The Snowman (43 page)

‘Cocktail case?’

‘Someone with a bit of everything. Schizophrenic enough to hear voices, but capable of concealing her illness from those around her. Obsessive-compulsive personality disorder mixed with a dash of paranoia, which creates delusions about the situation she is in and what she has to do to escape, but which to the outside world is simply perceived as a certain reticence. The bestial fury that emerges during the murders you describe tallies with a borderline personality, though one which can control its fury.’

‘Mm. In other words, you haven’t a clue?’

Aune laughed. The laughter degenerated into a coughing fit.

‘I’m sorry, Harry,’ he growled. ‘Most cases are like this. In psychology we have set up a number of corrals that our cattle refuse to be herded into. They’re nothing less than impudent, ungrateful, muddle-headed creatures. Think of all the research we’ve done for them!’

‘There’s something else. When we stumbled on the body of Gert Rafto she was genuinely frightened. I mean, she wasn’t acting. I could see the shock; her pupils were still enlarged and black even though I was shining the torch straight into her face.’

‘Aha! This is interesting.’ Aune levered himself up higher. ‘Why did you shine the torch in her face? Did you suspect something even then?’

Harry didn’t answer.

‘You may be right,’ Aune said. ‘She may have repressed the murders; that is by no means untypical. You’ve told me that in fact she has been a great help in the investigation and hasn’t sabotaged it. That may suggest she has a suspicion about herself and a genuine desire to uncover the truth. How much do you know about noctambulism, to wit, sleepwalking?’

‘I know that people can walk in their sleep. Talk in their sleep. Eat, get dressed and even go out and drive a car in their sleep.’

‘Correct. The conductor Harry Rosenthal conducted and sang the parts of instruments for entire symphonies in his sleep. And there have been at least five murder cases in which the murderer has been acquitted because the court determined that he or she was a parasomniac, that is, a sufferer of sleep disorders. There was a man in Canada who, some years ago, got up, drove more than twenty kilometres, parked, killed his mother-in-law with whom he generally had an excellent relationship, almost strangled his father-in-law, drove home and went back to bed. He was acquitted.’

‘You mean she might have killed in her sleep? That she’s one of these parasomniacs?’

‘It’s a controversial diagnosis. But imagine a person who regularly goes into a hibernation-like state and is subsequently unable to remember with any clarity what they have done. Someone who has a blurred, fragmented image of events, like a dream.’

‘Mm.’

‘And suppose that this woman in the course of the investigation has begun to realise what she has done.’

Harry nodded slowly. ‘And realises that to get away she needs a scapegoat.’

‘It’s conceivable.’ Ståle Aune pulled a face. ‘However, most things are conceivable as far as the human psyche is concerned. The problem is that we cannot see the disorders we’re talking about; we have to assume they exist based on the symptoms.’

‘Like mould.’

‘What?’

‘What makes a person like this woman so psychologically sick?’

Aune groaned. ‘Everything in existence! And nothing! Nature and nurture.’

‘A violent, alcoholic father?’

‘Yes, yes, yes. Ninety points for that. Add a mother with a psychiatric history, a traumatic experience or two in her childhood and you have the round hundred.’

‘Does it seem likely that if she had become stronger than her violent, alcoholic father she would try to hurt him? Kill him?’

‘By no means impossible. I remember a ca –’ Ståle Aune stopped mid-word. Stared at Harry. Then leaned forward and whispered with a gleam dancing wildly in his eyes. ‘Are you saying what I think you’re saying?’

Harry Hole studied his fingernails. ‘I was given a photo of a man at Bergen Police Station. It struck me there was something strangely familiar about him, as if I had met him before. It’s only now that I understand why. It was the family likeness. Before Katrine Bratt got married her name was Rafto. Gert Rafto was her father.’

On his way to the airport express train Harry received a call from Skarre. He had been mistaken. They hadn’t found her mobile phone in the toilet; it had been on the luggage rack in one of the coaches.

Eighty minutes later he was enshrouded in grey. The captain announced low-lying clouds and rain in Bergen. Zero visibility, Harry thought. They were flying on instruments alone now.

The front door was torn open seconds after Thomas Helle, from the Missing Persons Unit, had pressed the doorbell over the sign reading
Andreas, Eli and Trygve Kvale
.

‘Thank the Lord you came so quickly.’ The man standing in front of Helle looked over his shoulder. ‘Where are the others?’

‘There’s just me. You still haven’t heard anything from your wife?’

The man, whom Helle presumed was the Andreas Kvale who had rung HQ, stared at him in amazement. ‘She’s gone, I told you.’

‘We know, but they usually come back.’

‘Who’s
they
?’

Thomas Helle sighed. ‘May I come in, herr Kvale? This rain . . .’

‘Oh, sorry! Please . . .’ The man in his fifties stepped aside, and in the gloom behind him Helle caught sight of a dark-haired lad in his twenties.

Thomas Helle decided to do the business standing in the hallway. They barely had enough staff to man the phones today; it was a Sunday and those that were on duty were out searching for Katrine Bratt. One of their own. It was all hush-hush, but the rumours going round suggested she might be involved in the Snowman case.

‘How did you discover she was missing?’ Helle asked, getting ready to take notes.

‘Trygve and I have just returned from a camping trip in Nordmarka today. We’ve been away for two days. No mobile phone, just fishing rods. She wasn’t here, no messages, and, as I said on the phone, the door was unlocked. It’s always locked, even when she’s at home. My wife is a very anxious woman. And none of her coats has been touched. Nor her shoes. Only her slippers. In this weather . . .’

‘Have you rung everyone she knows? Including the neighbours?’

‘Of course. No one has heard from her.’

Thomas Helle took notes. A feeling had already made its presence known; a feeling of recognition. Missing wife and mother.

‘You said your wife was an anxious woman,’ he said. ‘So who might she have opened the door to? And who might she have let in?’

He saw father and son exchange glances.

‘Not too many people,’ the father said with conviction. ‘It must have been someone she knew.’

‘Or someone she didn’t feel threatened by, maybe,’ Helle said. ‘Like a child or a woman?’

Andreas Kvale nodded.

‘Or someone with a plausible reason for coming in. Someone from the electricity board to read the meter, for example.’

The husband hesitated. ‘Perhaps.’

‘Have you seen anything unusual around the house?’

‘Unusual? What do you mean?’

Helle bit his lower lip. Braced himself. ‘Something that may resemble a . . . snowman?’

Andreas Kvale looked at his son, who energetically shook his head, petrified.

‘Just so that we can eliminate that from our inquiries,’ Helle said conversationally.

The son said something. In a low mumble.

‘What?’ Helle asked.

‘He said there isn’t any more snow.’

‘No, of course not.’ Helle stuffed his notepad in his jacket pocket. ‘I’ll radio the patrol cars. If she hasn’t turned up by this evening we’ll intensify the search. In ninety-nine per cent of cases she’ll have found her way home by then. So this is my card . . .’

Helle felt Andreas Kvale’s hand on his upper arm.

‘There’s something I want to show you, officer.’

Thomas Helle followed Kvale through a door at the end of the hall, down a staircase into the cellar. He opened a door to a room which smelt of soap and clothes hanging out to dry. In the corner stood an old-fashioned clothes mangle beside an Electrolux washing machine of older vintage. The brick floor sloped down to a drain in the middle. The floor was wet and there was water on the wall, as though the floor had recently been sluiced with the green hosepipe lying there. But that was not primarily what attracted Thomas Helle’s attention. It was the garment hanging on the washing line, attached with a clothes peg at each shoulder. Or to be precise: what was left of it. It had been cut off under the chest. The edge was crooked and black with burnt, shrivelled threads of cotton.

29

DAY 20.

Tear Gas.

T
HE RAIN LEAKED THROUGH THE HEAVENS DOWN ONTO
Bergen, which lay bathed in the blue afternoon dusk. The boat Harry had reserved was ready at the quayside by the foot of Puddefjord Bridge when Harry’s taxi stopped outside the boat-hire firm.

The boat was a well-used twenty-seven-foot Finnish cabin cruiser.

‘I’m going fishing,’ Harry said, pointing to the nautical chart. ‘Any submerged rocks or anything I ought to know about if I go here?’

‘Finnøy island?’ said the boat-hire man. ‘Take a rod with a sinker and a spinner, but fishing’s poor out there.’

‘Soon find out, won’t I. How do you start this thing?’

As Harry chugged past Nordnes headland in the gathering gloom he could make out the totem pole among the bare trees in the park. The sea lay flat under the rain, which whipped up the surface and made it foam. Harry thrust the lever next to the wheel forward, the bow lifted – he had to take a step back for balance – and the boat powered away.

A quarter of an hour later Harry pulled the lever back and swung in towards a quay, on the far side of Finnøy, hidden from Rafto’s cabin. He moored the boat, took out the fishing rod and listened to the rain. Fishing was not his thing. The spinner was heavy, the hook got snagged at the bottom and Harry pulled up seaweed that swirled round the rod as he tugged. He freed the hook and cleaned it. Then he tried to drop the spinner in the water again, but something in the reel had locked and the spinner hung twenty centimetres under the tip of the rod and would neither go up nor down. Harry looked at his watch. If someone had been alerted by the throb of the boat engine they would have relaxed by now and he had to get this done before dark. He placed the rod on the seat, opened his bag, removed the revolver, opened the box of bullets and eased them into the chamber. Stuffed the Thermos-like CS canisters in his pockets and went ashore.

It took him five minutes to reach the top of the deserted island and descend to the cabins boarded up for the winter on the other side. Rafto’s cabin stood before him, dark and uninviting. He found a place on a rock twenty metres away from which he had a full view of all the doors and windows. The rain had seeped through the shoulders of his green military jacket a long time ago. He took out one of the CS canisters and removed the safety pin. In five seconds the spring-loaded valve would discharge and the gas would begin to hiss out. He ran towards the cabin with the canister held in his outstretched arm and hurled it at the window. The glass smashed, making a thin tinkling sound. Harry retreated to the rock and raised his revolver. Above the rain he could hear the canister hissing and he could see the inside of the window turning grey.

If she was there she wouldn’t be able to stand more than a few seconds.

He took aim. Waited with the cabin in his sights.

After two minutes still nothing had happened.

Harry waited for two more.

Then he prepared the second canister, walked towards the door with gun raised and tried the door. Locked. Flimsy though. He stepped back four paces and ran.

The door split off along the hinges, and he plunged into the smoke-filled room, right shoulder first. The gas immediately assailed his eyes. Harry held his breath as he groped his way to the cellar trapdoor, flipped it up, pulled out the safety pin of the second canister and let it fall. Then he ran out again. Found a pool of water and sank to his knees with streaming nose and eyes, put his head in with both eyes open, as deep as he could, until his nose scraped the stones. Twice he repeated the shallow dip. His nose and palate still smarted like hell, but his eyes had cleared. He pointed the revolver towards the hut again. Waited. And waited.

‘Come on! Come on, you bloody bitch!’

But no one came out.

After a quarter of an hour the smoke had stopped issuing from the hole in the pane. Harry went back down to the cabin and kicked open the door. Coughed and cast a final glance inside. Wasteland wreathed in mist. Flying on instruments. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

As he walked back to the boat it had become so dark that he knew he was going to have visibility problems. He untied the moorings, went on board and grasped the starter lever. A thought went through his mind: he hadn’t slept for nearly thirty-six hours, hadn’t eaten since early morning, was drenched to the skin and had flown to fucking Bergen for absolutely nothing. If this engine didn’t start first go he would pepper the hull with 38-mil lead and swim ashore. The engine started with a roar. Harry almost thought it was a shame. He was just about to push the lever forward when he saw her.

She was standing right in front of him on the steps leading down below deck. Nonchalantly leaning against the door frame, in a grey sweater over a black dress.

‘Hands up,’ she ordered.

It sounded so childish it seemed almost a joke. The black revolver pointing at him was not. Nor was the threat that followed. ‘If you don’t do as I say I’ll shoot you in the stomach, Harry. Which will smash the nerves in your back and paralyse you. Then one in the head. But let’s start with the stomach . . .’

The gun barrel was lowered.

Harry let go of the wheel and the lever and put up his hands.