Jo Nesbø - The Snowman

ALSO BY JO NESB

The Devils Star
Nemesis
The Redbreast

THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK
PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

Translation copyright 2010 by Don Bartlett

Excerpt from The Leopard, translation copyright by Don Bartlett

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
www.aaknopf.com

Originally published in Norway as Snmannen by H. Aschehoug & Co. (W. Nygaard), Oslo, in 2007. Copyright 2007 by Jo Nesb. This translation was originally published in Great Britain by Harvill Secker, an imprint of the Random House Group Ltd., London, in 2010.

Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Grateful acknowledgment is made to Bug Music for permission to reprint lyrics from Call Me on Your Way Back Home by Ryan Adams, copyright 2000 by Barland Music (BMI)/Administered by Bug Music. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission of Bug Music.

This eBook contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book The Leopard by Jo Nesb. This excerpt for this edition may not reflect the final contents of the forthcoming edition, which was originally published in Norway ad Panserhjerte by H. Aschehoug & Co. (W. Nygaard), Oslo, in 2009. Copyright 2009 by Jo Nesb. This translation was originally published in Great Britain by Harvill Seker, an imprint of the Random House Group, Ltd., London, in 2011.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Nesb, Jo, date.
[Snmannen. English]
The snowman / Jo Nesb ; translated by Don Bartlett.
p. cm.
Originally published in Norway as Snmannen by H. Aschehoug & Co. (W. Nygaard), Oslo, in 2007. This translation originally published in Great Britain by Harvill Secker, an imprint of the Random House Group Ltd.,
London, in 2010T.p. verso.
eISBN: 978-0-307-59957-5
1. Hole, Harry (Fictitious character) 2. PoliceNorwayOsloFiction.
3. WomenCrimes againstFiction. 4. Serial murder investigationFiction. I. Bartlett, Don. II. Title.
PT 8951.24.E83S5613 2011
839.8238dc22 2010049170

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Jacket design by Peter Mendelsund.

v3.1_r1

For Kirsten Hammervoll Nesb

It was the day the snow came. At eleven oclock in the morning, large flakes had appeared from a colorless sky and invaded the fields, gardens and lawns of Romerike like an armada from outer space. At two, the snowplows were in action in Lillestrm, and when, at half past two, Sara Kvinesland slowly and carefully steered her Toyota Corolla SR5 between the detached houses on Kolloveien, the November snow was lying like a down duvet over the rolling countryside.

She was thinking that the houses looked different in daylight. So different that she almost passed his driveway. The car skidded as she applied the brakes, and she heard a groan from the backseat. In the rearview mirror she saw her sons disgruntled face.

It wont take long, my love, she said.

In front of the garage there was a large patch of black pavement amid all the white, and she realized that the moving van had been there. Her throat constricted. She hoped she wasnt too late.

Who lives here? came from the backseat.

Just someone I know, Sara said, automatically checking her hair in the mirror. Ten minutes, my love. Ill leave the key in the ignition so you can listen to the radio.

She went without waiting for a response, slithered in her slippery shoes up to the door she had been through so many times, but never like this, not in the middle of the day, in full view of all the neighbors prying eyes. Not that late-night visits would seem any more innocent, but for some reason acts of this kind felt more appropriate when performed after the fall of darkness.

She heard the buzz of the doorbell inside, like a bumblebee in a jam jar. Feeling her desperation mount, she glanced at the windows of the neighboring houses. They gave nothing away, just returned reflections of bare black apple trees, gray sky and milky-white terrain. Then, at last, she heard footsteps behind the door and heaved a sigh of relief. The next moment she was inside and in his arms.

Dont go, darling, she said, hearing the sob already straining at her vocal cords.

I have to, he said in a monotone that suggested a refrain he had tired of long ago. His hands sought familiar paths, of which they never tired.

No, you dont, she whispered into his ear. But you want to. You dont dare any longer.

This has nothing to do with you and me.

She could hear the irritation creeping into his voice at the same time as his hand, the strong but gentle hand, slid down over her spine and inside the waistband of her skirt and tights. They were like a pair of practiced dancers who knew their partners every move, step, breath, rhythm. First, the white lovemaking. The good one. Then the black one. The pain.

His hand caressed her coat, searching for her nipple under the thick material. He was eternally fascinated by her nipples; he always returned to them. Perhaps it was because he didnt have any himself.

Did you park in front of the garage? he asked with a firm tweak.

She nodded and felt the pain shoot into her head like a dart of pleasure. Her sex had already opened for him. My sons waiting in the car.

His hand came to an abrupt halt.

He knows nothing, she groaned, sensing his hand falter.

And your husband? Wheres he now?

Where do you think? At work, of course.

Now it was she who sounded irritated. Both because he had brought her husband into the conversation and it was difficult for her to say anything at all about him without getting irritated, and because her body needed him, quickly. Sara Kvinesland opened his fly.

Dont , he began, grabbing her around the wrist. She slapped him hard with her other hand. He looked at her in amazement as a red flush spread across his cheek. She smiled, grabbed his thick black hair and pulled his face down to hers.

You can go, she hissed. But first you have to fuck me. Is that understood?

She felt his breath against her face. It was coming in hefty gasps now. Again she slapped him with her free hand, and his dick was growing in her other.

He thrust, a bit harder each time, but it was over now. She was numb, the magic was gone, the tension had dissolved and all that was left was despair. She was losing him. Now, as she lay there, she had lost him. All the years she had yearned, all the tears she had cried, the desperate things he had made her do. Without giving anything back. Except for one thing.

He was standing at the foot of the bed and taking her with closed eyes. Sara stared at his chest. At first she had thought it strange, but after a while she had begun to like the sight of unbroken white skin over his pectoral muscles. It reminded her of old statues on which the nipples had been omitted out of consideration for public modesty.