‘We’re going in,’ she said, adjusting his bow tie with a friendly, quasi-tender movement.

She wore a wedding ring. Her hips swayed in front of him towards the room. Had those hips given birth to a child? Her black trousers were tight against her well-exercised bottom, and Arve Støp visualised the same bottom without trousers, in front of him on the bed in his Aker Brygge apartment. But she seemed too professional. It would be too much hassle. Too much heavy persuasion. He met her eyes in the big mirror beside the door, knew he had been caught and beamed an apology. She laughed at the same time as a slightly unprofessional flush shot up into her cheeks. Mission impossible? Hardly. But not tonight.

At his table of eight everyone rose as he entered. His dinner partner was his own subeditor. A dull but necessary choice. She was married, had children and the ravaged face of a woman who works twelve to fourteen hours every day. Poor kids. And poor him the day she found out that life consisted of more than Liberal. The table reacted with a skål for him as Støp’s gaze swept across the room. The sequins, jewels and smiling eyes sparkled under the chandeliers. And the dresses. Strapless, shoulderless, backless, shameless.

Then the music erupted. The vast tones of Also Sprach Zarathustra boomed out of the loudspeakers. At the meeting with the events agency Arve Støp had pointed out that it wasn’t exactly an original introduction, it was pompous and made him think of the creation of man. And was told that was the idea.

Onto the large stage, wreathed in smoke and light, stepped a TV celebrity who had demanded – and been given – a six-figure sum to be the master of ceremonies.

‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ he shouted into a large, cordless microphone that reminded Støp of a large, erect penis. ‘Welcome!’ The celeb’s famous lips were almost touching the black dick. ‘Welcome to what I promise you is going to be a very special evening!’

Arve Støp was already looking forward to it being over.

Knut Müller-Nilsen had told him that Katrine had been regarded as one of the most promising Crime Squad detectives at Bergen HQ, a rising star. Never any problem. Yes, there was of course the incident which led to her application for a transfer to the Sexual Offences Unit. A witness from a shelved case had rung to complain that Katrine Bratt was still doorstepping him with new questions. She wouldn’t stop even though he had made it plain that he had already made a statement to the police. It came to light that Katrine had been independently investigating this case for months without notifying her superiors. As she had been doing it in her own free time, this would not normally have been a problem, but this particular case was not one they wanted her raking up. She had been made aware of this, and her reaction had been to point out several flaws in the original investigation, but she didn’t gain a sympathetic ear and in her frustration she had applied for a transfer.

‘This case must have been an obsession for her,’ was the last Müller-Nilsen had said. ‘As far as I remember, that was the time her husband left her.’

Harry got up, went into the corridor and over to Katrine’s office door. It was, as office regulations stipulated, locked. He continued down the corridor to the photocopy room. On the lowest shelf beside the packs of writing paper he pulled out the guillotine, a large, heavy iron base with a mounted blade. The enormous machine had never been used to his memory, but now he carried it with both hands into the corridor and back to Katrine Bratt’s door.

He raised the paper cutter over his head and took aim. Then he brought his arms down hard.

The guillotine hit the handle, knocking the lock into the frame, which split with a loud crack.

Harry just managed to shift his feet before the machine landed on the floor with a muffled groan. The door spat splinters of wood and swung open at the first kick. He picked up the guillotine and carried it inside.

Katrine Bratt’s office was identical to the one he had shared with Police Officer Jack Halvorsen in times gone by. Tidy, bare, no pictures or any other personal possessions. The desk had a simple lock at the top controlling all the drawers. After two doses of the guillotine the top drawer and the lock were smashed. Harry rifled through, pushing papers to the side and rummaging through plastic folders, hole punches and other office equipment until he found a knife. He removed the sheath. The top edge was serrated. Definitely not a scout’s knife. Harry pressed the blade into the pile of papers it was lying on and the knife sank without resistance into the wad.

In the drawer beneath there were two unopened boxes of bullets for her service revolver. The only personal belongings Harry found were two rings. One was studded with gems that glinted angrily in the light of the desk lamp. He had seen it before. Harry closed his eyes trying to visualise where. A large, gaudy ring. Covered in all sorts. Las Vegas-style. Katrine would never have worn such a ring. And then he knew where he had seen it. He felt his pulse throbbing: hard, but steady. He had seen it in a bedroom. In Becker’s bedroom.

The vocalist held a finger against his earpiece as he attacked the highest note of their international hit of the eighties.

‘No one hits a bum note as beautifully as Morten Harket,’ said a voice next to Støp.

He turned. And knew at once that he had seen her before, because he never forgot a beautiful woman. What he was beginning to forget more and more was who, where and when. She was slim and wearing a plain black dress with a slit that reminded him of someone. Of Birte. Birte had a dress like that.

‘It’s scandalous,’ he said.

‘It’s a difficult note to hit,’ she said without taking her eyes off the vocalist.

‘It’s scandalous I can’t remember your name. I only know we’ve met before.’

‘We haven’t met,’ she said. ‘You just gave me the once-over.’ She brushed her black hair off her face. She was attractive in a stern, classical way. Kate Moss-attractive. Birte had been Pamela Anderson-attractive.

‘That I think can definitely be excused,’ he said, with a feeling that he was waking up, that his blood was beginning to surge through his body bringing champagne to parts of his brain that relaxed him rather than making him drowsy.

‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Katrine Bratt,’ she said.

‘Oh yes. Are you one of our advertisers, Katrine? A bank connection? A lessor? A freelance photographer?’

To every question Katrine shook her head with a smile.

‘I’m a gatecrasher,’ she said. ‘One of your female journalists is a friend of mine. She told me who was playing after dinner, and said I could just put on a dress and slip in. Feel like throwing me out?’

She raised the champagne glass to her lips. They weren’t as full as he usually liked, but nevertheless deep red and moist. She was still looking at the stage so that he could study her profile at his leisure. The whole of her profile. The hollow back, the perfect arch of her breasts. No need for any silicone, maybe just a good bra. But could they have suckled a child?

‘I’m considering the option,’ he said. ‘Any arguments you would like to put forward?’

‘Will a threat do?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘I saw the paparazzi outside waiting for your celebrity guests to emerge with the evening’s catch. What about if I told them about my journalist friend? That she was given to understand her prospects at Liberal were poor after she had rejected your advances?’

Arve Støp laughed aloud and from his heart. He saw that they had already been attracting inquisitive looks from other guests. Leaning towards her, he noticed that the aroma of her perfume was not unlike the eau de cologne he used.

‘Firstly, I’m not frightened of a bad reputation, least of all among my colleagues in the gossip rags. Secondly, your friend is a useless journalist, and thirdly she’s lying. I’ve fucked her three times. And you can tell the paparazzi that. Are you married?’

‘Yes,’ said the unknown woman, turning to the stage and shifting her weight so that the slit of her dress allowed a glimpse of a lacy hold-up. Arve Støp felt his mouth go dry and took a sip of champagne. Watched the flock of tiptoeing women at the front of the stage. Breathed through his nose. He could smell pussy from where he was standing.

‘Have you got any children, Katrine?’

‘Do you want me to have children?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because through creating life women have learned to subject themselves to nature, and that gives them a more profound insight into life than other women. And men.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘No, it makes you women less desperate to hunt for a potential father. You just want to enjoy the game.’

‘OK,’ she laughed. ‘Then I’ve got children. What games do you like to play?’

‘Whoa,’ Støp said, looking at his watch. ‘We’re moving too fast.’

‘What games do you like to play?’

‘All of them.’

‘Great.’

The singer closed his eyes, grabbed the microphone with both hands and attacked the song’s crescendo.

‘This is a boring party, and I’m going home.’ Støp put his empty glass on a tray whistling past. ‘I live in Aker Brygge. Same entrance as Liberal, top floor. Top bell.’

She gave a thin smile. ‘I know where it is. How much of a head start do you want?’

‘Give me twenty minutes. And a promise that you won’t talk to anyone before you leave. Not even your girlfriend. Is that a deal, Katrine Bratt?’

He looked at her, hoping he had said the right name.

‘Trust me,’ she said, and he noticed a strange gleam in her eyes, like the gleam of a forest fire in the sky. ‘I’m just as keen as you that this stays between us.’ She raised her glass. ‘And by the way, you fucked her four times, not three.’

Støp enjoyed a last glance before making his way to the exit. Behind him the vocalist’s falsetto was still quivering almost inaudibly under the chandeliers.

He could have rung Hagen, could have sounded the alarm, taken Skarre along and a patrol car. But he might be wrong. And he had to be certain first, there was too much to lose, both for him and her.

He got out of the car and went to the door and the unmarked second-floor bell. Waited. Rang once more. Then he went back to his car, fetched the crowbar from the boot, returned to the door and rang the first-floor bell. A man answered with a sleepy ja, the TV droning in the background. Fifteen seconds later the man came down and opened up. Harry showed him his police ID.

‘I didn’t hear a domestic dispute,’ the man said. ‘Who called you?’

‘I’ll find my own way out,’ Harry said. ‘Thanks for your help.’

The door on the second floor didn’t have a nameplate, either. Harry knocked, rested his ear against the cold wood and listened. Then he inserted the tip of the crowbar between the door and the frame immediately above the lock. As the blocks of flats in Grünerløkka had been built for workers in the factories along the River Akerselva, and thus with the cheapest possible materials, Harry’s second forced entry in under an hour was easy.

He stood for a few seconds in the dark of the corridor listening before he switched on the light. Looked down at the shoe rack in front of him. Six pairs of shoes. None of them big enough to belong to a man. He lifted one pair, the boots Katrine had worn earlier today. The soles were still wet.

He went into the living room. Switched on the torch instead of the ceiling light so that she wouldn’t see from the street that she had a visitor.

The cone of light swept over the worn pine floor with large nails between the boards, a plain white sofa, low bookshelves and an exclusive Linn Systems Loudspeaker. There was an alcove in the wall, with a tidy, narrow bed, and a kitchenette with a stove and fridge. The impression was austere, spartan and neat. Like his own place. The light had caught a face staring stiffly at him. And then another. And one more. Black wooden masks with carvings and painted patterns.

He looked at his watch. Eleven. He let the torch wander further afield.

There were newspaper cuttings pinned up above the only table in the room. They covered the wall from floor to ceiling. He went closer. His eyes skimmed them as he felt his pulse begin to tick like a Geiger counter.

These were murder cases.

Many murder cases, ten or twelve, some so old the newspaper had yellowed. But Harry could remember them all quite clearly. He remembered them because they had one thing in common: he had led the investigation.

On the table, beside a computer and a printer, lay a heap of folders. Case reports. He opened one of them. There weren’t any reports of his cases, but Laila Aasen’s murder on Ulriken Mountain. Another was of Onny Hetland’s disappearance in Fjellsiden. A third folder was about a case of police violence in Bergen, about complaints against Gert Rafto. Harry flicked through. Found the same photograph of Rafto that he had seen in Müller-Nilsen’s office. Looking at it now, he thought it was obvious.

Beside the printer was a pile of paper. Something was drawn on the top sheet. A quick amateur pencilled sketch, but the motif was clear enough. A snowman. The face was long, as if it had leaked, melted; the coal eyes had died and the carrot was long and thin and pointed downwards. Harry leafed through the sheets. There were several drawings. All of snowmen, most just of the face. Masks, Harry thought. Death masks. One of the faces had a beak, small human arms at the side and bird feet at the bottom. Another had a pig’s snout and a top hat.

Harry started to search the other end of the room. And told himself the same thing he had said to Katrine on the island of Finnøy: empty your mind of expectations and look, don’t search. He went through all the cupboards and drawers, rummaged through kitchen utensils and washing paraphernalia, clothes, exotic shampoos and bizarre creams in the bathroom, where the smell of her perfume hung heavy in the air. The floor of the shower was wet and on the sink there was a cotton bud stained with mascara. He came out again. He didn’t know what he was after, just that it wasn’t here. He straightened up and looked around.

Wrong.

It was here. He just hadn’t found it yet.

He took the books off the shelves, opened the cistern, checked whether there were any loose boards in the floor or the walls and turned the mattress in the alcove. Then he was finished. He had searched everywhere. Without any success, but for the most important premise of any search: what you don’t find is just as important as what you do find. And he knew now what he hadn’t found. Harry looked at his watch. Then he began to tidy up.

It was only when he was putting the drawings in order that it occurred to him that he hadn’t checked the printer. He pulled out the tray. The top sheet was yellowish and thicker than normal printer paper. He lifted it up. It had a particular aroma, as if it had been impregnated with a spice or burned. He turned on the desk lamp and held the sheet up to it as he hunted for the mark. And found it. Down in the bottom right-hand corner, a kind of watermark in between the fine paper fibres, visible if held against the electric light bulb. The blood vessels in his throat seemed to widen, the blood was suddenly in a hurry, his brain screaming for more oxygen.

Harry switched on the computer. Checked his watch again and listened while it took an eternity for the operating system and programs to boot up. He went straight to the search function and typed in a single word. Clicked the mouse on search. An animated dog, in both senses, appeared, jumping up and down and barking soundlessly in an attempt to shorten the waiting time. Harry stared at the text flashing by as the documents were scanned. Shifted his gaze to the rubric where it said for the moment No items matched your search. He examined the spelling of the search word. Toowoomba. He closed his eyes. Heard the deep purr of the machine, like an affectionate cat. Then it stopped. Harry opened his eyes. One item matched your search.

He placed the cursor over the Word icon. A yellow rectangular box popped up. Date modified: 9 September. He felt his finger tremble as he double-clicked. The white background of the short text shone into the room. There was no doubt. The words were identical to those in the letter from the Snowman.