by Jo Nesbo
ALSO BY JO NESBO
Headhunters
THE HARRY HOLE SERIES
The Redbreast
Nemesis
The Devil’s Star
The Redeemer
The Snowman
The Leopard
Phantom
VINTAGE CANADA E-OMNIBUS, 2012
Copyright © 2012 Jo Nesbo
English translation copyright © 2012 Don Bartlett
The Snowman is published by arrangement with Harvill Secker, one of the publishers in the Random House Group Ltd.
The Leopard and Phantom are published by agreement with Salomonsson Agency.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
The Snowman
Published in Canada by Random House Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited. All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2010 Jo Nesbo
e-ISBN: 978-0-307-35867-7
The Leopard
Published in Canada by Random House Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited. All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2011 Jo Nesbo
e-ISBN: 978-0-307-35974-2
Phantom
Published in Canada by Random House Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited. All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2012 Jo Nesbo
e-ISBN: 978-0-307-36109-7
E-omnibus edition published in Canada by Vintage Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto, in 2012.
Vintage Canada with colophon is a registered trademark.
www.randomhouse.ca
These are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cataloguing data available from Library and Archives Canada.
Nesbo, Jo
Harry Hole Mysteries 3-Book Bundle [electronic resource] : The Snowman, The Leopard, Phantom / Jo Nesbo.
Electronic monograph issued in HTML format.
e-ISBN: 978-0-345-81314-5
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Also by Jo Nesbo
Title Page
Copyright
The Snowman
The Leopard
Phantom
About the Author
Copyright © 2010 Jo Nesbø
English translation copyright © 2010 Don Bartlett
Oslo City Centre map © Darren Bennett
Published by arrangement with Harvill Secker, one of the publishers in the Random House Group Ltd.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Published in 2010 by Random House Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto, and in the United Kingdom by Harvill Secker. First published with the title Snømannen in 2007 by H. Aschehoug & Co. (W. Nygaard), Oslo.
Distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited.
www.randomhouse.ca
Random House Canada and colophon are registered trademarks.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Call Me On Your Way Back Home
Written by Ryan Adams
© 2000 BARLAND MUSIC (BMI) / Administered by BUG MUSIC
All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Nesbø, Jo, 1960–
The snowman / Jo Nesbø ; translated by Don Bartlett.
(The Harry Hole mystery series ; 7)
Translation of: Snømannen.
eISBN: 978-0-307-35867-7
I. Bartlett, Don II. Title. III. Series: Nesbø, Jo, 1960– .
Harry Hole mystery series ; 7.
PT8951.24.E83S5613 2010 839.82′38 C2009-906618-1
v3.1
Table of Contents
Master - Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Part One
Chapter 1 - Wednesday, 5 November 1980.: The Snowman.
Chapter 2 - 2 November 2004. Day 1.: Pebble-Eyes.
Chapter 3 - Day 1.: Cochineal.
Chapter 4 - Day 2.: The Disappearance.
Chapter 5 - 4 November 1992.: The Totem Pole.
Chapter 6 - Day 2.: Cellular Phone.
Chapter 7 - Day 3.: Hidden Statistics.
Chapter 8 - Day 3.: Swan Neck.
Chapter 9 - Day 3.: The Pit.
Part Two
Chapter 10 - Day 4.: Chalk.
Chapter 11 - Day 4.: Death Mask.
Chapter 12 - Day 7.: The Conversation.
Chapter 13 - Day 8.: Paper.
Chapter 14 - Day 9.: Bergen.
Part Three
Chapter 15 - Day 9.: Number Eight.
Chapter 16 - Day 10.: Curling.
Chapter 17 - Day 14.: Good News.
Chapter 18 - Day 15.: View.
Chapter 19 - Day 16. : TV.
Part Four
Chapter 20 - Day 17.: The Sunglasses.
Chapter 21 - Day 18.: The Waiting Room.
Chapter 22 - Day 18.: Match.
Chapter 23 - Day 19.: Mosaic.
Chapter 24 - Day 19.: Toowoomba.
Chapter 25 - Day 20.: Deadline.
Chapter 26 - Day 20.: The Silence.
Chapter 27 - Day 20.: The Beginning.
Chapter 28 - Day 20.: Disease.
Chapter 29 - Day 20.: Tear Gas.
Chapter 30 - Day 20.: Scapegoat.
Chapter 31 - Day 21.: The South Pole.
Chapter 32 - Day 21.: The Tanks.
Part Five
Chapter 33 - Wednesday, 5 November 1980.: The Snowman.
Chapter 34 - Day 21.: Sirens.
Chapter 35 - Day 21.: Monster.
Chapter 36 - Day 21.: The Tower.
Chapter 37 - Day 22.: Dad.
Chapter 38 - December 2004.: The Swans.
For Kirsten Hammervoll Nesbø
Part One
1
WEDNESDAY, 5 NOVEMBER 1980.
The Snowman.
IT WAS THE DAY THE SNOW CAME. AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK IN the morning, large flakes appeared from a colourless sky and invaded the fields, gardens and lawns of Romerike like an armada from outer space. At two, the snowploughs were in action in Lillestrøm, and when, at half past two, Sara Kvinesland slowly and carefully steered her Toyota Corolla SR5 between the detached houses in Kolloveien, the November snow was lying like a down duvet over the rolling countryside.
She was thinking that the houses looked different in daylight. So different that she almost passed his drive. The car skidded as she applied the brakes, and she heard a groan from the back seat. In the rear-view mirror she saw her son’s disgruntled face.
‘It won’t take long, my love,’ she said.
In front of the garage there was a large patch of black tarmac amid all the white, and she realised that the removal van had been the
re. Her throat constricted. She hoped she wasn’t too late.
‘Who lives here?’ came from the back seat.
‘Just someone I know,’ Sara said, automatically checking her hair in the mirror. ‘Ten minutes, my love. I’ll leave the key in the ignition so you can listen to the radio.’
She went without waiting for a response, slithered in her slippery shoes up to the door she had been through so many times, but never like this, not in the middle of the day, in full view of all the neighbours’ prying eyes. Not that late-night visits would seem any more innocent, but for some reason acts of this kind felt more appropriate when performed after the fall of darkness.
She heard the buzz of the doorbell inside, like a bumblebee in a jam jar. Feeling her desperation mount, she glanced at the windows of the neighbouring houses. They gave nothing away, just returned reflections of bare black apple trees, grey sky and milky-white terrain. Then, at last, she heard footsteps behind the door and heaved a sigh of relief. The next moment she was inside and in his arms.
‘Don’t go, darling,’ she said, hearing the sob already straining at her vocal cords.
‘I have to,’ he said in a monotone that suggested a refrain he had tired of long ago. His hands sought familiar paths, of which they never tired.
‘No, you don’t,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘But you want to. You don’t dare any longer.’
‘This has nothing to do with you and me.’
She could hear the irritation creeping into his voice at the same time as his hand, the strong but gentle hand, slid down over her spine and inside the waistband of her skirt and tights. They were like a pair of practised dancers who knew their partner’s every move, step, breath, rhythm. First, the white lovemaking. The good one. Then the black one. The pain.
His hand caressed her coat, searching for her nipple under the thick material. He was eternally fascinated by her nipples; he always returned to them. Perhaps it was because he didn’t have any himself.
‘Did you park in front of the garage?’ he asked with a firm tweak.
She nodded and felt the pain shoot into her head like a dart of pleasure. Her sex had already opened for the fingers which would soon be there. ‘My son’s waiting in the car.’
His hand came to an abrupt halt.
‘He knows nothing,’ she groaned, sensing his hand falter.
‘And your husband? Where’s he now?’
‘Where do you think? At work of course.’
Now it was she who sounded irritated. Both because he had brought her husband into the conversation and it was difficult for her to say anything at all about him without getting irritated, and because her body needed him, quickly. Sara Kvinesland opened his flies.
‘Don’t …’ he began, grabbing her around the wrist. She slapped him hard with her other hand. He looked at her in amazement as a red flush spread across his cheek. She smiled, grabbed his thick black hair and pulled his face down to hers.
‘You can go,’ she hissed. ‘But first you have to shag me. Is that understood?’
She felt his breath against her face. It was coming in hefty gasps now. Again she slapped him with her free hand, and his dick was growing in her other.
He thrust, a bit harder each time, but it was over now. She was numb, the magic was gone, the tension had dissolved and all that was left was despair. She was losing him. Now, as she lay there, she had lost him. All the years she had yearned, all the tears she had cried, the desperate things he had made her do. Without giving anything back. Except for one thing.
He was standing at the foot of the bed and taking her with closed eyes. Sara stared at his chest. To begin with, she had thought it strange, but after a while she had begun to like the sight of unbroken white skin over his pectoral muscles. It reminded her of old statues where the nipples had been omitted out of consideration for public modesty.
His groans were getting louder. She knew that soon he would let out a furious roar. She had loved that roar. The ever-surprised, ecstatic, almost pained expression as though the orgasm surpassed his wildest expectation each and every time. Now she was waiting for the final roar, a bellowing farewell to his freezing box of a bedroom divested of pictures,curtains and carpets. Then he would get dressed and travel to a different part of the country where he said he had been offered a job he couldn’t say no to. But he could say no to this. This. And still he would roar with pleasure.
She closed her eyes. But the roar didn’t come. He had stopped.
‘What’s up?’ she asked, opening her eyes. His features were distorted alright. But not with pleasure.
‘A face,’ he whispered.
She flinched. ‘Where?’
‘Outside the window.’
The window was at the other end of the bed, right above her head. She heaved herself round, felt him slip out, already limp. From where she was lying, the window above her head was set too high in the wall for her to see out. And too high for anyone to stand outside and peer in. Because of the already dwindling daylight all she could see was the double-exposed reflection of the ceiling lamp.
‘You saw yourself,’ she said, almost pleading.
‘That was what I thought at first,’ he said, still staring at the window.
Sara pulled herself up onto her knees. Got up and looked into the garden. And there, there was the face.
She laughed out loud with relief. The face was white, with eyes and a mouth made with black pebbles, probably from the drive. And arms made from twigs off the apple trees.
‘Heavens,’ she gasped. ‘It’s only a snowman.’
Then her laugh turned into tears; she sobbed helplessly until she felt his arms around her.
‘I have to go now,’ she sobbed.
‘Stay for a little while longer,’ he said.
She stayed for a little while longer.
As Sara approached the garage she saw that almost forty minutes had passed.
He had promised to ring now and then. He had always been a good liar, and for once she was glad. Even before she got to the car she saw her son’s pale face staring at her from the back seat. She pulled at the door and found to her astonishment that it was locked. She peered in at him through steamed-up windows. He only opened it when she knocked on the glass.
She sat in the driver’s seat. The radio was silent and it was ice-cold inside. The key was on the passenger seat. She turned to him. Her son was pale, and his lower lip was trembling.
‘Is there anything wrong?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I saw him.’
There was a thin, shrill tone of horror in his voice that she couldn’t recall hearing since he was a little boy jammed between them on the sofa in front of the TV with his hands over his eyes. And now his voice was changing, he had stopped giving her a goodnight hug and had started being interested in car engines and girls. And one day he would get in a car with one of them and also leave her.
‘What do you mean?’ she said, inserting the key in the ignition and turning.
‘The snowman …’
There was no response from the engine and panic gripped her without warning. Quite what she was afraid of, she didn’t know. She stared out of the windscreen and turned the key again. Had the battery died?
‘And what did the snowman look like?’ she asked, pressing the accelerator to the floor and desperately turning the key so hard it felt as though she would break it. He answered, but his answer was drowned by the roar of the engine.
Sara put the car in gear and let go of the clutch as if in a sudden hurry to get away. The wheels spun in the soft, slushy snow. She accelerated harder, but the rear of the car slid sideways. By then the tyres had spun their way down to the tarmac and they lurched forward and skidded into the road.
‘Dad’s waiting for us,’ she said. ‘We’ll have to get a move on.’
She switched on the radio and turned up the volume to fill the cold interior with sounds other than her own voice. A newsreader said for the hundredth time today
that last night Ronald Reagan had beaten Jimmy Carter in the American election.
The boy said something again, and she glanced in the mirror.
‘What did you say?’ she said in a loud voice.
He repeated it, but still she couldn’t hear. She turned down the radio while heading towards the main road and the river, which ran through the countryside like two mournful black stripes. And gave a start when she realised he had leaned forward between the two front seats. His voice sounded like a dry whisper in her ear. As if it was important no one else heard them.
‘We’re going to die.’
2
2 NOVEMBER 2004. DAY 1.
Pebble-Eyes.
HARRY HOLE GAVE A START AND OPENED HIS EYES WIDE. It was freezing cold, and from the dark came the sound of the voice that had awoken him. It announced that the American people would decide today whether their President for the next four years would again be George Walker Bush. November. Harry was thinking they were definitely heading for dark times. He threw off the duvet and placed his feet on the floor. The lino was so cold it stung. He left the news blaring from the radio alarm clock and went into the bathroom. Regarded himself in the mirror. November there, too: drawn, greyish pale and overcast. As usual his eyes were bloodshot, and the pores on his nose large, black craters. The bags under his eyes with their light blue, alcohol-washed irises would disappear after his face had been ministered to with hot water, a towel and breakfast. He assumed they would, that is. Harry was not sure exactly how his face would fare during the day now that he had turned forty. Whether the wrinkles would be ironed out and peace would fall over the hunted expression he woke with after nights of being ridden by nightmares. Which was most nights. For he avoided mirrors after he left his small, spartan flat in Sofies gate to become Inspector Hole of the Crime Squad at Oslo Police HQ. Then he stared into others’ faces to find their pain, their Achilles heels, their nightmares, motives and reasons for self-deception, listening to their fatiguing lies and trying to find a meaning in what he did: imprisoning people who were already imprisoned inside themselves. Prisons of hatred and self-contempt he recognised all too well. He ran a hand over the shorn bristles of blond hair that grew precisely 192 centimetres above the frozen soles of his feet. His collarbone stood out under his skin like a clothes hanger. He had trained a lot since the last case. In a frenzy, some maintained. As well as cycling he had started to lift weights in the fitness room in the bowels of Police HQ. He liked the burning pain, and the repressed thoughts. Nevertheless, he just became leaner. The fat disappeared and his muscles were layered between skin and bone. And while before he had been broad-shouldered and what Rakel called a natural athlete, now he had begun to resemble the photograph he had once seen of a skinned polar bear: a muscular, but shockingly gaunt, predator. Quite simply, he was fading away. Not that it actually mattered. Harry sighed. November. It was going to get even darker.