The Snowman (34 page)

Bosse had evidently enjoyed the response he had received to the question of a regular woman, because he tried to maintain the thread by asking Harry – since he knew he was also single – if he didn’t long for a woman? Harry smirked and shook his head. But Bosse wouldn’t let it drop and asked if there was perhaps someone special he was kicking his heels waiting for.

‘No,’ Harry answered, short and sweet.

Usually this kind of rejection spurred Bosse to press further, but he knew he shouldn’t spoil the party. The Snowman. So he asked Harry if he could tell them about the case all Norway was talking about, the nation’s first real serial killer. Harry wriggled in his chair as if it were too small for his long body while summarising the chain of events in short, sculpted sentences. In recent years there had been some missing persons cases with obvious similarities. All the missing women had been in relationships, had children and there was no trace of a body.

Bosse assumed the grave expression which informed all and sundry that this was a flippancy-free zone.

‘This year Birte Becker disappeared from her home in Hoff, here in Oslo, under similar circumstances,’ Harry said. ‘And soon afterwards Silvia Ottersen was found dead in Sollihøgda outside Oslo. That was the first time we had found a body. Or at least parts of it.’

‘Yes, because you found her head, didn’t you?’ Bosse interjected. Warily informative for those not in the know, and blood and tabloid for those who were. He was so professional that Oda immediately swelled with satisfaction.

‘And then we found the body of a missing police officer outside Bergen.’ Harry ploughed on. ‘He’d been missing for twelve years.’

‘Iron Rafto,’ Bosse said.

‘Gert Rafto,’ Harry amended. ‘A few days ago we found the body of Idar Vetlesen in Bygdøy. Those are the only bodies we have.’

‘What would you say has been the worst aspect of this case?’ Oda could hear the impatience in Bosse’s voice, probably because Harry had neither taken the ‘head’ bait nor portrayed the murders in the gory detail he would have hoped.

‘So many years passing before we realised that there was a connection between the disappearances.’

Another dull answer. The floor manager signalled to Bosse that he had to start thinking about a link to the next topic.

Bosse pressed his fingertips together. ‘And now the case is solved and you’re a star again, Harry. How does it feel? Do you get fan mail?’ The disarming boyish smile. They were out of the flippancy-free zone.

The inspector nodded slowly and moistened his lips with concentration, as if how he phrased the answer was crucial. ‘Well, I got one letter earlier this autumn, but I’m sure Støp can say more about that.’

Close-up of Støp as he looked at Harry with mild curiosity. Two long, silent TV seconds followed. Oda chewed her lower lip. What did Harry mean? Then Bosse swept in and tidied up.

‘Yes, Støp does get a lot of fan mail, of course. And groupies. What about you, Hole? Have you got groupies, too? Do the police have their own groupies, as it were?’

The audience laughed cautiously.

Harry Hole shook his head.

‘Come on,’ Bosse said. ‘A female recruit must sometimes come and ask for a bit of extra tuition on body searches.’

The studio was really laughing now. With gusto. Bosse grinned with pleasure.

Harry Hole didn’t even crack a smile; he just looked resigned and cast a glance towards the exit. For one short, frantic moment Oda had visions of him getting up and leaving. Instead he turned to Støp in the chair beside him.

‘What do you do, Støp? When a woman comes to you after a lecture in Trondheim, saying she has only one breast, but she would like to have sex with you. Do you invite her for a bit of extra-curricular in your hotel room?’

The audience went deadly quiet, and even Bosse looked perplexed.

Only Arve Støp seemed to think the question was amusing. ‘No, I don’t think I would do that. Not because sex wouldn’t be fun with only one breast, but because the hotel beds in Trondheim are so narrow.’

The audience laughed, though without conviction, mostly from relief that the exchange had not been more embarrassing. The psychologist was introduced.

They talked about playful adults, and Oda noticed that Bosse was navigating the conversation away from Harry Hole. He must have decided that the unpredictable policeman was not on form today. And therefore Arve Støp, who definitely was on form, had even more airtime.

‘How do you play, Støp?’ Bosse asked with an innocent expression underlining the non-innocent subtext. Oda rejoiced – she had written that question.

But before Støp could answer, Harry Hole leaned forward and asked him in loud, clear tones. ‘Do you make snowmen?’

And that was when Oda knew that something was amiss. Hole’s peremptory, angry tone, the aggressive body language; Støp who raised an eyebrow in surprise as his face seemed to shrink and tense up. Bosse paused. Oda didn’t know what was going on, but counted four seconds, an eternity on live TV. Then she realised that Bosse knew what he was doing. For even though Bosse saw it as his duty to create a good atmosphere on the panel, he of course knew that the most important thing, his highest duty, was to entertain. And there is no better entertainment than people who are angry, lose control, cry, break down or in some other way display their feelings in front of a large audience on the air. Accordingly, he had simply let go of the reins and just looked at Støp.

‘Of course I make snowmen,’ Støp said after the four seconds were up. ‘I make them on the roof terrace beside my swimming pool. I make each one look like a member of the royal family. In that way – when spring comes – I can look forward to the unseasonable elements melting and disappearing.’

For the first time that evening Støp earned neither laughter nor applause. Oda thought Støp should have known that fundamentally anti-royalist comments never did.

Undaunted, Bosse broke the silence by introducing the pop star who was to talk about her recent onstage breakdown and then conclude the show by singing the single that would be released on Monday.

‘What the hell was that?’ asked Gubbe, the producer, who had taken up a position directly behind Oda.

‘Perhaps he isn’t sober after all,’ Oda said.

‘My God, he’s a bloody policeman!’

At that moment Oda remembered he was hers. Her scoop. ‘But, Jesus, can he deliver the goods.’

The producer didn’t answer.

The pop star talked about psychological problems, explained that they were inherited, and Oda looked at her watch. Forty seconds. This was too serious for a Friday night. Forty-three. Bosse interrupted after forty-six.

‘What about you, Arve?’ Bosse was usually on first-name terms with the main guest by the end of the broadcast. ‘Ever experienced madness or a serious hereditary illness?’

Støp smiled. ‘No, Bosse, I haven’t. Unless you count a craving for total freedom as an illness. In fact, it’s a family weakness.’

Bosse had come to round-up time, now he just had to sign off with the other guests before introducing the song. Final few words from the psychologist about the ludic in life. And then:

‘And as the Snowman’s no longer with us I suppose you’ll have time to play for a couple of days, Harry?’

‘No,’ Harry said. He had slumped so far down into his chair that his long legs almost reached over to the pop star. ‘The Snowman hasn’t been caught.’

Bosse frowned, smiled and waited for him to go on, waited for the punchline. Oda hoped to God it was better than his opening line promised.

‘I never said Idar Vetlesen was the Snowman,’ Harry said. ‘On the contrary. Everything points to the Snowman still being at large.’

Bosse gave a little chuckle. It was the laugh he used to smooth over a guest’s hapless attempt to be funny.

‘I hope for the sake of my wife’s beauty sleep that you’re joking now,’ Bosse said mischievously.

‘No,’ Harry said. ‘I’m not.’

Oda looked at her watch and knew the floor manager was standing behind the camera now, shifting nervously, as she ran a finger across her throat to show Bosse that they were running over and he would have to begin the song if they were to manage the first verse before the credits started rolling. But Bosse was the best. He knew that this was more important than all the singles in the world. Thus he ignored the raised baton and leaned forward in his chair to show those who might have been in any doubt about what this was. The scoop. The sensational announcement. Here on his, on their programme. The quaver in his voice was almost genuine.

‘Are you telling us here and now that the police have been lying, Hole? That the Snowman is out there and can take more lives?’

‘No,’ Harry said. ‘We haven’t been lying. New details have come to light.’

Bosse swivelled round in his chair, and Oda thought she could hear the technical director shouting for camera 1, and then Bosse’s face was there, the eyes staring straight at them.

‘And I would guess we’ll hear more about those details on the news tonight.
Bosse
is back next Friday. Thank you for watching.’

Oda closed her eyes as the band began to play the single.

‘Jesus,’ she heard the producer wheeze behind her. And then, ‘Jesus bloody Christ.’ Oda just felt like howling. Howling with pleasure. Here, she thought. Here at the North Pole. We aren’t
where
it happens. We
are
what happens.

22

DAY 18.

Match.

G
UNNAR
H
AGEN WAS STANDING INSIDE THE DOOR AT
Schrøder’s, scanning the room. He had set out from home exactly thirty-two minutes and three telephone conversations after the credits had rolled on
Bosse
. He hadn’t found Harry in his flat, at Kunstnernes Hus or in his office. Bjørn Holm had tipped him off that he might try Harry’s local, Schrøder’s. The contrast between the young, beautiful and almost-famous clientele at Kunstnernes Hus and Schrøder’s somewhat dissipated beer drinkers was striking. At the back, in the corner, by the window, alone at a table, sat Harry. With a large glass.

Hagen made his way to the table.

‘I’ve been trying to call you, Harry. Have you switched off your mobile?’

The inspector looked up, bleary-eyed. ‘There’s been so much hassle. Loads of bloody journos suddenly after me.’

‘At NRK they said the
Bosse
crew and guests usually went to Kunstnernes Hus after the programme.’

‘The press was standing outside waiting for me. So I cleared off. What do you want, boss?’

Hagen plumped down onto a chair and watched Harry raise the glass to his lips and the golden-brown liquid slip down into his mouth.

‘I’ve been talking to the Chief Super,’ Hagen said. ‘This is serious, Harry. Leaking that the Snowman is still at large is a direct breach of his orders.’

‘That’s right,’ Harry said, taking another swig.

‘Right? Is that all you’ve got to say? But in the name of all that’s sacred, Harry, why?’

‘The public has a right to know,’ Harry said. ‘Our democracy is built on openness, boss.’

Hagen banged his fist on the table and received a few encouraging looks from neighbouring tables and an admonitory glance from the waitress passing them with an armful of half-litre glasses.

‘Don’t mess with me, Harry. We’ve gone public and said the case was solved. You’ve put the force in a very bad light, are you aware of that?’

‘My job is to catch villains,’ Harry said. ‘Not to appear in a good light.’

‘It’s two sides of the same thing, Harry! Our working conditions are dependent on how the public perceives us. The press is crucial!’

Harry shook his head. ‘The press has never hindered or helped me in solving a single case. The press is crucial only for individuals who want to be in the limelight. The people you report to are just concerned with having concrete results that will give them a good press. Or prevent a bad press. I want to catch the Snowman, full stop.’

‘You’re a danger to your colleagues,’ Hagen said. ‘Do you know that?’

Harry seemed to be considering the statement, then nodded slowly, drained his glass and signalled to the waitress that he wanted another.

‘I’ve just been talking to the Chief Superintendent and the Chief Constable,’ Hagen said, bracing himself. ‘I was told to get hold of you instantly to muzzle you. From this very second. Understood?’

‘Fine, boss.’

Hagen blinked in amazement, but Harry’s face revealed nothing.

‘As of this moment, I’m going to be very hands-on, all the time,’ said the POB. ‘I want regular reports. I know that you won’t do that, so I’ve spoken to Katrine Bratt and given her the job. Any objections?’

‘None at all, boss.’

Hagen was thinking that Harry must have been drunker than he looked.

‘Bratt told me you’d asked her to go and see this assistant of Idar Vetlesen’s to check Arve Støp’s files. Without going through the public prosecutor. What the bloody hell are you two doing? Do you know what we would have been exposed to if Støp had found out?’

Harry’s head shot up like a watchful animal’s. ‘What do you mean by if he
had
found out?’

‘Fortunately there was no file on Støp. This secretary of Vetlesen’s said they never kept one.’

‘Oh? And why not?’

‘How should I know, Harry. I’m just relieved. We don’t want any more trouble now. Arve Støp, my God! Be that as it may, from now on Bratt will dog your every step so that she can report to me.’

‘Mm,’ Harry said, nodding to the waitress who set down another glass for him. ‘Hasn’t she already been informed?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When she started you told her I would be her . . .’ Harry stopped in his tracks.

‘Her what?’ Hagen snapped.

Harry shook his head.

‘What’s up? Something wrong?’