The Snowman (10 page)

‘This was in my mailbox after I did the TV show at the beginning of September. Until now I had thought it was a madman’s work.’

Hagen took out the letter, and after reading the six sentences, shook his head at Harry. ‘The snowman? And what is/are the Murri?’

‘That’s exactly the point,’ Harry said. ‘I’m afraid this is the
it
.’

The POB gave him a nonplussed look.

‘I hope I’m wrong,’ Harry said, ‘but I think we have some hellishly dark days ahead of us.’

Hagen sighed. ‘What do you want, Harry?’

‘I want an investigation team.’

Hagen studied Harry. In common with most other officers at Police HQ, he regarded Harry as a self-willed, arrogant, argumentative, unstable alcoholic. Nevertheless, he was glad they were on the same side and that he wouldn’t have this man snapping at his heels.

‘How many?’ he asked at length. ‘And for how long?’

‘Ten detectives. Two months.’

‘Two weeks?’ said Magnus Skarre. ‘And four people? Is
that
supposed to be a murder investigation?’

He looked around with disapproval at the other three squeezed into Harry’s office: Katrine Bratt, Harry Hole and Bjørn Holm from Krimteknisk, the Forensics Unit.

‘That’s what Hagen’s given me,’ Harry said, tipping back on his chair. ‘And this is not a murder investigation. For the moment.’

‘What is it actually?’ Katrine Bratt asked. ‘For the moment?’

‘A missing persons case,’ Harry said. ‘But one which bears a certain similarity to other recent cases.’

‘Housewives who one day in late autumn suddenly up sticks?’ asked Bjørn Holm with remnants of the rural Toten dialect he had added to the goods he had removed from the village of Skreia, along with an LP collection consisting of Elvis, hardcore hillbilly, the Sex Pistols, Jason & the Scorchers, three hand-sewn suits from Nashville, an American Bible, a slightly undersized sofa bed and a dining-room suite that had outlived three generations of Holms. All piled up on a trailer and towed to the capital by the last Amazon to roll off the 1970 Volvo assembly line. Bjørn Holm had bought the Amazon for 1,200 kroner, but even at that time no one knew how many kilometres it had done because the clock only went up to 100,000. However, the car expressed everything Bjørn Holm was and believed in; it smelt better than anything he knew, a mixture of imitation leather, metal, engine oil, sun-faded rear ledge, Volvo factory and seats impregnated with ‘personality perspiration’, which Bjørn Holm explained was not common body perspiration but a select veneer of all the previous owners’ souls, karma, eating habits and lifestyles. The furry dice hanging from the mirror were original Fuzzy Dice, which expressed the right mix of genuine affection for and ironical distance from a bygone American culture and aesthetic that perfectly suited a Norwegian farmer’s son who had grown up with Jim Reeves in one ear, the Ramones in the other, and loved both. Now he was sitting in Harry’s office with a Rasta hat that made him look more like an undercover drugs cop than a forensics officer. Two immense, fire-engine red, cutlet-shaped sideburns framing Bjørn Holm’s plump, round face emerged from the hat, and he had a pair of slightly protruding eyes, which gave him a fishlike expression of constant wonderment. He was the only person Harry had insisted on having in his small investigation team.

‘There’s one more thing,’ Harry said, reaching out to switch on the overhead projector between the piles of paper on his desk. Magnus Skarre cursed and shielded his eyes as blurred writing suddenly appeared on his face. He moved, and Harry’s voice came from behind the projector.

‘This letter landed in my mailbox exactly two months ago. No address, postmarked Oslo. Produced on a standard inkjet printer.’

Before Harry could ask, Katrine Bratt had pressed the light switch by the door, plunging the room into darkness. A square of light loomed up on the white wall.

They read in silence.

‘Poetic,’ mumbled Bjørn Holm.

‘What’s the Murri?’ Skarre asked.

The monotonous whirr of the projector fan was the answer.

‘The most interesting part is who the snowman is,’ Katrine Bratt said.

‘Obviously someone who needs his head testing,’ Bjørn Holm said.

Skarre’s lone laughter was cut short.

‘The Murri was the nickname of a person who is now dead,’ Harry said from out of the darkness. ‘A murri is an Aborigine from Queensland in Australia. While this murri was alive he killed women all over Australia. No one knows for certain how many. His real name was Robin Toowoomba.’

The fan whirred and buzzed.

‘Serial killer,’ said Bjørn Holm. ‘The one you killed.’

Harry nodded.

‘Does that mean you think we’re dealing with one now?’

‘As a result of this letter, we can’t rule out the possibility.’

‘Whoa there. Hold your horses!’ Skarre raised his palms. ‘How many times have you cried wolf since you became a celeb because of the Aussie stuff, Harry?’

‘Three times,’ Harry said. ‘At least.’

‘And still we haven’t seen a serial killer in Norway.’ Skarre glanced at Bratt as if to make sure she was following. ‘Is it because of that FBI course you did on serial killers? Is that what’s making you see them everywhere?’

‘Maybe,’ Harry said.

‘Let me remind you that apart from that nurse feller who gave injections to a couple of old fogeys, who were at death’s door anyway, we haven’t had a single serial killer in Norway. Ever. Those guys exist in the USA, but even there usually only in films.’

‘Wrong,’ said Katrine Bratt.

The others turned to face her. She stifled a yawn.

‘Sweden, France, Belgium, Britain, Italy, Holland, Denmark, Russia and Finland. And we’re only talking solved cases here. No one utters a word about hidden statistics.’

Harry couldn’t see Skarre’s flushed face in the dark, just the profile of his chin jutting forward aggressively in Bratt’s direction.

‘We haven’t even got a body, and I can show you a drawer full of letters like this one. People who are a lot nuttier than this . . . this . . . snowguy.’

‘The difference’, Harry said, getting up and strolling over to the window, ‘is that this headcase is thorough. The name Murri was never mentioned in the papers at the time. It was the nickname Robin Toowoomba used when he was a boxer with a travelling circus.’

The last of the daylight leaked out through a crack in the cloud cover. He looked at his watch. Oleg had insisted on going early so that they could take in Slayer as well.

‘Where we gonna begin then?’ Bjørn Holm mumbled.

‘Eh?’ Skarre said.

‘Where are we going to begin then?’ Holm repeated with exaggerated diction.

Harry went back to the desk.

‘Holm goes over Becker’s house and garden as if it were a murder scene. Check the mobile phone and the scarf in particular. Skarre, you make a list of ex-murderers, rapists, suspects in –’

‘—comparable cases and other scum on the loose,’ Skarre completed.

‘Bratt, you go through the missing persons reports and see if you can spot a pattern.’

Harry waited for the inevitable question: What type of pattern? But it was not forthcoming. Katrine Bratt just gave a brief nod.

‘OK,’ Harry said. ‘Get going.’

‘And you?’ Bratt asked.

‘I’m going to a gig,’ Harry said.

When the others had left the office, he looked down on his pad. At the only words he had jotted down.
Hidden statistics
.

Sylvia ran as fast as she could. She ran towards the trees where they were most dense, in the growing murk. She was running for her life.

She hadn’t tied up her boots, and now they were full of snow. She held the little hatchet in front of her as she burst through layer after layer of low, leafless branches. The blade was red and sleek with blood.

She knew the snow that had fallen yesterday had melted in town, but even though Sollihøgda was barely half an hour’s drive away, the snow could lie on the ground until spring up here. And right now she wished they had never moved to this godforsaken place, to this bit of wilderness by the town. She wished she were running on black tarmac, in a city where the noise drowned the sounds of escape and she could hide in the secure mass of humanity. But here she was completely alone.

No.

Not completely.

8

DAY 3.

Swan Neck.

S
YLVIA RAN INTO THE FOREST
. N
IGHT WAS ON THE WAY
. Usually she hated the way November evenings drew in so early, but today she thought the night couldn’t come soon enough. She sought the darkness in the depths of the forest, the darkness that could erase her footprints in the snow and conceal her. She knew her way around here; she could find her bearings so that she didn’t run back to the farm or straight into . . . into
its
arms. The problem was that the snow had changed the landscape overnight, covered the paths, the familiar rocks and levelled out all the contours. And the dusk . . . everything was distorted and disfigured by the blackness. And by her own panic.

She stopped to listen. Her heaving, rasping breathlessness rent the tranquillity; it sounded as if she were tearing the greaseproof paper wrapped round her daughters’ packed lunches. She managed to bring her breathing under control. All she could hear was the blood pounding in her ears and the low gurgle of a stream. The stream! They usually followed the stream when they were picking berries, setting traps or searching for chickens which in their heart of hearts they knew the fox had taken. The stream led down to a gravel road, and there sooner or later a car would pass.

She no longer heard any footsteps. No twigs cracking, no crunching of snow. Perhaps she had escaped? With her body hunched over, she moved swiftly towards the gurgling sounds.

The stream looked as though it was flowing over a white bed sheet through a depression in the forest floor.

Sylvia trampled straight in. The water, which reached mid-ankle, soon penetrated her boots. It was so cold that it froze her leg muscles. Then she began to run again. In the same direction as the water flowed. She made loud splashes as she lifted her legs for long, ground-gaining strides. No tracks, she thought triumphantly. And her pulse slowed, even though she was running.

That had to be a result of the hours she had spent on the treadmill at the fitness centre last year. She had lost six kilos and ventured to maintain that her body was in better shape than those of most thirty-five-year-olds. That was what he said anyway, Yngve, whom she had first met at the so-called inspiration seminar last year. Where she had been all too inspired. My God, if only she could turn back the clock. Back ten years. All the things she would have done differently! She wouldn’t have married Rolf. And she wouldn’t have had an abortion. Yes, of course, it was an impossible thought now that the twins had come into the world. But before they were born, before she had seen Emma and Olga, it would have been possible, and she wouldn’t have been in this prison that she had constructed around herself with such care.

She swept away the branches overhanging the stream, and from the corner of her eye she saw something, an animal, react with a startled movement and disappear into the grey gloom of the forest.

It went through her mind that she would have to be careful swinging her arms so that she didn’t hit her leg with the hatchet. Minutes had passed, but it felt like an eternity since she had been standing in the barn slaughtering chickens. She had cut off two heads and had been about to cut off a third when she heard the barn door creak behind her. Of course she had been alarmed; she was alone and hadn’t been aware of either footsteps or a car in the yard. The first thing she had noticed was the strange apparatus, a thin metal loop attached to a handle. It looked like the snares they used to catch foxes. And when the holder of this instrument began to talk, it slowly dawned on her that she was the prey, she was the one who was going to die.

She had been told why.

And she had listened to the sick but limpid logic as the blood slowed in her veins, as if it were already coagulating. Then she had been told how. In detail. And the loop had begun to glow, first red then white. That was when she had swung her arm in horror, felt the recently sharpened hatchet blade cut through the material under the raised arm, seen the jacket and sweater open as if she had unzipped them and seen the steel slice a red line through the bare skin. As the figure had staggered backwards and fallen on the floorboards slippery with chickens’ blood, she had raced to the door at the back of the barn. The one leading into the forest. Into the darkness.

The numbness had spread over her knees, and her clothes were soaked up to her navel. But she knew she would soon be on the gravel road. And from there it was no more than a quarter of an hour’s run to the nearest farm. The stream turned. Her left foot kicked something protruding from the water. There was a crack, it felt like someone had grabbed her foot, and the next moment Sylvia Ottersen was falling headlong. She landed on her stomach, swallowed water tasting of earth and rotten leaves, then pushed herself into a kneeling position. Once she knew she was still alone, and the first panic had passed, she discovered that her foot was trapped. She groped with her hand under the water expecting to find entwined tree roots around her foot, but instead her fingers felt something smooth and hard. Metal. A metal ring. Sylvie’s gaze scoured around for what she had kicked. And there on the snowy bank she saw it. It had eyes, feathers and a pale red cockscomb. She felt her terror mounting again. It was a severed chicken’s head. Not one of the heads she had just cut off, but one of the ones Rolf used. As bait. After writing to the local council that a fox had killed sixteen chickens last year, they had been given permission to set a limited number of fox traps – so-called swan necks – at a certain radius around the farm, well off the beaten track. The best place to hide traps was underwater with the bait sticking up. After the fox had taken the bait, the trap snapped shut, breaking the neck of the animal and killing it instantly. At least in theory. She felt with her hand. When they had bought the traps at Jaktdepotet in Drammen, they had said the springs were so strong that the jaws could break the leg of an adult, but she couldn’t feel any pain in her frozen foot. Her fingers found the thin steel wire attached to the swan neck. She wouldn’t be able to force open the trap without the lever, which was in the farm tool shed, and anyway they usually tied the swan neck to a tree with steel wire so that a half-dead fox, or anything else, would not be able to run off with the expensive equipment. Her hand traced the wire through the water and up onto the bank. There was the metal sign bearing their names, as per regulations.