Page 3 of The Sleepwalker (Joona Linna #10)

Bernard Sand is in the kitchen, preparing an extravagant breakfast. He whistles to himself as he fries two potato cakes on a high heat. It is quarter past seven in the morning, and he is wearing a burgundy dressing gown. His salt-and-pepper hair is still tousled after a good night’s sleep.

Before he made the transition to becoming a full-time author, he was a professor of the History of Ideas at Stockholm University. Bernard writes romance novels, and has enjoyed international success with his series about the DeVille siblings.

After six books, he is ready to try something new.

It isn’t that he is bored, but he has started to worry that he is getting too comfortable as a writer.

He is currently working on his seventh book, and also writes a relationship column for one of the Sunday papers, answering reader questions.

The romance novels are how he makes a living, but they also generate a lot of work alongside the actual writing.

Yesterday, for example, he had to pore over a couple of contracts from his Dutch and Polish publishers. He then spent an hour talking to his Japanese translator. He has three email interviews he still hasn’t tackled, and a long list of requests for author visits and video messages from his agent.

Bernard is fifty-two, and has been living with his partner Agneta for the past eight years. He has a seventeen-year-old son called Hugo from a previous relationship.

He is a tall, slim man with a pale face, intensely blue eyes and thick brows that need trimming every week.

The potato cakes sizzle in the pan, and he feels a sharp pain as a few droplets of melted butter hit the back of his hand.

Bernard serves the crispy cakes onto two plates and adds a dollop of crème fra?che whipped with lemon zest, dill and pepper.

The sun still hasn’t risen, and the kitchen is reflected in the dark windows like some sort of brightly lit theatre stage.

Agneta comes into the room with a subtle waft of perfume. She has just completed her morning breathing exercises, showered and pulled on a pair of jeans and a knitted sweater.

‘I need to be in the car in sixteen minutes,’ she says.

Her face is still flushed, her skin shimmering like bronze and tiny beads of water clinging to her short black hair.

‘New lipstick,’ says Bernard.

‘Well spotted.’

‘It’s very nice.’

‘Thank you, but if you think that’s all it takes for me to throw my arms around your neck and kiss you, then—’

‘Do it.’

‘You think so, do you?’ She smiles, but her face quickly turns serious. ‘God .?.?. I’m so impressionable. It’s just so easy to forgive you because—’

‘Sorry.’

‘Because my heart .?.?. my idiotic heart loves you,’ she says, taking a seat at the table.

‘I love you, too.’

She sighs and looks up at him with a frown. ‘I think you really do mean that .?.?. but as an author, you should know that it’s not enough just to say you love someone. You have to actually show it, too.’

‘I agree.’

Agneta Nkomo is thirty-seven and works as a freelance culture writer. She regularly reviews dance performances for Svenska Dagbladet , writes reports for a local news site and also carries out research for a popular true crime podcast.

She has lost count of the number of times she has asked the producer for a real part in the show, a chance to get behind the mic and discuss new theories and mistakes in the police investigations.

She knows she could be great, but so far her requests have been met by polite surprise and hollow words about keeping her in mind.

Agneta met Bernard when she was commissioned to interview him about the film adaptation of his first book about the DeVille siblings. He was so busy that she had only thirty minutes with him, but that was all it took for them to fall in love.

Bernard’s hand starts to shake, and he waits a few seconds for it to settle before adding a heaped spoon of roe and some finely chopped chives to both potato cakes. He then carries the two plates over to the table and pours a couple of glasses of champagne, though he knows Agneta won’t touch hers.

‘I really wanted to talk to you yesterday, but you fell asleep,’ she says quietly, picking up her knife and fork.

‘I may sleep from time to time, but I’m never tired,’ he replies, taking a seat opposite her. ‘Venus, our mistress, turns nights of bitterness against me, and Amor never fails to be found wanting.’

‘Very passionate,’ she says with a sigh as she starts to eat.

‘I’d give my right leg to have written that,’ he says, knocking back her champagne.

‘You’re a brilliant writer.’

‘I can be.’

Agneta dabs her mouth with a napkin and checks her emails on her phone as Bernard gets up to serve their next course: steak tartare with capers and Dijon mustard.

‘Bernard, honestly, this is all very nice,’ she says, trying to meet his eye. ‘I love steak tartare, but I don’t want fancy food. I want you to talk to Hugo like you said you would.’

‘Yesterday was a mistake,’ he says, pouring two small glasses of Czech beer.

‘Yesterday, the day before yesterday, every day .?.?.’

‘Yes,’ he whispers.

‘What would you tell yourself if you had your advice column hat on?’ she asks.

‘“Grab a shotgun and open your mouth.”’

‘I’m serious.’

He sighs and sits down.

‘“Bernard, making Agneta a lavish breakfast won’t cut it,”’ he says.

‘And?’

‘“I don’t think she expects you to change overnight, but she needs to see you take a first step in the right direction before you start buying roses and champagne . ”’

‘Because that’s your way of running away from things,’ she adds. ‘Even though Agneta does like being given flowers, et cetera, et cetera.’

‘“She needs to see that your words about love are backed up by genuine emotion, that you’re loyal and take her side when your son acts up .?.?. in order for her to feel like an equal member of the family.”’

Agneta puts in her earrings and thinks back to their dinner last night. She had taken ten milligrams of Propranolol to calm her nerves. Bernard knows that she occasionally uses beta blockers ahead of important meetings, but not that she has started resorting to them whenever Hugo eats at home.

The teenager was hunched over his plate, holding back his messy hair with his left hand as he shovelled food into his mouth.

‘I applied for that job at KULT magazine, by the way,’ Hugo said with his mouth full. ‘I’m going to Uppsala to see the editor tomorrow lunchtime.’

‘Bravo! This will open doors for you, I’m sure of it,’ said Bernard.

‘I dunno. It feels a bit .?.?. self-absorbed to sit there, spewing a bunch of clichés .?.?.’

‘Just be yourself,’ Agneta told him. ‘You can do this. You love reading, so show them that. That’s all they need to see.’

‘It’s not like I’ll get it anyway,’ he sighed, turning his attention to his phone.

‘You can only do your best,’ said Bernard.

‘It doesn’t even pay much, either .?.?. I dunno if I can be bothered,’ Hugo muttered.

‘I’m sure you’ll be fine as long as you don’t stay up too late tonight,’ said Agneta.

‘You’re not my mum.’

‘No, but—’

‘You act like you are, but you’re not.’

‘You don’t need to remind me constantly,’ she said.

‘Would it make any difference if I stopped?’ he asked, turning to look at her.

‘I’m not your mum, but I do live here and I care about you,’ she replied, unable to stop her eyes from welling up.

‘Seriously? You’re doing the whole crying thing? What, so Dad feels sorry for you? So .?.?.’

Hugo trailed off when his phone pinged, and he glanced down at the screen and then left the table without clearing his plate away.

Bernard sat quietly with his head bowed, refusing to meet Agneta’s eye.

The teenager’s footsteps faded down the hallway, and Agneta heard the front door open, followed by a woman’s voice.

‘Guess the cougar is here,’ she mumbled.

Hugo is in a relationship with a woman called Olga, who is almost twice his age.

Agneta has always thought she is beautiful – striking, even – but she has also started to notice a certain steeliness beneath the surface.

As though Olga is trying to hide the fact that she is actually a mercenary with her glittery makeup and youthful clothing.

Olga followed Hugo to his room without coming into the kitchen to say hello, and the pair then locked the door and put on loud music.

Agneta has no idea whether Olga stayed over or not, because she took a sleeping pill in order to get some rest. His room is now quiet, in any case, and Hugo likely won’t be out of bed before midday unless someone wakes him.

Bernard has been filled with a strange energy all morning, dancing around their bedroom, folding back the duvet at the end of the bed and kissing each of her toes before hurrying down to the kitchen to make breakfast while she worked on her breathing.

‘Aren’t you going to try the steak?’ he asks.

‘I’m honestly too upset to eat,’ she says, carrying her plate over to the counter.

Agneta goes out into the hallway and puts on her coat. She has just started buttoning it when Bernard appears with a small princess cake and a cup of strong black coffee.

She can’t help but smile as he tries to feed her while she pulls on her boots. He even follows her out to the car in his dressing gown and slippers. It is so cold that the snow that fell overnight will probably linger until the sun rises at around eight thirty.

‘I wouldn’t have to keep going on about this if I thought you were listening .?.?. but could you please tell Hugo that I’m not trying to be his mum?’ she asks, taking the cup. ‘I just want to have a good relationship with him, and that means I need to be treated like a member of the family.’

‘You’re right. I agree.’

‘But you never do anything about it,’ she says, sipping the coffee before handing the cup back to him.

‘I’ve tried, but I suppose I don’t fully know what you actually expect me to do. He’s seventeen .?.?.’

‘Christ,’ she says, taking a deep breath. ‘I hope you can see that this isn’t working, at the very least .?.?. mostly because you aren’t showing me any loyalty.’

‘I want to .?.?.’

‘Bernard,’ she says softly. ‘I need you to be on my side. Not always, but at least some of the time.’

‘Sorry.’

‘I need your love,’ she continues, wiping the tears from her cheeks. ‘I love being with you, talking books and philosophy .?.?.’

‘The best.’

‘But it’s not enough, that’s what I’m trying to say. I can’t do this anymore. I’m going to ask Mum if I can go and stay with her.’

‘You’re leaving?’

‘I think I just need some space,’ she says as she gets into the car, slams the door and starts the engine.

Bernard watches Agneta’s Lexus pull away with a racing heart. He then finishes off her coffee and sets the cup down on the charging post.

He has just decided that he will wake Hugo in good time ahead of his meeting with the KULT team in Uppsala when a police car turns off onto the driveway and comes to a halt.

Bernard tightens the belt of his dressing gown as an officer gets out of the car and walks towards him with a serious look on her face.

‘Bernard Sand?’

‘Yes .?.?.’

‘A young man claiming to be your son was arrested last night.’

‘Hold on a second.’

‘He didn’t have any ID on him, so we need you to confirm his identity.’

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘Is your son Hugo Sand?’

‘Yes, but he’s asleep .?.?. I’m going to wake him at nine.’

‘When did you last see him?’

‘Yesterday evening.’

She sighs and takes out a phone, then makes a brief call to the prosecutor to ask for the images from the booking following the arrest in Bred?ng.

‘Could you tell me what happened?’ Bernard asks with a rising sense of panic.

‘I’m afraid I can’t go into any more detail before you—’

‘Is he hurt?’

The woman doesn’t speak, just stands quietly with the phone in her hand. After a moment or two, it pings, and she opens the message and holds it up to him with a neutral expression on her face.

It feels as though a jet of hot air has just blown straight through Bernard’s skull. He fumbles for something to lean against and knocks the cup from the charging post.

Hugo’s frightened, dirty face is pale in the harsh glare of the flash.

He has his mother’s delicate features, but his shoulder-length hair is knotted.

The police must have confiscated his nose and lip rings, his earring and necklace.

In the image, his tattoos make it look like he has dipped both arms in clay.

A board has been placed in front of him, the spaces for his name and ID number left empty. The only information provided is his height, the image number, the district ID and the date.

‘That’s him, that’s my son .?.?.’ Bernard says, clutching his stomach with a trembling hand. ‘But I don’t understand, there must be some sort of misunderstanding .?.?. I’m sure you’ve heard that before, but I .?.?. I .?.?.’

‘Is there anyone else in your house at the moment?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I—’

‘You don’t know ?’

‘I thought Hugo was in his room, but if he’s not .?.?. then no, I’m the only one.’

‘OK, thank you.’

‘I can go in and check?’

‘We’ll need you to stay out here until forensics arrive, but if you’re cold, you’re welcome to wait in our car,’ says the officer.

‘I’m not cold, I can’t even think about that right now. Sorry, but I need to know what’s going on,’ Bernard says, his voice faltering.

‘Forensics will be here soon, and they’ll take you inside and help you find some clothes and gather up everything you might need before we cordon off the house.’

‘Do I need to speak to a lawyer? Hugo is only seventeen. I assume that means I have a right to know why he was arrested.’

‘He’s being held on suspicion of murder,’ the police officer replies.