The Snowman (Harry Hole, #7)

by Jo Nesbø

jeans and a white tennis shirt with a polo player over the left breast. Harry couldn’t remember which brand it was, only that for some reason he connected it with bores.

If Jim Beam had not been on the shelf behind the bartender, screaming with its hoarse whiskey-voice about anesthesia and amnesty: “Harry! Come here, let’s reminisce about old times. About those awful ghosts we have dispelled, about the nights we could sleep.”

What would Hank Williams have done? Buried his head in a drink. Sid Vicious? Shown him a finger and legged it. And Elvis? Elvis. Elvis Presley. Right. Bjørn Holm wrapped his fingers around his revolver.

was a motivational seminar where companies sent their jaded employees for a so-called refresher course, that is, lectures intended to make them work even harder. In Arve Støp’s experience most lecturers at this seminar were businessmen who had enjoyed a bit of success with not very original ideas, gold medalists from major championships in minor sports, or mountaineers who had made a career out of climbing up mountains and coming down them again to tell others about the experience. What they had in common was that they claimed that their success was a result of their very special willpower and morale. They were motivated. This was what was supposed to be motivating.

It couldn’t be pride; he had swallowed that with whiskey and spat it out again several times.