The Snowman

by Jo Nesbo

  “My interpretation. Saint Mathias doesn’t use expressions like loser about people. In his eyes, every human has the potential to become a better person.” Idar Vetlesen’s laughter echoed through the dark rooms.

  After Harry had said his thank-yous, put on his boots and was standing on the step outside, he turned and watched—as the door slid closed—Idar sitting bent over, tying his shoelaces.

  On the way back, Harry called Skarre and asked him to print out the picture of Vetlesen from the clinic Web site and go over to the Narcotics Unit to see if any of the undercover guys had seen him buying speed.

  “In the street?” Skarre asked. “Don’t all doctors have that kind of thing in their medicine cabinets?”

  “Yes, but the rules governing the declaration of drug supplies are now so strict that a doctor would rather buy his amphetamines off a dealer in Skippergata.”

  They hung up, and Harry called Katrine in the office.

  “Nothing for the moment,” she said. “I’m leaving now. You on your way home?”

  “Yes.” Harry hesitated. “What do you think the chances are of the court ruling that Vetlesen can waive his Hippocratic oath?”

  “With what we’ve got? Of course, I could put on an extra-short skirt, pop over to the courthouse and find a judge of the right age. But, to be frank, I think we can forget it.”

  “Agreed.”

  Harry headed for Bislett. Thinking about his apartment, stripped bare. He looked at his watch. Changed his mind and turned down Pilestredet toward the Police HQ.

  It was two o’clock in the morning as, once again, Harry had Katrine, drowsy with sleep, on the phone.

  “What’s up now?” she said.

  “I’m in the office and have had a look at what you’ve found. You said all the missing women were married with children. I think there could be something in that.”

  “What?”

  “I have no idea. I just needed to hear myself say that to someone. So that I could decide if it sounded idiotic.”

  “And how does it sound?”

  “Idiotic. Good night.”

  Eli Kvale lay with her eyes wide open. Beside her, Andreas was breathing heavily, without a care in the world. A stripe of moonlight fell between the curtains across the wall, on the crucifix she had bought during her honeymoon in Rome. What had woken her? Was it Trygve? Was he up? The dinner and the evening had gone just as she had hoped. She had seen happy, shiny faces in the candlelight, and they had all talked at the same time, they had so much to tell! Mostly Trygve. And when he talked about Montana, about his studies and friends there, she had stayed quiet just looking at this boy, this young man who was maturing into an adult, becoming whatever he would become, making his own life. That was what made her happiest: that he could choose. Openly and freely. Not like her. Not on the sly, in secret.

  She heard the house creaking, heard the walls talking to one another.

  But there had been a different sound, an alien sound. A sound from outside.

  She got out of bed, went over to the window and opened the curtains a crack. It had snowed. The apple trees had woolen branches and the moonlight was reflected on the thin white ground covering, emphasizing every detail in the garden. Her gaze swept from the gate to the garage, unsure what it was she was looking for. Then it stopped. She gave a gasp of surprise and terror. Don’t start this again, she told herself. It must have been Trygve. He’s got jet lag, hasn’t been able to sleep and has gone out. The footprints went from the gate to right under the window where she was standing. Like a line of black dots in the thin coating of snow. A dramatic pause in the text.

  There were no footprints leading back.

  12

  DAY 7

  The Conversation

  “One of the Narc guys recognized him,” Skarre said. “When I showed him the picture of Vetlesen, the detective said he’d seen him several times at the intersection of Skippergata and Tollbugata.”

  “What’s at the intersection?” asked Gunnar Hagen, who had insisted on joining the Monday-morning meeting in Harry’s office.

  Skarre looked at Hagen uncertainly to check if the POB was joking.

  “Dealers, whores, bookies,” he said. “It’s the new in place after we chased them out of Plata.”

  “Only there?” Hagen asked, jutting out his chin. “I was told it was more widespread now.”

  “It’s like the center,” Skarre said. “But of course you’ll find them down toward the Stock Exchange and up toward Norges Bank. Around the Astrup Fearnley Museum of Modern Art, Gamle Logen concert hall and the Church Mission café …” He stopped when Harry yawned out loud.

  “Sorry,” Harry apologized. “It was a hard weekend. Go on.”

  “The detective couldn’t remember seeing him buy dope. He thought Vetlesen was frequenting Hotel Leon.”

  At that moment Katrine Bratt came through the door. She was unkempt and pale, and her eyes were slits, but she sang out a cheery Bergensian greeting as she searched the room for a chair. Bjørn Holm leapt up from his, flourished a hand and went to look for another.

  “Leon in Skippergata?” Hagen queried. “Is that a place they sell drugs?”

  “Could well be,” Skarre said. “But I’ve seen loads of black hookers going in there, so I suppose it must be a so-called massage place.”

  “Hardly,” Katrine Bratt said, standing with her back to them as she hung her coat on the coatrack. “Massage parlors are part of the indoor market, and the Vietnamese have that now. They stay in the suburbs, in discreet residential areas, use Asian women and keep away from the territory of the African outdoor market.”

  “I think I’ve seen a poster for cheap rooms hanging outside,” Harry said. “Four hundred kroner a night.”

  “That’s right,” Katrine said. “They have small rooms that are officially hired out by the day, but in practice on an hourly basis. Black money. Customers don’t exactly ask for a receipt. But the hotel owner, who earns the most, is white.”

  “Lady’s spot on.” Skarre grinned at Hagen. “Strange that the Bergen Sexual Offenses Unit should suddenly be so well up on Oslo brothels.”

  “They’re the same everywhere,” Katrine said. “Want to bet on anything I said?”

  “The owner’s a Pakistani,” Skarre said. “Two hundred kroner-ooneys.”

  “Done.”

  “OK,” Harry said, clapping his hands. “What are we sitting here for?”

  The owner of the Leon Hotel was Børre Hansen, from Solør, in the east; his skin was as grayish white as the slush the so-called guests brought in on their shoes and left on the worn parquet floor underneath the sign saying RESEPTION in black letters. As neither the clientele nor Børre was particularly interested in spelling, the sign had remained there, uncontested, for as long as Børre had had it: four years. Before that, he had traveled up and down Sweden selling Bibles, trying his hand at border trade with discarded porno films in Svinesund and acquiring an accent, sounding like a cross between a jazz musician and a preacher. It was in Svinesund that he had met Natasha, a Russian erotic dancer, and they had escaped from her Russian manager only 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 elbo
ws on the counter and leaning forward.

  Børre looked at the picture again, thinking he should have scrutinized the ID card more closely; this guy seemed more like one of the dopeheads hanging around 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 got herself a pimp who didn’t rob her, she could earn 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 license 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 are 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.”

  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 whom 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.”

  “Jesus,” the policeman said.

  Børre Hansen nodded.

  “What name does he sign in under?”

  “Don’t remember.”

  “But we’ll find it in the guest book, won’t we? And in the accounts?”

  The back of Børre Hansen’s shirt was soaked with sweat under his shiny suit jacket. “They call him Dr. White. The women who ask for him, that is.”

  “Doctor?”

  “Nothing to do with me. He …” Børre Hansen hesitated. He didn’t want to say any more than he had to. On the other hand, he wanted to show a willingness to cooperate. And this was already a lost customer. “He carries one of those big doctor’s bags with him. And always asks for … extra towels.”

  “Oooh,” said the woman. “Doesn’t sound good. Have you seen any blood when you clean the room?”

  Børre didn’t answer.

  “If you clean the room,” the policeman corrected. “Well?”

  Børre sighed. “Not much, not more than …” He paused.

  “Than usual?” the woman asked sarcastically.

  “I don’t think he hurts them,” Børre Hansen hastened to say, and regretted it instantly.

  “Why not?” the policeman snapped.

  Børre shrugged. “They wouldn’t come back, I suppose.”

  “And it’s just women?”

  Børre nodded. But the policeman must have noticed something. A nervous tautening of his neck muscles, a little twitch in the bloodshot membrane of his eye.

  “Men?” he asked.

  Børre shook his head.

  “Boys?” asked the policewoman, who clearly scented the same thing as her colleague.

  Børre Hansen shook his head again, but with that little, almost imperceptible delay that arises when the brain has to choose between alternatives.

  “Children,” said the policeman, lowering his forehead as if about to charge. “Has he had children here?”

  “No!” Børre shouted, feeling the sweat break out over his whole body. “Never! I draw the line at that. There have only been the two times … And they didn’t come in. I threw them back out on the street!”

  “African?” the man asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Boys or girls?”

  “Both.”

  “Did they come alone?” the woman asked.

  “No, with women. The mothers, I believe. But, as I said, I didn’t let them go up to his room.”

  “You said he comes here twice a week. Does he have fixed times?”

  “Monday and Thursday. From eight to midnight. And he’s always on time.”

  “Tonight, too?” the man said, looking at his colleague. “OK, thanks for your assistance.”

  Børre released the air from his lungs and discovered that his legs were aching—he had been standing on his toes the whole time. “Glad to help,” he said.

  The police officers walked toward the door. Børre knew he should keep his mouth shut, but he wouldn’t be able to sleep if he didn’t receive an assurance.

  “But,” he said as they were leaving, “but then, we have a deal, don’t we?”

  The policeman turned, with one eyebrow raised in surprise. “About what?”

  Børre swallowed. “About these … inspections?”

  The policeman rubbed his chin. “Are you implying that you have something to hide?”

  Børre blinked twice. Then he heard his own high-pitched nervous laughter as he gushed: “No, no, of course not! Ha-ha! Everything here’s in order.”

  “Excellent, so you have nothing to fear when they come. Inspections are not my responsibility.”

  They left with Børre opening his mouth, about to protest, to say something, he just didn’t know what.

  The telephone welcomed Harry on his return to the office.

  It was Rakel wanting to give him back the DVD she had borrowed from him.

  “The Rules of Attraction?” Harry repeated, taken aback. “Have you got it?”

  “You said it was on your list of most underrated modern films.”

  “Yes, but you never like those films.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “You didn’t like Starship Troopers.”

  “That’s because it’s a crap macho film.”

  “It’s satire,” Harry said.

  “Of what?”

  “American society’s inherent fascism. The Hardy Boys meet Hitler Youth.”

  “Come on, Harry. War on giant insects on a remote planet?”

  “Fear of foreigners.”

  “Anyway, I liked that seventies film of yours, the one about bugging …”

  “The Conversation,” Harry said. “Coppola’s best.”

  “That’s the one. I agree that is underrated.”

  “It’s not underrated,” Harry sighed. “Just forgotten. It was nominated for an Oscar for Best Film.”

  “I’m having dinner with some friends this evening. I
can drop the film off on my way home. Will you be up at around midnight?”

  “Might be. Why not drop by on your way to the meal instead?”

  “Bit more stressful, but I can do it, of course.”

  Her answer had come fast. But not fast enough for Harry not to hear it.

  “Mm,” he said. “I can’t sleep anyway. I’m inhaling fungus and I can’t catch my breath.”

  “You know what? I’ll pop it in the mailbox downstairs so you don’t have to get up. OK?”

  “OK.”

  They hung up. Harry saw that his hand was trembling. Concluded it had to be due to lack of nicotine and headed for the elevator.

  Katrine came out of her office door as if she knew it was him stomping along. “I spoke to Espen Lepsvik. We can have one of his guys for the job tonight.”

  “Great.”

  “Good news?”

  “What?”

  “You’re smiling.”

  “Am I? Must be happy, then.”

  “About what?”

  He patted his pocket. “Cigarette.”

  Eli Kvale was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, looking out at the yard and listening to the comforting rumble of the dishwasher. The black telephone was on the countertop. The receiver had grown hot in her hands, from squeezing it so tight, but it had been a wrong number. Trygve had enjoyed the fish au gratin—it was his favorite, he had said. But he said that about most things. He was a good boy. Outside, the grass was brown and lifeless; there were no signs of the snow that had fallen. And who knows? Perhaps she had just dreamed the whole thing.

  She flipped aimlessly through a magazine. She had taken off the first few days that Trygve was at home so they could have some time together. Have a good talk, just the two of them. But now he was sitting with Andreas in the living room and they were doing what she had made space for. That was fine—they had more to talk about. They were so similar, after all. And in fact she had always liked the idea of a good talk more than the reality. Because the conversation always had to stop somewhere. At the huge, insurmountable wall.

  Of course, she had agreed to name the boy after Andreas’s father. At least let the boy take a name from Andreas’s side. She had been close to spilling the beans before she was due to give birth. About the empty parking lot, about the darkness, about the black prints in the snow. About the knife to her neck and the faceless breath against her cheek. On the way home, with his seed running into her underwear, she had prayed to God that it would continue to run until it was all gone. But her prayers had not been answered.