Page 38 of The Sleepwalker (Joona Linna #10)
Joona is standing in the middle of the suspension bridge, looking down at the surging water below.
The maritime police have travelled upriver from the Bothnian Sea in a boat with a crane, and a diver has attached a harness to the dead body and cut through the rope ladder with a pair of bolt cutters.
The winch starts to turn with a low whirr.
Water pours off the body as it breaks the surface and the team work to bring it onboard into an open cadaver bag.
The deceased is an adult male, and he seems to have been in the water for around three days.
Swollen and grey.
His right arm and head are both missing, likely making him the serial killer’s third targeted victim.
He has a boot on one foot, but the other is bare, and his toenails are blue against his pale skin. He is wearing a coat, black trousers and a wrongly buttoned shirt.
According to detective superintendent Jaromir Prospal, he is likely Pontus Bandling, who was reported missing by his wife a couple of days ago.
The local police have found traces of blood further upstream, on Karl XII’s Bridge, right by the power station. The body must have drifted downriver on the current before becoming caught on one of the ladders used by recreational fishermen in the area.
*?*?*
The melancholy detective superintendent is waiting for Joona at the end of the bridge in an unzipped floor-length down jacket. He has puffy bags beneath his weary eyes, a goatee, a tattooed neck and a mullet.
‘I’m thinking about dropping the investigation into Pontus Bandling for petty drugs offences,’ Jaromir jokes half-heartedly.
‘What kind of drugs?’ Joona asks.
‘We found half a vial of meth in his hotel room, maybe three grams, plus some coke and a bit of weed.’
‘For personal use, I presume?’
‘We’ll have to see what the autopsy shows,’ Jaromir mumbles.
The maritime police back up against the current, turn their boat and disappear into the distance.
Tiny snowflakes swirl over the dark water.
Jaromir turns back to the suspension bridge, where the remains of the rope are swaying in the current.
‘Hard to believe he could’ve lost both his head and his arm in the rapids,’ he says.
‘It was an axe,’ Joona replies.
‘You could see that from the bridge?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’m guessing you probably want to take a look at his room?’ says Jaromir, heading back towards the cars.
*?*?*
After a short drive to the Officers’ Villa on Laxon, the two detectives park on both sides of the dead man’s Bentley, get out of their cars and pause around twenty metres from the cordoned-off building.
Jaromir explains that forensics have already photographed everything, but that the technicians won’t touch anything until Joona gives them the green light.
The blue-and-white tape flutters and strains in the wind.
Jaromir shoves his hands in his pockets and pulls his coat tight as he explains that Pontus’ wife Caroline called the police at seven a.m. on 2 December to say that she was worried because she couldn’t get hold of her husband.
The call handler tried to reassure her, to say that he had probably just slept in, that his phone had run out of charge.
An hour later, Caroline phoned again, having spoken to the university in Falun where he works; he had never been late for the morning meeting before.
‘We sent a car over here and found the door unlocked,’ Jaromir continues as they move towards the building.
‘He hadn’t checked out, and all his things were still here.
The place was a bit of a mess, but we couldn’t see any blood, no sign of violence.
It was only when my colleagues found the vial of white powder that they cordoned off the room to wait for forensics. ’
Jaromir hands Joona a pair of shoe covers and tells him that the dead man’s wife has already been in touch with Missing People to request a search party.
Her lawyer has also called the regional police chief to demand a dog patrol, and added that they would be hiring a private investigator from Stockholm.
The detective stamps the snow from his combat boots before he and Joona pull on their shoe covers and head inside, sticking to the step plates that have been laid out.
The air in the bedroom smells like perfume and smoke, and the sheets are messy, the duvet heaped on the floor.
A pair of navy-blue boxer shorts have been draped over the valet stand, and there is a dark-brown leather briefcase leaning against the radiator beneath the window, a single man’s sock on top of a Burberry cabin bag.
On the floor by the stove, there is a near-full bottle of Highland Park whisky.
Over by the bed, on the nightstand, a small mirror flecked with powder has been left beside a metal straw and a tarot card. It is the Hanged Man, featuring a picture of a youngster in a pale-blue shirt, hanging upside down from a wooden post with a snare around his foot.
A reproduction Carl Larsson painting has been taken down and propped up, facing the wall, and a pair of black lace knickers have been hung from the nail in its place.
*?*?*
Joona is driving back towards Stockholm on the E4 when Jaromir calls to tell him that the deceased’s identity has now been confirmed as Pontus Bandling.
Breaking the news of a death is one of the toughest jobs a police officer can face, but Joona offers to stop off in Uppsala to let Bandling’s widow know.
They are looking at three premeditated murders now, he thinks, which makes it a definite series.
This will undoubtedly be the biggest investigation of the year.
There is nothing wrong with Noah Hellman – he’s a good boss – but he refuses to admit that their chances of stopping the killer would be much higher if he would just allow Saga to join the team.
*?*?*
Joona opens the door to a handsome building from the late-nineteenth century and gets into the lift. He presses the button for the top floor, and the mechanism creaks as it carries him upwards.
He can’t bring himself to look in the mirror.
Telling a person that someone they love is dead is probably the most fraught type of communication there is.
A few words marking the point of no return.
So final, almost an insult to the concept of free will.
Our utter impotence in the face of destiny is never clearer than in that moment.
The brain frantically searches for a way out, a mistake, but eventually has no choice but to give up. And a moment later, the heavy wave of grief hits the bereaved with full force.
The lift reaches the top floor, and Joona opens the gate and steps out onto the landing. He takes a deep breath, then moves forward and presses a finger to the bell. It doesn’t make a sound, but Caroline Bandling quickly opens the door.
She is a striking woman in her fifties, wearing a pair of wide-legged beige trousers and a matching cardigan with a fitted waist.
Behind her, Joona can see a spacious oval hallway with milky marble flooring, an enormous chandelier and a pale-grey silk ottoman.
Caroline is wearing barely any makeup, and is enveloped in the scent of expensive soap. She tries her best to maintain her composure, but it is clear from her eyes that she is petrified.
‘My name is Joona Linna, and I’m a detective superintendent with the National Crime Unit in Stockholm,’ he begins, holding up his ID.
‘No .?.?.’ she whispers, clasping her shaking hands.
‘Could I come in?’
It is as though he can feel the power of her frightened heartbeats pulsing through the air. The colour drains from her cheeks, her chin begins to tremble, and she swallows firmly.
‘Is it Pontus?’
‘I’m afraid to have to tell you that—’
‘No,’ she cuts him off, shaking her head.
‘He has been found dead.’
‘Don’t say that.’
‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’
‘No, no, no .?.?.’
Her face crumples and becomes a picture of unbearable loss, and she slumps to the floor. Joona rushes forward and helps her back to her feet. She falls into his arms, clutching him to her. Her body feels red-hot, trembling against his.
‘God, I don’t want .?.?.’
‘I know,’ he says softly.
Her breathing is ragged, but after a moment or two she pulls back and attempts to compose herself. She looks up at him, tears running down her cheeks, and tries to dry her eyes with shaking hands.
‘Sorry,’ she says between sobs. ‘Please, come in.’
‘I really am sorry for your loss.’
‘Thank you,’ she says, pressing a hand to her mouth for a few seconds. ‘I have a private detective here. She’d just turned down the job.’
‘I can come back later.’
‘No, she’s about to leave .?.?. If you’ll excuse me, I just need to .?.?. Give me a few seconds,’ Caroline says, turning away.