The Snowman

  “No,” Harry whispered with the last air he had left in his lungs. “Bergen’s not an end. Could you …”

  He looked up at her. Saw her dark eyes fill with tears.

  “It’s my period,” she whispered. Then she smiled. It happened so fast that it was like another person was standing above him, a person with an odd sheen to her eyes and a voice under complete control. “And you can just die.”

  In amazement, he heard the sound of her footsteps fading away, heard his own skeleton crack and red dots begin to dance in front of his eyes. He cursed, wrapped his hands around the iron bar and, with a roar, pushed. The bar wouldn’t budge.

  She was right; he could in fact die like that. He could choose. Funny, but true.

  He wriggled, tipped the bar to one side until he heard the weights slide off and hit the floor with a deafening clang. Then the bar hit the floor on the other side. He sat up and watched the weights careering around the room.

  Harry showered, dressed and went upstairs to the sixth floor. Fell into the swivel chair, already feeling the sweet ache of his muscles, which told him that he was going to be stiff in the morning.

  There was a message on his voice mail from Bjørn Holm telling him to call back ASAP.

  Holm picked up and there was the sound of heartrending sobs accompanied by the slide tones of a pedal steel guitar.

  “What is it?” Harry asked.

  “Dwight Yoakam,” Holm said, turning down the music. “Sexy bastard, ain’t he?”

  “I mean, what’s the call about?”

  “We’ve got the results for the Snowman letter.”

  “And?”

  “Nothing special as far as the writing’s concerned. Standard laser printer.”

  Harry waited. He knew Holm had something.

  “What’s special is the paper he used. No one at the lab here has seen this type before—that’s why it’s taken a bit of time. It’s made with mitsumata, Japanese papyrus-like bast fibers. You can probably tell mitsumata by the smell. They use the bark to make the paper by hand, and this particular sheet is extremely exclusive. It’s called Kono.”

  “Kono?”

  “You have to go to a specialty shop to buy it, the sort of place that sells fountain pens for ten thousand kroner, fine inks and leather-bound notebooks. You know …”

  “I don’t, in fact.”

  “Me neither,” Holm conceded. “But anyway, there is one shop on Gamle Drammensveien that sells Kono writing paper. I spoke to the owner and was told they rarely sold such things now, so it was unlikely they would reorder. People don’t have a sense of quality the way they used to, he reckoned.”

  “Does that mean …”

  “Yes, I’m afraid that means he couldn’t remember when he last sold any Kono paper.”

  “Mm. And this is the only dealer?”

  “Yes,” Holm said. “There was one in Bergen, but they stopped selling it a few years ago.”

  Holm waited for an answer—or, to be more precise, questions—as Dwight Yoakam, at low volume, yodeled the love of his life into her grave. But none came.

  “Harry?”

  “Yes. I’m thinking.”

  “Excellent!” said Holm.

  It was this slow inland humor that could make Harry chuckle long afterward, and even then without knowing why. But not at this moment. Harry cleared his throat.

  “I think it’s very odd that paper like this would be put into the hands of a murder investigator if you didn’t want it to be traced back to you. You don’t need to have seen many crime shows to know that we would check.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t know it was rare?” Holm suggested. “Perhaps he hadn’t bought it?”

  “Of course that’s a possibility, but something tells me that the Snowman wouldn’t slip up like that.”

  “But he has.”

  “I mean I don’t think it’s a slip,” Harry said.

  “You mean …”

  “Yes, I think he wants us to trace him.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s classic. The narcissistic serial killer staging a game, with himself in the principal role as the invincible, the all-powerful conqueror who triumphs in the end.”

  “Triumphs over what?”

  “Well,” Harry replied, saying it for the first time aloud, “at the risk of sounding narcissistic myself, me.”

  “You? Why?”

  “I have no idea. Perhaps because he knows I’m the only policeman in Norway who has caught a serial killer, he sees me as a challenge. The letter would suggest that—he refers to Toowoomba. I don’t know, Holm. By the way, have you got the name of the shop in Bergen?”

  “Flab speaking!”

  Or so it sounded. The word—flæsk—was articulated with Bergensian tones and gravity. That is, with a soft l, a long æ with a dip in the middle and a faint s. Peter Flesch, who voluntarily pronounced his name like the word for flab, was out of breath, loud and obliging. He was happy to talk; yes, he sold all types of antiques so long as they were small, but he specialized in pipes, lighters, pens, leather briefcases and stationery. Some used, some new. Most of his customers were regulars with an average age in line with his own.

  To Harry’s questions about Kono writing paper he answered, with regret in his voice, that he no longer had any such paper. Indeed, it had been several years since he had stocked it.

  “This might be asking a bit too much,” Harry said. “But since you have regular customers for the most part, is it possible that you might remember some of the ones who bought Kono paper?”

  “Some maybe. Møller. And old Kikkusæn from Møllaren. We don’t keep records, but my wife’s got a good memory.”

  “Perhaps you could write down the full names, rough age and the address of those you can remember and e-mail them—”

  Harry was interrupted by tut-tutting. “We don’t have e-mail, son. Not going to get it, either. You’d better give me a fax number.”

  Harry gave the Police HQ number. He hesitated. It was a sudden inspiration. But inspiration never came without a reason.

  “You wouldn’t by any chance have had a customer a few years back,” Harry said, “by the name of Gert Rafto, would you?”

  “Iron Rafto?” Peter Flesch laughed.

  “You’ve heard of him?”

  “The whole town knew who Rafto was. No, he wasn’t a customer here.”

  POB Møller always used to say that in order to isolate what was possible, you had to eliminate everything that was impossible. And that was why a detective should not despair, but be glad whenever he could discount a clue that did not lead to the solution. Besides, it had just been an idea.

  “Well, thank you anyway,” Harry said. “Have a good day.”

  “He wasn’t a customer,” Flesch said. “I was.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. He brought me bits and bobs. Silver lighters, gold pens. That sort of thing. Sometimes I bought them off him. That was before I realized where they came from …”

  “And where did they come from?”

  “Don’t you know? He stole them from crime scenes he worked on.”

  “But he never bought anything?”

  “Rafto didn’t have any need for the sort of thing that we had.”

  “But paper? Everyone needs paper, don’t they?”

  “Hm. Just a moment and I’ll have a word with my wife.”

  A hand was placed over the receiver, but Harry could hear shouting, then a slightly lower conversation. Afterward the hand was removed and Flesch trumpeted in elated Bergensian: “She thinks Rafto took the rest of the paper when we stopped selling it. For a broken silver penholder, she thinks. Helluva memory the wife has, you know.”

  Harry put down the telephone knowing he was on his way to Bergen.

  At nine o’clock that evening night lights were still burning on the first floor of Brynsalléen 6 in Oslo. From the outside, the six-story building looked like any commercial complex, with its modern red brick and gray steel faça
de. And for that matter inside, too, as most of the more than four hundred employees had jobs as engineers, IT specialists, social scientists, lab technicians, photographers and so on. But this was nevertheless “the national unit for the combating of organized and other serious crime,” generally referred to by its old name of Kriminalpolitisentralen, or in its abbreviated form, Kripos.

  Espen Lepsvik had just dismissed his men after reviewing their progress on the murder investigation. Only two people were left in the bare, harshly illuminated meeting room.

  “That was a bit thin,” Harry Hole said.

  “Nice way of saying zilch,” Espen Lepsvik said, massaging his eyelids with thumb and first finger. “Shall we go and have a beer while you tell me what you’ve unearthed?”

  Harry told him while Espen Lepsvik drove them to the center and Kafé Justisen, which was on the way home for both men. They sat at the table at the back of the busy café, frequented by everyone from beer-thirsty students to even thirstier lawyers and policemen.

  “I’m considering taking Katrine Bratt instead of Skarre to Bergen,” Harry said, sipping from a bottle of carbonated water. “I checked her employment record before coming here. She’s pretty green, but her file says that she worked on two murder cases in Bergen that I seem to remember you were sent over to lead.”

  “Bratt, yes, I remember her.” Espen Lepsvik grinned and raised his index finger for another beer.

  “Happy with her?”

  “Extremely happy. She’s … extremely … competent.” Lepsvik winked at Harry, who saw that the other man already had that glassy look of a tired detective with three beers inside him. “And if both of us hadn’t been married, I think I’d have had a chance with her.”

  He drained his glass.

  “I was wondering more if you thought she was stable,” Harry said.

  “Stable?”

  “Yes, there’s something about her … I don’t know quite how to explain it. Something intense.”

  “I know what you mean.” Espen Lepsvik nodded slowly as his eyes tried to focus on Harry’s face. “Her record’s unblemished. But between you and me I heard one of the guys over there say something about her and her husband.”

  Lepsvik searched for some encouragement in Harry’s face, found none, but continued anyway.

  “Something … you know … that she likes leather and rubber. S and M. Apparently went to that kind of club.”

  “That’s not my concern,” Harry said.

  “No, no, no, mine neither!” Lepsvik exclaimed, raising his hands in defense. “It’s just a rumor. And do you know what?” Lepsvik sniggered, leaning forward across the table, so that Harry could smell his beery breath. “She can dominate me any day.”

  Harry realized that there must have been something in his eyes because Lepsvik immediately seemed to regret his openness and beat a quick retreat to his side of the table. And went on in a more businesslike tone.

  “She’s a professional. Clever. Intense and committed. Insisted with a bit too much vehemence that I should help her with a couple of cold cases, I remember. But not at all unstable—more the opposite. She’s more the closed, sullen type. But there are lots like that. Yes, in fact I think you two could be a perfect team.”

  Harry smiled at the sarcasm and stood up. “Thanks for the tip, Lepsvik.”

  “What about a tip for me? Have you and she … got something going?”

  “My tip,” Harry said, throwing a hundred-krone note on the table, “is that you leave your car here.”

  14

  DAY 9

  Bergen

  At precisely 8:26, the wheels of Flight DY 604 touched down on the wet tarmac at Flesland Airport, Bergen. So hard that Harry was suddenly wide awake.

  “Sleep well?” Katrine asked.

  Harry nodded, rubbed his eyes and stared out at the rain-heavy dawn.

  “You were talking in your sleep,” she said with a smile.

  “Mm.” Harry didn’t want to ask about what. Instead he quickly went back over what he had been dreaming. Not about Rakel. He hadn’t dreamed about her for nights. He had banished her. Between them they had banished her. But he had dreamed about Bjarne Møller, his old boss and mentor, who had walked onto the Bergensian plateaus and been found in Lake Revurtjern two weeks later. It was a decision Møller had made because he—just like Zenon, with the sore big toe—didn’t think life was worth living any longer. Had Gert Rafto come to the same conclusion? Or was he really still out there somewhere?

  “I called Rafto’s ex-wife,” Katrine said as they were walking through the arrivals hall. “Neither she nor the daughter wants to talk to the police again—they don’t want to reopen old wounds. And that’s fine. The reports from that time are more than adequate.”

  They got into a taxi outside the terminal.

  “Lovely to be home?” Harry asked in a loud voice over the drumming of the rain and the rhythmic swish of the windshield wipers.

  Katrine shrugged indifferently. “I always hated the rain. And I hated Bergensians who maintained it didn’t rain here as much as eastern Norwegians made out.”

  They passed Danmarksplass, and Harry looked up at the top of Ulriken. It was covered with snow, and he could see the cable cars in motion. Then they drove through the viper’s nest of service roads by Store Lungegårdsvann Bay and reached the center, which for visitors was always a welcome surprise after the drab approach.

  They entered the SAS hotel by Bryggen on the harbor front. Harry had inquired whether she would stay with her parents, but Katrine had answered that for one night it would be too much stress—they would go to too much trouble, and in fact she hadn’t even told them she was coming.

  They were given key cards for their rooms, and in the elevator they were silent. Katrine looked at Harry and smiled as though silence in elevators were an implicit joke. Harry looked down, hoping his body wasn’t sending false signals. Or real ones.

  The doors finally slid open, and her hips sashayed down the corridor.

  “Lobby in five,” Harry said.

  “What’s the timetable?” he asked when they were sitting in the lobby six minutes later.

  Katrine leaned forward from the deep armchair and flipped through her leather-bound diary. She had changed into an elegant gray suit, which meant she immediately blended in with the hotel’s business clientele.

  “You meet Knut Müller-Nilsen, the head of the Missing Persons and Violent Crime Unit.”

  “You’re not coming with me?”

  “I’d have to say hello and talk to everyone, and the whole day would be wasted. In fact, it would be good if you didn’t mention my name at all. They’d just be pissed off that I hadn’t dropped by. I’m heading for Øyjordsveien to have a word with the last witness to see Rafto.”

  “Mm. And where was that?”

  “By the docks. The witness saw him leave his car and walk into Nordnes Park. No one returned for the car, and the area was gone over with a fine-toothed comb without yielding a thing.”

  “Then what do we do?” Harry ran his thumb and middle finger along his jaw, thinking he should have shaved before making a trip out of town.

  “You review the old reports with the detectives who were on the case and are still at the station. Get up to speed. Try to see it from a different angle.”

  “No,” Harry said.

  Katrine looked up from her diary.

  “The detectives at the time drew their own conclusions and will just defend them,” Harry explained. “I prefer to read the reports in peace and quiet in Oslo. And to spend my time here getting to know Gert Rafto a bit better. Can we see his possessions anywhere?”

  Katrine shook her head. “His family gave everything he owned to the Salvation Army. It wasn’t a great deal, apparently. Some furniture and clothes.”

  “What about where he lived or stayed?”

  “He lived alone in an apartment in Sandviken after his divorce, but it was sold ages ago.”

  “Mm. And there’s
no childhood home, country cottage or cabin that’s still in the family?”

  Katrine hesitated. “The reports mentioned a little cabin in the police summerhouse quarter, on the island of Finnøy in Fedje. The cabins stay in the family in such cases, so maybe we can see it. I’ve got Rafto’s wife’s telephone number. I’ll give her a call.”

  “I thought she wasn’t talking to the police.”

  Katrine winked at him with a sly grin.

  From the hotel reception Harry managed to borrow an umbrella, which turned inside out in the gusts before he got to Fisketorget—the harbor fish market—and looked like a tangled bat by the time he had jogged, head down, to the entrance of the Police HQ.

  While Harry was standing in reception, waiting for POB Knut Müller-Nilsen, Katrine called him to say that the cabin on Finnøy was still in the Rafto family’s hands.

  “But his wife hasn’t set foot there since the case. Nor her daughter, she thought.”

  “We’ll go there,” Harry said. “I’ll be done here by one o’clock.”

  “OK, I’ll get us a boat. Meet me at Zacharias wharf.”

  Knut Müller-Nilsen was a chuckling teddy bear with smiling eyes and hands the size of tennis rackets. The tall stacks of paper made him look as if he were snowed in at his desk, with his rackets folded behind his head.

  “Rafto, hmm,” Müller-Nilsen said, after explaining that it didn’t rain in Bergen as much as eastern Norwegians made out.

  “Seems like policemen have a tendency to slip through your fingers,” Harry said, holding up the photo of Gert Rafto that came with the reports in his lap.

  “Oh, yes?” Müller-Nilsen queried, looking at Harry, who had found a spindle-back chair in the one paper-free corner of the office.

  “Bjarne Møller,” Harry said.

  “Right,” said Müller-Nilsen, but the tentative delivery gave him away.

  “The officer who disappeared from Fløyen,” Harry said.

  “Of course!” Müller-Nilsen slapped his forehead. “Tragic business. He had only been here a short time so I didn’t manage to … The assumption was that he got lost, wasn’t it?”