The Snowman (Harry Hole Series)
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One night, after the year's first snowfall, a boy named Jonas wakes up and discovers that his mother has disappeared. Only one trace of her remains: a pink scarf, his Christmas gift to her, now worn by the snowman that inexplicably appeared in their yard earlier that day.
Inspector Harry Hole suspects a link between the missing woman and a suspicious letter he’s received. The case deepens when a pattern emerges: over the past decade, eleven women have vanished—all on the day of the first snow. But this is a killer who makes his own rules . . . and he’ll break his pattern just to keep the game interesting, as he draws Harry ever closer into his twisted web.
and switched on the TV. Crap on all the channels except NRK2, which was showing Memento. He had seen the film before. The story was told from the point of view of a man with brain damage and the short-term memory of a goldfish. A woman had been killed. The protagonist had written the name of the killer on a Polaroid, as he knew he would forget. The question was whether he could trust what he had written. Harry kicked off the duvet. The minibar under the TV had a brown door and no lock. He should
casually. ‘I was just driving by and had something for Oleg.’ ‘Why didn’t you knock?’ Harry swallowed. ‘I suddenly realised he wasn’t back from school yet.’ ‘Oh? How did you know that?’ Harry nodded to Mathias, as though bestowing approval for an apposite question. There wasn’t a shred of suspicion in Mathias’s friendly, open face, only a genuine desire to have something clarified that he couldn’t grasp. ‘The snow,’ Harry said. ‘The snow?’ ‘Yes. It stopped snowing two hours ago, and there
in grainy shots or voices on fuzzy telephone recordings. But now she was head of Krimteknisk, in Brynsalléen, and furthermore on maternity leave. The machines were buzzing, and the dry heat had put roses in her almost transparent, pale cheeks. ‘Hi,’ Harry said, letting the iron door close behind him. The small, agile woman got up and they hugged, both feeling a bit awkward. ‘You’re thin,’ she said. Harry shrugged. ‘How’s . . . everything going?’ ‘Greger sleeps when he has to, eats what he
love-sickness. Do you think he was?’ ‘I’ve no idea,’ Harry said. ‘I just know he’s one great product.’ She smiled down at him in gratitude and stooped to give him a kiss on the forehead. ‘We’ll never see each again, Hole.’ ‘Of course not,’ he said, sitting up in bed and staring at the bare wall until he heard the heavy door on to the street close behind her with a dull thud. Then he walked into the kitchen, turned on the tap and took down a glass from the top cupboard. While waiting for the
thousand kroners’ worth of Gucci or Dolce & Gabbana or . . . he had forgotten what the other brands were called. Harry had driven to the top of the Holmenkollen Ridge on the west side of town. He had parked his car at the sports centre, in the large deserted car park, and walked up Holmenkollen. There he had stood on the viewing promontory beside the ski jump where he and a couple of out-of-season tourists were peering across at the grandstands grinning emptily on both sides of the landing