Page 33 of The Sleepwalker (Joona Linna #10)

Rikard Roslund stops to let Velour sniff a telecoms cabinet as they turn back towards the house.

He waves when he notices one of the neighbours in their kitchen window, then makes his way in through the garden gate.

The dog sits patiently on the doormat, waiting for him to dry her feet before she lumbers through to the kitchen.

Kennet’s shift at Danderyd Hospital doesn’t end until seven. The chronic lack of nursing staff means he works far too much, which is great for their finances but not much else.

They have been together for six years and like to tell friends that they live the perfect middle-class life, but that is no longer true for either of them. Kennet struggles with depression during the winter months, and one February evening almost a year ago, he overdosed on sleeping pills.

Rikard found him on the floor by their bed when he got home from work, with froth clinging to the corners of his mouth, and grey skin.

Thank God for activated charcoal, Kennet sometimes jokes.

He now takes antidepressants, and they have put it all behind them, but Rikard still feels betrayed – deeply.

Rikard gets changed, grabs the envelope full of cash he signed out earlier, shoves the notes in his wallet and takes his Glock 45 out of the gun cabinet.

He used to dream about retiring early and moving to Palma with Kennet, sitting on the balcony with a crime novel and a glass of cold rosé, but nowadays the thought just makes him sad.

It isn’t Kennet’s fault; he can’t help his struggles. Rikard himself had a serious eating disorder when he was younger, but was fortunate enough to get help from a specialist clinic. Just three years later, he had recovered. He started working out, and eventually applied to the police academy.

After checking the time, Rikard eats a quick sandwich in the kitchen. He is just feeding Velour when Joona calls to tell him that the backup team is ready and in position.

He leaves the house, locks the door and gets in the car to drive south to Lidingo. The plan is to stop somewhere along the way to put on his body armour, rather than doing it when he gets to the hotel. Jezebel could very well be staking out the entrance, waiting for him to arrive, after all.

The tactical unit and sharp shooters are all in place, poised to make a swift intervention and block off all exits.

Rikard will head inside, pay for a room and then text Jezebel to let her know the number.

He will keep the door locked while he waits, and once she knocks, he will give the green light over the radio. Two tactical teams will then move in with weapons and stun grenades and carry out the arrest.

If she tries to break through the door with the axe before his colleagues arrive, Rikard will fire as many rounds as it takes to stop her.

He asks himself what it says that he has chosen to act as bait for a serial killer – like a worm on a hook – over an evening at home with his partner.

This is part of the job, of course, but the truth is that it feels like something has stagnated between him and Kennet lately. They have both been too tired for sex.

Rikard had been planning a romantic evening in. He was going to set the table, light some candles and make Kennet’s favourite meal. But instead, he is alone in the car with a gun on the passenger seat and a gnawing anxiety in the pit of his stomach.

He is approaching Lah?ll on the motorway when the phone he has been using to communicate with Jezebel pings with a message.

Rikard gets into the outside lane, takes the next exit and pulls over to the side of the road by a Max burger restaurant to read the text: Hi.

Need to meet somewhere else. Hope you haven’t gone out to Lidingo already, because I’ve booked room 111 at Hotell Norrort in Vallentuna.

Afraid I’ll have to cancel if that doesn’t work for you.

Works for me. Come as soon as you can. The door code is 1939.

Rikard turns around and starts driving north again, calling Joona from his usual phone to tell him about the change of plan.

‘We’re calling it off,’ says Joona. ‘Head home.’

‘I’m almost there. This is our only shot. I’ll arrest her and wait for you. Just get there as quick as you can.’

‘OK, but listen to me: we’re coming. Wait outside. Do not go in. You’re only there to observe.’

*?*?*

After turning off from the 264, Rikard Roslund stops at the side of the road, gets out of the car, pulls his stab vest over his head and adjusts his shoulder holster. He then puts on his black windbreaker, does up the zip, gets back in the car and sets off again.

The hotel looks like an enormous lump of metal in the middle of the drab industrial estate.

Beyond the high fences on both sides of the road, Rikard can see workshops, plumbing wholesalers and sheet metal firms.

Yellow light spills across the tarmac from the petrol station nearby, and the flags in the forecourt flutter limply in the gentle breeze.

There isn’t another soul in sight.

Rikard turns off into the hotel parking area and pulls into a space, watching as a skinny fox drags a dead crow from the road to the ditch.

He is currently thirty kilometres from the hotel in Lidingo, and has just calculated that the first members of the tactical unit should be with him in twenty-five minutes when he gets another message from Jezebel: I need to know if you’re coming. Wait. I’m almost there.

He switches his comms unit to silent and gets out of the car. The temperature has dropped, but he doesn’t think it will snow; the dark sky is almost clear.

His breath forms a pale cloud in the air around his face.

Rikard doesn’t know whether he is being watched or not, and he tries to be discreet as he takes a picture of the two other cars parked nearby.

On the main road, a lorry thunders by. The ground shakes, and its headlights sweep over the hotel.

The stab vest makes Rikard’s movements feel heavy and awkward as he walks over to the door, enters the code and heads inside.

The unmanned reception is spacious, with large windows out onto the parking area and a spiral staircase leading up to the first floor.

A heap of Christmas decorations has been dumped on the floor by the desk: electric Advent candles, tinsel, fairy lights, fake trees and boxes of red baubles and elves.

The only sound he can hear is the low hum of the air conditioning.

There is no sign of any other guests.

Rikard follows the signs past a simple dining room.

The tables are bare, the cushions missing from the chairs.

On a counter to one side, there are a number of shiny canteens, a coffee machine and a microwave.

A patio door leads out to a seating area with a view of the main road and a plastics manufacturer.

He continues down a gloomy corridor.

The lighting is so dim that the floor seems to vanish beneath his feet unless he is standing directly beneath one of the weak bulbs.

The plastic numbers on the grey doors sweep by almost hypnotically.

131, 130, 129.

As he walks, he realises that the strange, dreamlike feeling that has taken over him is partly down to the brown carpet muffling his footsteps.

Someone could be walking right behind him, and he wouldn’t have a clue.

Rikard feels a rush of fear, and he stops and looks back over his shoulder before continuing.

A cleaning cart is blocking the hallway up ahead, and he has to push it out of the way to get past, causing a stack of fresh towels to tumble to the floor.

Rikard peers back again, thinking about the picture of the cute girl with the dimples in the ad.

Jezebel.

He knows that the person he is about to meet is probably someone else entirely, but she is most likely a woman, and – given that no one has mentioned either a man or an accomplice – likely working alone.

An ugly fucking whore, one of the victims said.

In Rikard’s mind’s eye, another image has taken hold. The cute girl is no longer smiling. Her face has hardened, and her chin is jutting out. She is almost two metres tall, gripping the axe in her hand so tightly that her knuckles have turned white.

Her forehead is flecked with hundreds of tiny red droplets, as though she has just walked through a light rain of blood.