Page 2 of The Sleepwalker (Joona Linna #10)

The November sky above V?rberg centrum is the colour of cast iron. It is almost three in the morning, and the streets are deserted.

A police car cruises slowly past a shuttered beauty salon.

John Jakobsson and Einar Bofors sit in silence as they drive. The two officers stopped speaking almost a year ago, and neither says a word unless they absolutely have to.

The bag of leftovers from the fast food kiosk is on the floor by Einar’s feet, and the smell of grease fills the car.

John drums the wheel, thinking – as he so often does – about his older brother’s lifeless face as he stares out through the windscreen.

The lights from the entrance to the metro station are reflected in dusty window displays, and the ground between the pillars in the arcade is littered with rubbish, leaves and broken glass.

Outside the charity shop, there are a couple of discarded spray cans, plastic bags and flattened cardboard boxes.

The two police officers are both lost in thought as they pass the parking area and turn right at the Ethiopian church.

Heavy snowflakes have begun to dance through the air in the light from the streetlamps, making the area look like something out of a fairytale.

To John, it feels like an unwelcome reminder of his childhood.

The milky glow from the touchscreen of the mobile data terminal illuminates his tight grip on the wheel.

Einar has just taken out a pot of snus when a call comes in from regional command.

A break-in has been reported at the campsite in Bred?ng.

Einar responds to the call as John turns off behind the supermarket, drives around the green recycling bins and pulls back out onto the road.

‘The campsite’s closed for the season, and the owner’s in Florida,’ the dispatcher explains. ‘But the security cameras are linked to his phone, and he can see a light in one of the caravans.’

Without turning on the siren or blue lights, John accelerates along the empty road, passing apartment blocks and the old power station.

The wipers sweep the snowflakes from the windscreen.

Neither officer says anything, but they both know that the break-in is probably just someone trying to avoid freezing to death. Someone without a home or papers, an addict or someone with mental health issues.

The usual.

They pass the Scandic hotel and turn off onto Sk?rholmsv?gen.

Almost five years ago, John picked the lock on his older brother’s room and found Luke slumped on the floor beside his bed, his lips blue. The yellowed rubber tie was slack around his arm, and the blood-stained cotton ball had stuck to his Nirvana T-shirt.

John will never forget his brother’s pupils in his wide eyes. They were impossibly small, like they had been drawn in with the tip of a needle.

Since he first started going out on patrol, John has always carried three doses of Naloxone with him, despite the fact that it isn’t required kit. It isn’t something he ever talks about, but so far he has managed to save eight lives using the nasal spray.

They drive past the dark football field, through the industrial area and into S?traskogen nature reserve.

By the time they pull up outside the gates to the campsite, eight minutes have passed since they responded to the dispatch call.

The shop, office and Thai restaurant are all shuttered.

Heavy snowflakes fall slowly through the air, landing on the tarmac in front of them.

Without a word, John and Einar get out of the car and climb the gate. They check the site map, locate pitch G and start walking.

The vast campsite feels strangely desolate without any cars, tents or people milling around.

They cross an area of dead grass criss-crossed by roads as they make their way over to the caravan section.

To the right, the trees on the hill are all bare. Snowflakes sail down between their sprawling black branches.

They pass a small playground and the septic tank before turning off between the static caravans. The acoustics change, and the sound of their footsteps echo back at them.

The windows are dark, the flags on the tall TV aerials slack and the cramped patio areas empty.

John finds himself thinking about how afraid he was for his brother during the last year of his life. How angry Luke got sometimes, how reckless, like the time John asked him to pay back the money he had lent him.

They spot the light in one of the caravans from a way off, and as they approach, they see that it is coming from a lamp behind the curtains in one of the windows.

John stops and fills his lungs with cool air. He draws his gun, climbs the metal steps, knocks loudly and opens the door.

‘Police! We’re coming in,’ he shouts without any real weight to his voice.

He steps forward into the gloomy caravan and sees dark footprints leading in both directions on the wood-effect vinyl. His eyes scan the hallway to the right, past two closed doors and the cramped bathroom.

Everything is quiet.

With his gun lowered, he starts moving towards the brightly lit living area. The walls and ceiling creak with every step he takes.

All he can see up ahead is the dining table and four chairs. The indirect glow from the lamp further back gleams softly on the scratched surfaces.

John stops dead when he hears a woman’s hushed voice somewhere in front of him.

‘Pick up, stud. Pick up,’ she says playfully. ‘Pick up, stud .?.?.’

‘Police, I’m coming in!’ John shouts. The adrenaline coursing through his veins has made the hairs on his arms stand on end.

‘Pick up, stud. Pick up, stud. Pick up, stu—’

The woman’s voice stops abruptly, and John moves forward with his pistol raised.

The stale air is heavy with a metallic scent that reminds him of a damp whetstone.

He feels the floor shake as Einar enters the caravan, and he pauses, breathing raggedly through his nose. John listens for a second, then steps into the kitchen, swings round to the right and whimpers.

On the stainless-steel drainer, there is a human leg, complete with a plaster on its knee and a black sock on its foot. The muscles and tendons have all been crudely severed.

The hip bone has been torn out of its socket and looks glaringly white against the dark red tissue.

‘What the fuck .?.?.’

The walls, ceiling and floor are all drenched in blood.

On the coffee table, between two fake plants, John notices a head. The chin and jaw are both missing, but it is clear that the victim is a man with straggly black hair with bleached tips.

The surface of the table beneath it is slick with blood, dripping down into a large pool on the floor.

On the sofa, the screen of a mobile phone lights up with the name Anna, and the strange ringtone starts blaring again:

‘Pick up, stud. Pick up .?.?. Pick up, stud .?.?.’

At the other end of the caravan, Einar has just opened the door to the main bedroom. His torch beam swings across the double bed, illuminating a limbless torso. The wounds are ragged and crude, revealing pale cartilage and sharp bone.

He stares down at the dismembered man’s hairy stomach, limp penis and muscular, tattooed chest. At his throat and the lower section of his head.

The blood has soaked into the mattress, and the entire torso glistens in the light from the torch.

Einar feels his pistol trembling in his hand, as though an electric current is surging through him. The sight is so shocking that his legs feel like jelly.

He shoves the torch beneath his arm and claps a hand to his mouth. The lingering smell of ketchup on his fingers mixes with the stench of fresh blood, and his stomach turns.

John hears his heavy footsteps, and he glances down the hallway and sees Einar backing out of the bedroom. His colleague drops his torch as he fumbles with his radio, rushes out of the caravan and throws up.

John has just started making his way back towards the door when he stops. As he strains to listen, a shiver passes down his spine. He can hear an oddly relaxed, yet robotic laugh through the walls.

Maybe it’s coming from outside, he thinks, right as the laughter gives way to a wailing sound. A moment later, it stops.

Heart racing, he approaches the last closed door.

Out of nowhere, he imagines finding his brother Luke standing on the other side, with blue lips, pinprick pupils and a bloody machete resting over one shoulder.

He can hear Einar talking to command outside. His colleague sounds shocked and incoherent.

John turns the handle, pushes the door open and aims his pistol at the darkness beyond.

Mounted to the wall beneath the window, there is an unplugged radiator. The white surface is flecked with blood.

The hinges creak softly as the door comes to a halt, and John reaches out to open it the rest of the way, then steps inside.

On the floor beside the bunkbed, a young man is lying on his side with a severed arm beneath his head.

His pale face is calm, his eyes closed. He is wearing jeans, trainers and a moss green sweater.

John moves towards him to check his pulse.

There is an axe on the lower bunk, he notices.

Outside, Einar shouts something.

The floor creaks beneath John’s feet as he leans forward.

Right then, with his eyes still tightly shut, the boy laughs. His white teeth flash brightly against his bloody face.

John stumbles back, fumbling with his pistol. He flicks off the safety catch, slips in a pool of blood and crashes against the wall. His gun goes off, hitting the floor.

The boy wakes with a start and sits up. He blinks a few times, staring at John in confusion as he pushes back his fringe with a bloody hand and licks his lips.

‘Where am I?’ he asks in a frightened voice. ‘What’s going on?’