Page 34 of The Sleepwalker (Joona Linna #10)
Rikard pauses and tries to calm his breathing. He inhales deeply through his nose, then exhales through his mouth, forcing back the images by reminding himself why he is here.
He simply can’t allow Jezebel to get away. This might be their only chance before she kills again. Possibly their only chance ever.
Rikard knows that he is here to arrest a suspected serial killer, but Jezebel thinks she is here to rob and possibly even kill a john.
He continues down the murky corridor and notices that one of the doors has been left open.
It isn’t her room, but it could be a trap.
Rikard tugs down the zip on his windbreaker and reaches inside. Gripping his gun, he slowly makes his way forward.
He glances back over his shoulder before nudging the door open and peering into the room.
In the strange yellow light from the petrol station, he can make out a narrow bed with a crumpled terry throw.
A vision of Jezebel flickers through his head, cutting the cable ties securing her new axe to the glossy cardboard packaging and then loosening the plastic cover from the blade.
His heart rate picks up.
Rikard’s hand is clammy, and he lets go of his pistol, wipes his palm on his thigh and moves over to the corner, where the corridor turns sharply to the left.
He stops and listens.
Through the walls, he hears a dull clatter.
He slowly edges forward.
Behind him, something clicks.
She could be waiting just around the corner. She could be standing less than a metre away.
In the window, Rikard can make out the faint reflection of the hallway to the left. He presses up against the wall in an attempt to get a better look, then hesitantly moves another step closer.
A car drives by outside.
Rikard studies the row of reflected doors in the glass.
The sparse lighting resembles some sort of illuminated garland.
At the far end of the corridor, he can see a grey blob. A dark shadow, quivering slightly.
He takes a deep breath, swings around the corner and feels his heart pounding in his chest.
Rikard blinks firmly.
It looks as though there is a small, broad-shouldered man standing at the other end of the corridor, and Rikard has already reached for his gun before his brain manages to process what he is seeing.
It is just a chair with a hoodie draped over the backrest and a pair of trainers on the floor.
‘God,’ he whispers as he starts moving again. ‘It’s OK, I can do this .?.?.’
He passes an alcove containing a small pantry with a fridge, an oven and a small stovetop. On the stainless-steel counter, there is a white plastic chopping board.
His body armour is heavy and uncomfortable.
He continues along the row of closed doors.
Jezebel is a woman, he reminds himself. He is an armed police officer who has carried out hundreds of arrests over the years.
Despite that, he can hear the blood thundering in his ears as he reaches her room.
The door is ajar.
He moves to one side so that he can see in through the narrow crack.
The scratched laminate flooring is bathed in yellow light.
He can hear a low, monotonous roar.
Rikard knocks and takes a step back to wait. Staring in through the crack, he remembers the photographs from the crime scenes: the head on the ice, the body parts in the caravan, the blood on the walls and floor.
Reaching beneath his jacket again, he grips the handle of his gun and opens the door.
His heart rate rises even higher as he walks down the cramped hallway.
The bowing floor creaks softly underfoot.
The door to the bathroom is closed, the shower running.
The unnatural golden light from the petrol station fills the room.
Rikard keeps going, taking in the dark TV mounted on the wall to the right, a little of the window, more of the floor and the foot of the bed.
He steps forward out of the hallway and scans the main room. His eyes dart over to the corner, sweeping across the small desk, the chair and the wardrobe.
There is a red bra on the neatly made bed.
He moves over to the desk and waits for Jezebel with his back to the wall.
The shower is still running.
The yellow light from outside highlights the dirt on the windows.
Rikard adjusts his vest beneath his jacket and studies himself in the dark TV screen beside the bed.
He looks like a tin soldier, as grey as a field mouse. Trapped in a corner.
His eyes drift over to the hallway.
Jezebel is still in the bathroom.
The bra catches his attention again, and he realises he didn’t look beneath the bed.
She could be hiding under there.
He gets down on all fours to check.
The floor under the bed is dusty, strands of hair caught around the legs.
A strange image pops into Rikard’s head, of a buzzard perched on top of a dead tree, staring down at him with a pair of beady yellow eyes.
He hears another thud through the walls, and he quickly straightens up, dries his clammy palm and grabs his gun from the holster.
Rikard coughs to muffle the sound as he grips the grooved slide, pulls it back and feeds a cartridge into the chamber.
Outside, a car swings around the roundabout.
Its white headlights sweep across the room and are gone.
Gripping his pistol by his side, Rikard moves back towards the hall.
The corridor outside is dark.
He knocks on the bathroom door, waits twenty seconds and then tries again, a little harder this time.
‘Hello? Jezebel? I just wanted to say that I’m here,’ he shouts.
The shower is too loud for him to hear whether she has replied or not, so he knocks again, then opens the door. Hot steam floods out towards him. The water in the shower is hitting the curtain, making it pulse in time with the rhythmic roar.
‘Jezebel?’
On the floor by the toilet, there is a pair of red knickers. The mirror above the sink is fogged up, and the condensation is dripping from the ceiling.
Rikard steps forward into the damp heat and raises his pistol. He has just reached out to push the curtain to one side when something hits the back of his head.
The power of the blow makes him stumble, and he grabs the shower curtain in an attempt to break his fall, tearing it from the rail as he drops to his knees.
The shower is empty. It was a trap.
Groaning, he half-turns, bracing himself against the toilet as he tries to get up, but something hits him again before he has a chance.
His head snaps forward, and his mouth smashes into the plastic toilet lid.
The light is snatched away from him, and a black sail flaps across his vision.
A moment later, he regains consciousness.
The bathroom is spinning, and he struggles to make his eyes focus.
Rikard can taste blood, and his head is pounding.
With a groan, he pushes himself up and manages to get onto his feet. He turns around with his weapon raised.
This time, the metal bar hits him square in the wrist, and his gun clatters to the floor beneath the sink.
Jezebel is breathing heavily through her nose, and she lashes out at him again, following his movements with wide eyes.
She is in her fifties, with a wrinkled face and pursed lips. The muscles in her neck are taut, and the pink dress she is wearing is damp beneath both arms.
Rikard spits blood and staggers forward.
She backs up and takes another swing at him, but he uses his forearm to deflect the blow and tries to hold her back. The scent of perfume from her warm body fills his nose as they crash into the hallway wall.
She gasps, and her metal bar thuds to the floor with a hollow clang.
Rikard can feel the blood running down the back of his head, trickling inside his collar and over his spine.
The floor seems to tilt beneath him, and he feels like his legs might buckle at any moment.
Moving as fast as he can, he staggers out into the corridor, using his right hand to support himself against the wall.
In the confusion, he finds himself thinking that he should have stayed home and eaten a romantic dinner with Kennet after all.
Right then, he hears a gunshot behind him. Jezebel has his Glock.
He tries to run, but crashes straight into the wall.
‘Die, you bastard!’ she shouts, her voice faltering.
His footsteps sound like soft thuds beneath him, and to his right, the doors race by. He passes the little pantry and slows down, gasping for air. Spitting blood, he turns around and thrusts an arm out in order to remain upright.
A framed print of a pine forest falls to the floor.
Jezebel is now nowhere to be seen.
His ears are ringing, and his headache is so bad that he feels physically sick.
As Rikard starts moving again, he catches sight of himself in the window. He hurries around the corner and walks straight into an old man in a white bathrobe and slippers.
Rikard keeps going, wiping the blood from his lips. Jezebel must have chosen a different route, he thinks. She will probably be waiting for him in the lobby, behind the pile of Christmas decorations.