# Read the first page of The Snowman by Jo Nesbo

Read the opening of The Snowman by Jo Nesbo free, no signup. A detective hunts a killer who strikes with the season's first snow.

- Page: https://uncovered.ink/read/the-snowman-jo-nesbo
- Genre: Crime fiction
- Year: 2010
- ISBN: 9780307742995
- Read it blind (cover and title hidden): https://uncovered.ink/?b=9780307358677&s=read-page
- Buy: https://bookshop.org/a/125786/9780307742995
- Borrow: https://search.worldcat.org/search?q=9780307742995

## The opening

It was the day the snow came. At eleven o'clock in the morning, large flakes appeared from a colourless sky and invaded the fields, gardens and lawns of Romerike like an armada from outer space. At two, the snowploughs were in action in Lillestrom, and when, at half past two, Sara Kvinesland slowly and carefully steered her Toyota Corolla SR5 between the detached houses in 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 drive. The car skidded as she applied the brakes, and she heard a groan from the back seat. In the rear-view mirror she saw her son's disgruntled face.

"It won't take long, my love," she said.

In front of the garage there was a large patch of black tarmac amid all the white, and she realised that the removal van had been there. Her throat constricted. She hoped she wasn't too late.

‘Who lives here?’ came from the back seat.

‘Just someone I know,’ Sara said, automatically checking her hair in the mirror. ‘Ten minutes, my love. I’ll 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 neighbours’ 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 neighbouring houses. They gave nothing away, just returned reflections of bare black apple trees, grey 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.

‘Don’t 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 don’t,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘But you want to. You don’t 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 practised dancers who knew their partner’s 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 didn’t 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 the fingers which would soon be there. ‘My son’s waiting in the car?’

His hand came to an abrupt halt.

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

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