The Snowman (28 page)

Skarre rang off.

‘A woman up in Tveita’s been reported missing by her husband. Camilla Lossius, twenty-nine years old, married, no children. It only came in a couple of hours ago, but there are a few worrying details. There’s a shopping bag on the worktop, nothing has been put in the fridge. The mobile phone was left in the car, and according to the husband she never goes anywhere without it. And one of the neighbours told the husband she saw a man hanging around their property and garage as if waiting for someone. The husband can’t say whether anything’s missing, not even toiletries or suitcases. These are the types who have a villa outside Nice and so many possessions they don’t notice if something’s gone missing. Understand what I mean?’

‘Mm,’ Harry said. ‘What does the Missing Persons Unit think?’

‘That she’ll turn up. They just wanted to keep us posted.’

‘OK,’ Harry said. ‘Let’s go on then.’

No one commented on the report for the rest of the meeting. However, Harry could feel it was in the air, like the rumble of distant thunder that might – or might not – come closer. After being allocated names off the call list, the group dispersed from Harry’s office.

Harry went back to the window and gazed down at the park. The evenings were drawing in earlier and earlier; it was almost tangible as the days passed. He thought about Idar Vetlesen’s mother when he had told her about the free medical help he had given to African prostitutes in the evenings. And for the first time she had dropped her mask – not in grief but fury – and screamed it was lies, her son did not tend Negro whores. Perhaps it was better to lie. Harry thought about what he had told the Chief Superintendent the day before, that the bloodbath was over for the time being. In the gathering darkness beneath him he could just make it out under his window. The kindergarten classes often played there, especially if snow had fallen, as it had done last night. At least that was what he had thought when he saw it on his way to work this morning. It was a big greyish-white snowman.

Above the
Liberal
editorial offices in Aker Brygge, on the top floor with a view of Oslo fjord, Akershus Fortress and the village of Nesoddtangen, are situated 230 of Oslo’s most expensive privately owned square metres. They belong to the owner and editor of
Liberal
, Arve Støp. Or just Arve, as it said on the door where Harry rang the bell. The stairway and landing had been decorated in a functional, minimalist style, but there was a hand-painted jug on either side of the oak door, and Harry caught himself wondering what the net gain would be if he made off with one of them.

He had rung once and now at last he could hear voices inside. One was a bright twitter, and one deep and calm. The door opened and a woman’s laughter tinkled out. She was wearing a white fur hat – synthetic, Harry assumed – from which cascaded long blonde hair.

‘I’m looking forward to it!’ she said, turning and only then catching sight of Harry.

‘Hello,’ she said in a neutral tone, until recognition caused her to replace it with an enthusiastic ‘Well, hi!’

‘Hi,’ said Harry.

‘How are you?’ she asked, and Harry could see she had just recalled their last conversation. The one that ended against the black wall in Hotel Leon.

‘So you and Oda know each other?’ Arve Støp stood in the hallway with his arms crossed. He was barefoot and wearing a T-shirt with a barely perceptible Louis Vuitton logo and green linen trousers that would have looked feminine on any other man. For Arve Støp was almost as tall and broad as Harry and had a face an American presidential candidate would have killed for: determined chin, boyish blue eyes edged with laughter lines and thick grey hair.

‘We’ve just exchanged greetings,’ Harry said. ‘I was on their talk show once.’

‘I have to run, guys,’ Oda said, imparting air-kisses on the hoof. Her footsteps drummed down the stairs as if her life depended on it.

‘Yes, this was about that bloody talk show, too,’ Støp said, beckoning Harry in and grasping his hand. ‘My exhibitionism is approaching pathetic levels, I’m afraid. This time I didn’t even ask what the topic was before agreeing to take part. Oda was here doing her research. Well, you’ve done this, so you know how they work.’

‘In my case, they just phoned,’ Harry said, still feeling the heat from Støp’s hand on his skin.

‘You sounded very serious on the telephone, Hole. What can a miserable journalist help you with?’

‘It’s about your doctor and curling colleague, Idar Vetlesen.’

‘Aha! Vetlesen. Of course. Shall we go in?’

Harry wriggled out of his boots and followed Støp down the corridor to a living room which was two steps lower than the rest of the apartment. One look was enough to know where Idar had found the inspiration for his waiting room. The moonlight glittered on the fjord outside the window.

‘You’re running a kind of a priori investigation, I understand?’ Støp said, flopping into the smallest item of furniture, a single moulded plastic chair.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Harry said, sitting on the sofa.

‘You’re starting with the solution and working backwards to find out how it happened.’

‘Is that what a priori means?’

‘God knows, I just like the sound of Latin.’

‘Mm. And what do you think of our solution? Do you believe it?’

‘Me?’ Støp laughed. ‘I don’t believe anything. But that’s my profession of course. As soon as something begins to resemble an established truth, it’s my job to argue against it. That’s what liberalism is.’

‘And in this case?’

‘Oof. I can’t see that Vetlesen had any rational motive. Or was crazy in a way that would defy standard definitions.’

‘So you don’t think Vetlesen is the murderer?’

‘Arguing against the belief that the world is round is not the same as believing it to be flat. I assume you have evidence. An alcoholic beverage? Coffee?’

‘Yes, coffee, please.’

‘I was teasing,’ Støp smiled. ‘I’ve only got water and wine. No, I tell a lie, I’ve got some sweet cider from Abbediengen Farm. And you have to taste that whether you want to or not.’

Støp scuttled into a kitchen and Harry stood up to inspect his surroundings.

‘Quite an apartment you’ve got here, Støp.’

‘It was in fact three apartments,’ Støp shouted from the kitchen. ‘One belonged to a successful shipowner who hanged himself out of boredom more or less where you’re sitting now. The second, where I am, belonged to a stockbroker who was banged up for insider trading. He found deliverance in prison, sold the apartment to me and gave all the money to an Inner Mission preacher. But that’s a kind of insider trading too, if you know what I mean. Still, I’ve heard the man is a lot happier now, so why not?’

Støp came into the living room carrying two glasses with pale yellow contents. He passed one to Harry.

‘The third apartment was owned by a plumber from Østensjø who decided when they were planning the Aker Brygge harbour area that this was where he would live. A kind of class journey, I guess. After scrimping and saving – or working in the black market and overcharging – for ten years, he bought it. But it cost so much he couldn’t afford a removal firm and did the move himself with a couple of pals. He had a safe weighing four hundred kilos. I suppose he must have needed it for all his black market money. They had reaching the final landing and there were only eighteen steps left when the infernal safe slipped. The plumber was dragged under it, broke his back and was paralysed. Now he lives in a nursing home in the area he came from, with a view of Lake Østensøvann.’ Støp stood by the window, drank from his glass and gazed thoughtfully across the fjord. ‘True it’s only a lake, but it’s still a view.’

‘Mm. We were wondering about your connection with Idar Vetlesen.’

Støp spun round theatrically, as nimble in his movements as a twenty-year-old. ‘Connection? That’s a damned strong word. He was my doctor. And we happened to curl together. That is,
we
curled. What Idar did can at best be described as pushing a stone and cleaning the ice.’ He waved his hand dismissively. ‘Yeah, yeah, I know, he’s dead, but that’s how it was.’

Harry put the glass of cider on the table untouched. ‘What did you talk about?’

‘By and large about my body.’

‘Uh-huh?’

‘He was my doctor for Christ’s sake.’

‘And you wanted to change bits of your body?’

Arve Støp laughed heartily. ‘I’ve never felt a need for any of that. Of course I know that Idar performed these ridiculous plastic surgery operations, liposuction and all that, but I recommend prevention rather than repair. I play sport, Inspector. Don’t you like the cider?’

‘It contains alcohol,’ Harry said.

‘Really?’ Støp said, contemplating his glass. ‘That I can’t imagine.’

‘So which parts of the body did you discuss?’

‘The elbow. I have tennis elbow and it bothers me when we curl. He prescribed the use of painkillers before training, the idiot. Because it also suppresses inflammation. And therefore I strained my muscles every time. Well, I suppose I don’t need to issue any medical warnings since we’re talking about a dead doctor here, but you shouldn’t take pills for pain. Pain is a good thing; we would never survive without it. We should be grateful for pain.’

‘Should we?’

Støp tapped his index finger on a windowpane so thick that it didn’t let in a single sound from the town. ‘If you ask me, it’s not the same as a view of fresh water. Or is it, Hole?’

‘I haven’t got a view.’

‘Haven’t you? You should have. A view gives perspective.’

‘Speaking of perspectives, Telenor gave us a list of Vetlesen’s recent telephone calls. What did you talk about the day before he died?’

Støp fixed an inquisitive eye on Harry while leaning back and finishing off the cider. Then he took a deep, contented breath. ‘I had almost forgotten we spoke, but I would suppose it was about elbows.’

Tresko had once explained that the poker player who bases his game on his ability to intuit a bluff is bound to lose. It’s true that we all give ourselves away with superficial mannerisms when lying; however, you have no chance of exposing a good bluffer unless you coldly and calculatedly chart all these mannerisms against each individual, in Tresko’s opinion. Harry tended to think Tresko was right. And so he didn’t base his conviction that Støp was lying on the man’s expression, his voice or his body language.

‘Where were you between four and eight o’clock the day Vetlesen died?’ Harry asked.

‘Hey!’ Støp raised an eyebrow. ‘Hey! Is there something about this case I or my readers ought to know?’

‘Where were you?’

‘That sounds manifestly like you haven’t caught the Snowman after all. Is that right?’

‘I would appreciate it if you would let me ask the questions, Støp.’

‘Fine, I was with . . .’

Arve paused. And his face suddenly lit up in a boyish smile.

‘No, hang on a moment. You’re insinuating that I could have had something to do with Vetlesen’s death. If I were to answer I would be conceding the premises of the question.’

‘I can easily register that you refused to answer the question, Støp.’

Støp raised his glass in toast. ‘A familiar countermove, Hole. One which we press people use every single day. Hence the name. Press. People. But please note that I’m not refusing to answer, Hole. I’m just refraining from doing so at this minute. In other words, I’m giving it some thought.’ He walked back to the window where he remained, nodding to himself. ‘I’m not refusing, I just haven’t decided whether to answer or indeed what. And in the meantime you’ll have to wait.’

‘I’ve got plenty of time.’

Støp turned. ‘And I don’t mean to waste it, Hole, but I have declared in the past that
Liberal
’s only capital and means of production is my personal integrity. I hope you appreciate that I as a pressman have an obligation to exploit this situation.’

‘Exploit?’

‘Hell, I know I’m sitting on a little atomic bomb of a news scoop here. I assume no newspapers have been tipped the wink that there’s something fishy about Vetlesen’s death. If I were to give you an answer now that would clear me of suspicion, I would have already played my hand. And then it’s too late for me to ask for relevant information before I answer. Am I right, Hole?’

Harry had an inkling where this was leading. And that Støp was a smarter bastard than he had anticipated.

‘Information isn’t what you need,’ Harry said. ‘What you need is to be told that you can be prosecuted for consciously obstructing the police in the course of their duties.’

‘Touché.’ Støp laughed, distinctly enthusiastic now. ‘But as a pressman and a liberalist I have principles to consider. The issue here is whether I, as a declared anti-establishment watchdog, should unconditionally make my services available to the ruling power’s forces of law and order.’ He spat out the words without concealing the sarcasm.

‘And what would your preconditions be?’

‘Exclusivity on the background information, of course.’

‘I can give you exclusivity,’ Harry said. ‘Together with a ban on passing the information to a single soul.’

‘Hm, well, that doesn’t take us anywhere. Shame.’ Støp stuffed his hands in the pockets of his linen trousers. ‘But I already have enough to question whether the police have apprehended the right man.’

‘I’m warning you.’

‘Thank you. You’ve already done that,’ Støp sighed. ‘Consider, however, whom you’re dealing with, Hole. On Saturday we’re having the mother of all parties at the Plaza. Six hundred guests are going to celebrate twenty-five years of
Liberal
. That’s not bad for a magazine which has always pushed the boundaries of our freedom of speech, which has navigated in legally polluted waters every day of its existence. Twenty-five years, Hole, and we have yet to lose a single case in the courts. I’ll take this up with our lawyer, Johan Krohn. I fancy the police know him, Hole?’