The Snowman (53 page)

Harry studied the two dancers under the mirror. And everything clicked into place.

He knew why he had thought about Jonas. He knew what the sound had been. And he knew there wasn’t a second to lose. Or – he tried to repress the thought – there was no need to hurry any more. It was already too late.

Oleg hurried through the dark cellar corridor without looking left or right, knowing that the salt deposits on the brick walls were in the shape of white ghosts. He tried to concentrate on what he was going to do, tried not to think about anything else, not to let the wrong thoughts enter his mind. That was what Harry had said. It was possible to conquer the only monsters that existed, those inside your head. But you had to work at it. You had to confront them and fight with them as often as you could. Minor skirmishes which you could win. Then go home, bandage your wounds and try again. He had done it, he had been alone in the cellar many times, he had needed to be, of course, to make sure his skates were kept cold.

He grabbed the garden chair, dragged it after him for the noise to drown the silence. He checked that the cellar door was in fact locked. Then he wedged the chair under the handle and made sure it could not move. There we are. He stiffened. What was that? He looked up at the small window in the door. He couldn’t hold back the thoughts any longer, now they flooded in. Someone was standing outside. He wanted to run away, but forced himself to stand his ground. Fought against the thoughts with other thoughts. I’m on the inside, he told himself. I’m as secure here as up there. He breathed in, felt his heart pounding like a runaway bass drum. Then he leaned forward and peered at the window. He saw the reflection of his own face. But above that he saw another face, a distorted face that was not his. And he saw hands, monster hands being raised. Oleg backed away, terrified. Bumped into something and felt hands close around his face and mouth. He was unable to scream. For he wanted to scream. He wanted to scream that this was not in his mind, this was the monster, the monster was inside. And they were all going to die.

‘He’s in the house,’ Harry said.

The other officers looked at him with incomprehension as Harry pressed the redial button on the phone. ‘I thought it was Japanese music, but it was metal wind chimes. The kind Jonas has in his room. And which Oleg has, too. Mathias has been there all the time. He told me himself, didn’t he . . . ?’

‘What do you mean?’ the officer at the back ventured to ask.

‘He said he was at home. And that’s the house on Holmenkollveien now, of course. He even said he was on his way
down
to see Rakel and Oleg. I should have known. After all, Holmenkollen is up in relation to Torshov. He was on the first floor in Holmenkollveien. On his way down. We have to get them out of the house now. Answer for Christ’s sake!’

‘Perhaps she’s not near –’

‘There are four telephones in the house. He’s just cut the connection now. I have to get there.’

‘We can send another patrol car,’ the driver said.

‘No!’ Harry snapped. ‘It’s too late anyway. He’s got them. And the only chance we have is the final pawn. Me.’

‘You?’

‘Yes. I’m part of his plan.’

‘You’re
not
part of his plan, you mean, don’t you?’

‘No. I am part. He’s waiting for me.’

The two policemen exchanged glances as they heard the bleat of a motorbike worming its way forward between the stationary cars behind them.

‘You think he is?’

‘Yes,’ Harry said, catching sight of the bike in the wing mirror. Thinking this was the only answer he could give. Because it was the only answer that gave any hope.

Oleg struggled with all his might, but went limp in the monster’s iron grip when he felt the cold steel on his throat.

‘This is a scalpel, Oleg.’ The monster had Mathias’s voice. ‘We use it to dissect people. And you wouldn’t believe how easy it is.’

Then the monster told him to open wide, shoved a filthy cloth in his mouth and ordered him to lie on his stomach with his arms behind his back. As Oleg didn’t obey at once the steel was thrust in under his ear and he felt hot blood coursing over his shoulder and down the inside of his T-shirt. He lay on his stomach on the freezing cement floor, and the monster sat on top of him. A red box fell beside his face. He read the label. Plastic ties, the kind of thin ties you saw around cables and on toy packaging, which were so irritating because they could only be tightened, not loosened, and they couldn’t be pulled apart however thin they were. He felt the sharp plastic cut into the skin around his wrists and ankles.

Then he was lifted up and dropped and there was no time to wait for the pain as he landed softly, with a crunch. He stared up. He was lying on his back in the freezer; he could feel the ice that had broken off burn the skin on his forearms and face. Above him stood the monster with his head angled to one side.

‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘We’ll meet on the other side before very long.’

The lid was slammed down and there was total darkness. Oleg could hear the key being turned in the lock and swift steps fading into the distance. He tried to lift his tongue, tried to get it behind the cloth, had to get it out. Had to breathe. Had to have air.

Rakel had stopped breathing. She stood in the bedroom doorway knowing that what she saw was insanity. An insanity that made her flesh creep, her mouth drop and her eyes bulge.

The bed and other furniture had been pushed against the walls, and the floor was covered by an almost invisible surface of water that was only broken when a new drop fell on it. But Rakel didn’t notice; the only thing she saw was the enormous snowman dominating the centre of the room.

The top hat on the head with the grinning mouth almost touched the ceiling.

When she finally recovered her breathing and the oxygen rushed to her brain she recognised the smell of wet wool and wet wood and heard the sound of melting snow dripping. A wave of cold surged towards her, but this was not what gave her goose pimples. It was the body heat of the man standing behind her.

‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ Mathias said. ‘I’ve made it just for you.’

‘Mathias . . .’

‘Shh.’ He placed a kind of protective arm around her throat. She looked down. The hand was holding a scalpel. ‘Don’t talk, my love. There’s so much to do and so little time.’

‘Why? Why?’

‘This is our day, Rakel. The rest of life is so unbelievably short, so let’s celebrate, not waste time explaining. Please put your arms behind your back.’

Rakel did as he said. She hadn’t heard Oleg come up from the cellar. Perhaps he was still in the cellar; perhaps he could get out if she could just detain Mathias. ‘I’d like to know why,’ she said and could hear emotion tugging at her vocal cords.

‘Because you’re a whore.’

She felt something thin and hard tighten around her wrists. Felt his warm breath on her neck. His lips. And then his tongue. She gritted her teeth, knowing that if she screamed he might stop and she wanted him to go on, to waste time. The tongue worked its way round and up to her ear. A little nibble.

‘And the son from your whoring is in the freezer,’ he whispered.

‘Oleg?’ she said, feeling herself lose control.

‘Relax, my darling, he won’t die of cold.’

‘Wo-won’t he?’

‘Long before his body has cooled down the son of a whore will have died from asphyxiation. It’s simple mathematics.’

‘Mathema –’

‘I did the calculations ages ago. It’s all calculated.’

A revving motorbike skidded up the winding roads of Holmenkollen in the dark. The roar reverberated between the houses and onlookers considered it madness in these snowy conditions. The rider should have his licence taken off him. But the rider didn’t have one.

Harry accelerated up the drive to the black timber house, but in the sharp turn the wheels spun on the fresh snow and he felt the bike losing speed. He didn’t try to correct the skid, he jumped off and the bike rolled down the slope, burst through a few low spruce branches before coming to a halt against a tree trunk, tipped onto its side and, spitting snow from the back wheel, breathed its last.

By then Harry was already halfway up the steps.

There were no footprints in the snow, neither to nor from the house. He took out his revolver as he bounded up to the door.

It was unlocked. As promised.

He slipped into the hall and the first thing he saw was the cellar door wide open.

Harry stopped to listen. There was a noise, a kind of drumming. It seemed to be coming from the kitchen. Harry hesitated. Then he opted for the cellar.

With his revolver pointing in front of him he sidled down the staircase. At the bottom he stopped to let his eyes get accustomed to the dark and listened. He had a sense that the whole room was holding its breath. He spotted the garden chair under the door handle. Oleg. His eyes delved further. He had decided to go upstairs again when his attention was caught by the dark stain on the brick floor by the freezer. Water? He took a step closer. It must have come from under the freezer. He forced his thoughts away from where they wanted to go and pulled at the lid. Locked. The key was in, but Rakel didn’t usually lock the freezer. Images from Finnøy emerged in his brain, but he hurried, twisted the key and lifted the lid.

Harry just caught the glint of metal from the murky depths before a burning pain in his face made him throw himself backwards. A knife? He had fallen on his back between two dirty-laundry baskets and a figure, speedy and nimble, was already out of the freezer and standing over him.

‘Police!’ Harry shouted and quickly raised his gun. ‘Don’t move!’

The figure stopped with one hand raised over his head. ‘H-Harry?’

‘Oleg?’

Harry lowered the revolver and saw what the boy was holding in his hand. A speed skate.

‘I . . . I thought Mathias had come back,’ he whispered.

Harry got to his feet. ‘Where is Mathias?’

‘I don’t know. He said we would meet soon, so I assumed . . .’

‘Where did the skate come from?’ Harry tasted metallic blood in his mouth and his fingers found the cut on his face, which was bleeding profusely.

‘It was in the freezer.’ Oleg gave a sly grin. ‘I was getting so much hassle for leaving the skates on the steps, so I keep them under the peas where Mum won’t see them. We never eat peas, as you know.’

He followed Harry who was already on his way up the stairs.

‘Luckily I’d had the blades sharpened, so I could cut the ties. The lock was impossible, but I managed to stab a couple of holes in the plate at the bottom to get some air. And I smashed the bulb so that the light wouldn’t come on when he opened the lid.’

‘And your body heat melted the ice that ran out of the hole,’ Harry said.

They emerged in the hall, and Harry pulled Oleg over to the front door, opened it and pointed.

‘See the neighbours’ light? Run over and stay there until I come and get you. OK?’

‘No!’ said Oleg firmly. ‘Mum –’

‘Shh! Now listen. The best thing you can do for your mum right now is to get away from here.’

‘I want to find her!’

Harry grabbed Oleg’s shoulders and squeezed until tears of pain formed in the boy’s eyes.

‘When I say run, you run, you bloody idiot.’

He said it in a low voice but with such repressed fury that Oleg blinked in confusion and a tear rolled over his eyelashes and onto his cheek. Then the boy turned on his heel, rushed out of the door and was swallowed up by the darkness and the driving snow.

Harry grabbed the walkie-talkie and pressed the talk button. ‘Harry here. Are you far away?’

‘We’re by the stadium. Over.’ Harry recognised Gunnar Hagen’s voice.

‘I’m inside,’ Harry said. ‘Drive up to the front of the house, but don’t enter until I say. Over.’

‘Roger.’

‘Over and out.’

Harry went towards the sound that was still coming from the kitchen. From the doorway he stood watching the thin stream of water falling from the ceiling. It had been tinted grey by the dissolved plaster and was drumming furiously on the kitchen table.

Harry took the staircase to the first floor in four long strides. Tiptoed to the bedroom door. Swallowed. Studied the door handle. From outside he could hear the distant sound of police sirens approaching. Blood from his cut dripped onto the parquet floor with a gentle plop.

He could feel it now, as pressure on his temples; this was where it would end. And there was a kind of logic to it. How many times had he stood like this in front of the bedroom door, at daybreak, after a night when he had promised to be at home with her, how often had he stood there with a bad conscience knowing she was inside asleep? Carefully he pressed the door handle which he knew would creak halfway down. And she would wake up, look at him with sleepy eyes, try to punish him with her glare, until he slipped under the duvet, snuggled up to her body and felt its stiff resistance melt. And she would grunt with pleasure, but not too much pleasure. And then he would stroke her more, kiss and nibble at her, be her servant until she was sitting on him, no longer the queen in her slumbers, but purring and moaning, wanton and offended at the same time.

He closed his fist around the handle, noticed how his hand recognised the flat angular shape. He pressed with infinite care. Waited for the familiar creak. But it was not forthcoming. Something was different. There was resistance. Had someone tightened the springs? Gingerly, he let go. Stooped down to the keyhole and tried to peep in. Black. Someone had blocked the hole.

‘Rakel!’ he shouted. ‘Are you there?’

No answer. He placed his ear against the door. Thought he could hear a scratching sound, but wasn’t sure. He held the handle again. Wavered. Changed his mind, let go and hastened into the adjacent bathroom. Pushed open the little window, forced his body through and leaned out backwards. Light was streaming from between the black iron bars of the bedroom window. He wedged his heels against the inside of the frame, tensed his leg muscles and stretched out of the bathroom and along the outside wall. His fingers groped in vain to find a hold between the rough logs as the snow settled on his face and melted into the blood running down his cheek. He applied greater force; the window frame was pressing into his leg so hard it felt as if the bone would crack. His hands crept along the wall like frenetic five-legged spiders. His stomach muscles ached. But it was too far, he couldn’t reach. He stared down at the ground beneath him, knowing that under the thin layer of snow there was tarmac.