Oh?”

  Harry sensed the weight of the revolver in his right jacket pocket. He raised his backside and moved the fishing rod, leaving his right hand on the seat.

  “You write a letter from ‘the Snowman,’ send it to me and several weeks later stroll into the Police HQ. The first thing you do is to tell me Hagen has said I should take care of you. Hagen never said that.”

  “All correct so far. Anything else?”

  “You threw your coat into the canal in front of Støp’s apartment and fled in the opposite direction, over the roof. The pattern, therefore, is that when you plant your mobile phone on an eastbound train, you flee west.”

  “Bravo. And how did I flee?”

  “Not by plane, of course. You knew that Gardermoen would be under surveillance. My guess is that you planted the phone in Oslo Central Station well before the train was due to depart, crossed over to the bus terminal and caught an early bus west. I would guess you split the journey into various legs. Kept changing buses.”

  “The Notodden express,” Katrine said. “The Bergen bus from there. Got off in Voss and bought clothes. Bus to Ytre Arna. Local bus from there to Bergen. Paid a fisherman at Zacharias wharf to bring me here. Not bad guesswork, Harry.”

  “It wasn’t so difficult. We’re pretty similar, you and I.”

  Katrine tilted her head. “If you were so sure, why did you come alone?”

  “I’m not alone. Müller-Nilsen and his people are on their way by boat now.”

  Katrine laughed. Harry shifted his hand closer to his jacket pocket.

  “I agree we’re similar, Harry. But when it comes to lying, I’m better than you.”

  Harry swallowed. His hand was cold. Fingers had to obey. “Yes, I’m sure that comes easier to you,” Harry said. “Like murder.”

  “Oh? You look as if you could murder me now. Your hand is getting alarmingly close to your jacket pocket. Stand up and remove your jacket. Slowly. And throw it here.”

  Harry swore inwardly, but did as she said. His coat landed on the deck in front of Katrine with a thud. Without taking her eyes off Harry, she grabbed it and slung it overboard.

  “It was time you got yourself a new one anyway,” she said.

  “Mm,” Harry said. “You mean one to match the carrot in the middle of my face?”

  Katrine blinked twice and Harry saw what appeared to be confusion in her eyes.

  “Listen, Katrine. I’ve come here to help you. You need help. You’re sick, Katrine. It was the illness that made you kill them.”

  Katrine had started to shake her head slowly. She pointed to land.

  “I’ve been sitting in the boathouse for two hours waiting for you, Harry. Because I knew you would come. I’ve studied you, Harry. You always find what you’re looking for. That was why I chose you.”

  “Chose me?”

  “Chose you. To find the Snowman for me. That was why I sent you the letter.”

  “Why couldn’t you find the Snowman yourself? You didn’t exactly have to go far.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve tried, Harry. I’ve tried for many years. I knew I wouldn’t be able to do it on my own. It had to be you. You’re the only person who’s succeeded in catching a serial killer. I needed Harry Hole.” She gave a sad smile. “A last question, Harry. How did you figure out that I had deceived you?”

  Harry was wondering how this would end. A bullet to the forehead? The electric cutting loop? A trip out to sea and then death by drowning? He swallowed. He ought to be afraid. So frightened that he would be unable to think, so frightened that he would fall sobbing to the deck and implore her to let him live. Why wasn’t he? It couldn’t be pride; he had swallowed that with whiskey and spat it out again several times. It could of course be his rational brain working, knowing that being frightened wouldn’t help; on the contrary, it would only shorten his life further. He concluded, however, it was the tiredness that did it. A profound, all-encompassing exhaustion that made him feel as if he just wanted to get it over and done with.

  “Deep down I’ve always known that this all started a long time ago,” Harry said, noting that he no longer felt the cold. “It was planned and the person behi
nd it had managed to get into my head. There are not so many people to choose from, Katrine. And when I saw the newspaper clippings in your apartment, I knew it was you.”

  Harry saw her blinking, disoriented. And he felt a wedge of doubt being driven into his line of thought, into the logic he had seen so clearly. Or had he? Hadn’t the doubt always been there? The steady drizzle gave way to a deluge; the water hammered down on the deck. He saw her mouth open and her finger curl around the trigger. He grabbed the fishing rod beside him and stared down the gun barrel. This was how it would end, in a boat on the western coast, without witnesses, without evidence. An image sprang into his mind. Of Oleg. Alone.

  He swung the rod in front of him, at Katrine. It was a last desperate lunge, a pathetic attempt to turn the tables, to divert fate. The soft tip hit Katrine’s cheek, not hard—she could hardly have felt it—and the blow neither hurt nor unbalanced her. In retrospect, Harry couldn’t remember if what happened was intentional, half thought through or sheer unadulterated luck: The accelerated movement of the spinner caused the eight-inch-long stretch of line to wrap itself around her head in such a way that the spinner continued around and struck the front teeth in her open mouth. And when Harry pulled hard at the rod, the tip of the hook did what it was designed to do: it found flesh. It dug into the right-hand corner of Katrine Bratt’s mouth. And Harry’s despairing pull was so violent that, in consequence, Katrine Bratt’s head was wrenched back and around to the right with such power that for a moment he had the impression that he was screwing the head off her body. After an infinitesimal lag, her body followed the head’s rotation, first to the right, then propelled toward Harry. Her body was still spinning when she fell onto the deck in front of him.

  Harry dropped onto her, knees first. They hit her on either side of the collarbone, and he knew he had rendered her arms immobile.

  He twisted the revolver out of the paralyzed hand and pushed the barrel against one of her dilated eyes. The weapon felt light and he could see the iron pressing against her soft eyeball, but she didn’t blink. Quite the opposite. She was grinning. A broad grin. From the ripped corner of her mouth and bloodstained teeth, which the rain was trying to wash clean.