The Snowman - Couverture souple

Nesbo, Jo

Couverture souple

ISBN 10 : 0307742997 ISBN 13 : 9780307742995

Editeur : Vintage Crime/Black Lizard, 2012

Synopsis

By Jo Nesbo ; Don Bartlett ( Author ) [ Snowman: A Harry Hole Novel (7) Vintage Crime/Black Lizard By Apr-2012 Paperback

A propos du livre

Extrait :

Day 3

The Pit

“Was that great or what?”

Oleg’s enthusiastic voice drowned out the spitting fat in the kebab shop, which was crowded with people after the concert at the Oslo Spektrum. Harry nodded to Oleg, who was standing in his hoodie, still sweaty, still moving to the beat as he prattled on about the members of Slipknot by name, names Harry didn’t even know since Slipknot CDs were sparing with personal data, and music magazines like MOJO and Uncut didn’t write about bands like that. Harry ordered hamburgers and looked at his watch. Rakel had said she would be standing outside at ten o’clock. Harry looked at Oleg again. He was talking nonstop.

When had it happened? When had the boy turned eleven and decided to like music about various stages of death, alienation, freezing and general doom? Perhaps it ought to have worried Harry, but it didn’t. It was a starting point, a curiosity that had to be satisfied, clothes the boy had to try on to see if they fit. Other things would come along. Better things. Worse things.

“You liked it, too, didn’t you, Harry?”

Harry nodded. He didn’t have the heart to tell him the concert had been a bit of an anticlimax for him. He couldn’t put his finger on what it was; perhaps it just wasn’t his night. As soon as they had joined the crowd in the Spektrum, he had felt the paranoia that used to regularly accompany drunkenness but that during the last year had come when he was sober. And instead of getting into the mood, he had had the feeling he was being observed, and stood scanning the audience, studying the wall of faces around them.

“Slipknot rules,” Oleg said. “And the masks were übercool. Especially the one with the long, thin nose. It looked like a . . . sort of . . . ”

Harry was listening with half an ear, hoping Rakel would come soon. The air inside the kebab shop suddenly felt dense and suffocating, like a thin film of grease lying on your skin and over your mouth. He tried not to think his next thought. But it was on its way, had already rounded the corner. The thought of a drink.

“It’s an Indian death mask,” a woman’s voice behind them said.

“And Slayer was better than Slipknot.”

Harry spun around in surprise.

“Lots of posing with Slipknot, isn’t there?” she continued. “Recycled ideas and empty gestures.”

She was wearing a shiny, figure-hugging, ankle-length black coat buttoned up to her neck. All you could see under the coat was a pair of black boots. Her face was pale and her eyes made up.

“I would never have believed it,” Harry said. “You liking that kind of music.”

Katrine Bratt managed a brief smile. “I suppose I would say the opposite.”

She gave him no further explanation and signaled to the man behind the counter that she wanted a Farris mineral water.

“Slayer sucks,” Oleg mumbled under his breath.

Katrine turned to him. “You must be Oleg.”

“Yes,” Oleg said sulkily, pulling up his army trousers and looking as if he both liked and disliked this attention from a mature woman.

“How d’ya know?”

Katrine smiled. “ ‘How d’ya know?’ Living on Holmenkollen

Ridge as you do, shouldn’t you say ‘How do you know?’? Is Harry teaching you bad habits?”

Blood suffused Oleg’s cheeks.

Katrine laughed quietly and patted Oleg’s shoulder. “Sorry, I’m just curious.”

The boy’s face went so red that the whites of his eyes were shining.

“I’m also curious,” Harry said, passing a burger to Oleg. “I assume you’ve found the pattern I asked for, Bratt. Since you’ve got time to come to a gig.”

Harry looked at her in a way that spelled out his warning: Don’t tease the boy.

“I’ve found something,” Katrine said, twisting the plastic top off the Farris bottle. “But you’re busy, so we can sort it out tomorrow.”

“I’m not so busy,” Harry said. He had already forgotten the film of grease, the feeling of suffocation.

“It’s confidential and there are a lot of people here,” Katrine said. “But I can whisper a couple of key words.”

She leaned closer, and over the fat he could smell the almost masculine fragrance of perfume and feel her warm breath on his ear.

“A silver Volkswagen Passat has just pulled up outside. There’s a woman sitting inside trying to catch your attention. I would guess it’s Oleg’s mother . . . ”

Harry straightened up with a jolt and looked out the large window toward the car. Rakel had wound down the window and was peering in at them.
“Don’t make a mess,” Rakel said as Oleg jumped into the backseat with the burger in his hand.

Harry stood beside the open window. She was wearing a plain, light blue sweater. He knew that sweater well. Knew how it smelled, how it felt against the palm of his hand and cheek.

“Good gig?” she asked.

“Ask Oleg.”

“What sort of band was it, actually?” She looked at Oleg in the mirror. “Those people outside are a bit oddly dressed.”

“Quiet songs about love and so on,” Oleg said, sending a quick wink to Harry when her eyes were off the mirror.

“Thank you, Harry,” she said.

“My pleasure. Drive carefully.”

“Who was that woman inside?”

“A colleague. New on the job.”

“Oh? Looked as if you knew each other pretty well already.”

“How so?”

“You . . . ” She stopped in midsentence. Then she slowly shook her head and laughed. A deep but bright laugh that came from down in her throat. Confident and carefree at the same time. The laugh that had once made him fall in love.

“Sorry, Harry. Good night.”

The window glided upward; the silver car glided off.

Harry walked the gauntlet down Brugata, between bars with music blaring out of open doors. He considered a coffee at Teddy’s Softbar, but knew it would be a bad idea. So he made up his mind to walk on by.
“Coffee?” repeated the guy behind the counter in disbelief.

The jukebox at Teddy’s was playing Johnny Cash, and Harry passed a finger over his top lip.

“You got a better suggestion?” Harry heard the voice that came out of his mouth; it was familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.

“Well,” said the guy, running a hand through his oily, glistening hair, “the coffee’s not exactly fresh from the machine, so what about a freshly pulled beer?”
Johnny Cash was singing about God, baptism and new promises.

“Right,” Harry said.

The man behind the counter grinned.

At that moment Harry felt the mobile phone in his pocket vibrate. He grabbed it quickly and greedily, as though it were a call he had been expecting.

It was Skarre.

“We’ve just received a missing-persons call that fits. Married woman with children. She wasn’t at home when the husband and children returned a few hours ago. They live way out in the woods in Sollihøgda. None of the neighbors have seen her and she can’t have left by car because the husband had it. And there are no footprints on the path.”

“Footprints?”

“There’s still snow up there.”

The beer was banged down in front of Harry.

“Harry? Are you there?”

“Yes, I am. I’m thinking.”

“What about?”

“Is there a snowman there?”

“Eh?”

“Snowman.”

“How should I know?”

“Well, let’s go and find out. Jump in the car and pick me up outside Gunerius shopping center, on Storgata.”

“Can’t we do this tomorrow, Harry? I’ve got some action lined up for tonight, and this woman is only missing, so there’s no immediate hurry.”

Harry watched the foam coiling its way down the outside of the beer glass like a snake.

“Actually . . . ,” Harry said, “ . . . there’s one hell of a hurry.”

Amazed, the bartender looked at the untouched beer, the fifty-krone note on the counter and the broad shoulders making off through the door as Johnny Cash faded out.

. . .

“Sylvia would never have simply left,” said Rolf Ottersen.

Rolf Ottersen was thin. Or, to be more precise, he was a bag of bones. His flannel shirt was buttoned all the way up, and from it protruded a gaunt neck and a head that reminded Harry of a wading bird. A pair of narrow hands with long, scrawny fingers that continually curled, twisted and twirled protruded from his shirtsleeves. The nails of his right hand had been filed long and sharp, like claws. His eyes, behind thick glasses in plain, round steel frames, the type that had been popular among seventies radicals, seemed unnaturally large. A poster on the mustard-yellow wall showed Indians carrying an anaconda. Harry recognized the cover of a Joni Mitchell LP from hippie Stone Age times. Next to it hung a reproduction of a well known self-portrait by Frida Kahlo. A woman who suffered, Harry thought. A picture chosen by a woman. The floor was untreated pine, and the room was lit by a combination of old-fashioned paraffin lamps and brown clay lamps, which looked as if they might have been homemade. Leaning against the wall in the corner was a guitar with nylon strings, which Harry took to be the explanation for Rolf Ottersen’s filed nails.

“What do you mean, she ‘would never have left’?” Harry asked.

In front of him on the living- room table Rolf Ottersen had placed a photograph of his wife with their twin daughters, Olga and Emma, ten years old. Sylvia Ottersen had big, sleepy eyes, like someone who had worn glasses all her life and then started wearing contact lenses or had laser eye surgery. The twins had their mother’s eyes.

“She would’ve said,” Rolf Ottersen explained. “Left a message.

Something must’ve happened.”

In spite of his despair his voice was muted and gentle. Rolf Ottersen pulled a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and put it to his face. His nose seemed abnormally big for his narrow, pale face. He blew his nose in one single trumpet blast.

Skarre poked his head inside the door. “The dog patrol’s here. They’ve got a cadaver dog with them.”

“Get going, then,” Harry said. “Have you spoken to all the neighbors?”

“Yep. Still nothing.”

Skarre closed the door, and Harry saw that Ottersen’s eyes had become even bigger behind the glasses.

“Cadaver dog?” Ottersen whispered.

“Just a generic term,” Harry said, making a mental note that he would have to give Skarre a couple of tips on how to express himself.

“So you use them to search for living people as well?” From his intonation, the husband appeared to be pleading.

“Yes, of course,” Harry lied, rather than tell him that cadaver dogs sniffed out places where dead bodies had been. They were not used for drugs, lost property or living people. They were used for deaths.
Period.

“So you last saw her today at four,” Harry said, looking down at his notes. “Before you and your daughters went to town. What did you do there?”

“I took care of the shop while the girls had their violin lessons.”

“Shop?”

“We have a small shop in Majorstuen selling handmade African goods. Art, furniture, fabric, clothes, all sorts of things. They’re
imported directly from the artisans, and the artisans are paid properly. Sylvia is there most of the time, but on Thursdays we’re open late, so she comes back home with the car and I go in with the girls. I’m at the shop while they have violin lessons at the Barrat Due Institute of Music from five until seven. Then I pick them up, and we come home. We were home a little after seven- thirty.”

“Mm. Who else works in the shop?”

“No one.”

“That must mean you’re closed for a while on Thursdays. About an hour?”

Rolf Ottersen gave a wry smile. “It’s a very small shop. We don’t have many customers. Almost none until the Christmas sales, to be honest.”

“How . . . ?”

“NORAD. They support shops and our suppliers as part of the government’s trade program with Third World countries.” He coughed quietly. “The message it sends is more important than money and shortsighted gain, isn’t it?”

Harry nodded, even though he wasn’t thinking about development aid and fair trade in Africa but about the clock and driv ing time in Oslo. From the kitchen, where the twins were eating a late snack, came the sound of a radio. He hadn’t seen a TV in the house.

“Thank you. We’ll carry on.” Harry got up and went outside.

Three cars stood parked in the yard. One was Bjørn Holm’s Volvo Amazon, repainted black with a checkered rally stripe over the roof and trunk. Harry looked up at the clear, starry sky arching over the tiny farm in the forest clearing. He breathed in the air. The air of spruce and wood smoke. From the edge of the wood he heard the panting of a dog and cries of encouragement from the policeman.

To get to the barn Harry walked in the arc they had determined so as not to destroy any clues they might be able to use. Voices were emanating from the open door. He crouched down and studied the footprints in the snow in the light from the outside lamp. Then he stood up, leaned against the frame and tugged out a pack of cigarettes.

“Looks like a murder scene,” he said. “Blood, bodies and overturned furniture.”

Bjørn Holm and Magnus Skarre fell silent, turned and followed Harry’s gaze. The big open room was lit by a single bulb hanging from a cable wrapped around one of the beams. At one end of the barn there was a lathe and, behind it, a board with tools attached: hammers, saws, pliers, drills. No electric gadgets. At the other end there was a wire fence and behind it chickens perched on shelves in the wall or strutted around, stiff-legged, on the straw. In the middle of the room, on gray, untreated, bloodstained floorboards, lay three headless bodies. Harry poked a cigarette between his lips without lighting it, entered, taking care not to step in the blood, and squatted down beside the chopping block to examine the chicken heads. The beam from his flashlight focused on matte-black eyes. First he held half a white feather that looked as if it had been scorched black along the edge, then he studied the smooth severing of the chickens’ necks. The blood had coagulated and was black. He knew this was a quick process, not much more than half an hour.

“See anything interesting?” asked Bjørn Holm.

“My brain has been damaged by my profession, Holm. Right now it’s analyzing chickens’ bodies.”

Skarre laughed and painted the newspaper headlines in the air: “savage triple chicken murder. voodoo parish. harry hole assigned.”

“What I can’t see is more interesting,” Harry said.

Bjørn Holm raised an eyebrow, looked around and began to nod slowly.

Skarre looked at them skeptically. “And that is?”

“The murder weapon,” Harry said.

“A hatchet,” Holm said. “The only sensible way to kill chickens.”

Skarre sniffed. “If the woman did the killing, she must have put the hatchet back in its place. Tidy types, these farmers.”

“I agree,” Harry said, listening to the cackle of the chickens, which seemed to be coming from all sides. “That’s why it’s interesting that the chopping block is upside down and the chickens’ bodies scattered around. And the hatchet is not in its place.”

“Its place?” Skarre faced Holm and rolled his eyes.

“If you can be bothered to take a peek, Skarre,” Harry said without moving.

Skarre was still looking at Holm, who nodded toward the board behind the lathe.

“Shit,” said Skarre.

In the empty space between a hammer and a rusty saw was the outline of a small hatchet.

From outside came the sound of a dog barking and whimpering, and then the policeman’s loud shout, which was no longer encouraging. Harry rubbed his chin. “We’ve searched the whole barn, so for the moment it looks as if Sylvia Ottersen left the place while slaught...

Revue de presse :

Praise for Jo Nesbø and The Snowman

“Jo Nesbø is my new favorite thriller writer and Harry Hole my new hero.” —Michael Connelly

“Fiendishly complex and terrifically entertaining.” —The New York Times Book Review

“If you don’t know Nesbø, it’s time to get with it.” —USA Today

“Nesbø explores the darkest criminal minds with grim delight and puts his killers where you least expect to find them. . . . His novels are maddeningly addictive.” —Vanity Fair
 
“A superb thriller—smart, stylish, beautifully paced and meticulously plotted.”  —Newsday

“The Snowman is strung together with great care, playful in certain stretches, grisly in others, all of it highly readable.”—Newsweek
 
“The writer most likely to take the ice-cold crown in the critically acclaimed—and now bestselling—category of Nordic noir.” —Los Angeles Times
 
“Nesbø's books have a serious, socially significant heft, as well as a confident (even cocky) narrative stride that is unmatched. These aren’t mere investigatory trifles to be enjoyed and forgotten; their unnerving horrors linger.” —Richmond Times-Dispatch
 
“Nesbø’s pace is unerring, and the way he builds up suspense will incite Pavlovian page-turning.” —Time Out New York
 
“This is reading as you experienced it in childhood, without any gap between eye and mind, but with the added pleasures that adult plots and adult characters can bring. . . . Unputdownable. The Snowman is probably the most terrifying and certainly the most addictive book in the whole series.” —Slate
 
“This is crime writing of the highest order, in which the characters are as strong as the story, where an atmosphere of evil permeates, and the tension begins in the first chapter and never lets up.” —The Times (London)
 
“Spine-chilling. . . . This most ambitious of Nesbø’s crime novels banishes any fears that the omniscient serial killer scenario has been exhausted.” —The Independent (London)
 
“Macabre and disturbing. . . . Deft plotting, strong characterization, adrenaline-fuelled action sequences and a whole raft of social issues raised along the way make this book a spectacularly good example of how a tried and tested (and often tired) formula can be made exhilarating and fresh.” —The Guardian (London)
 
“Hole is all a fictional detective should be.” —Times Literary Supplement
 
“If you’re still grieving the loss of Stieg Larsson, it’s time to move on. Nesbø’s waiting for you.” —Milwaukee Journal Sentinel

 

À propos de cette édition

• Éditeur: Vintage Crime/Black Lizard
• Date d'édition: 2012
• ISBN 10: 0307742997
• ISBN 13: 9780307742995
• Reliure: Broché
• Nombre de pages: 512