Page 4 of The Sleepwalker (Joona Linna #10)

Joona fires two shots in close succession, and the double recoil reverberates through him like an extra heartbeat.

He sees both bullets strike the target’s forehead, sending fragments of cardboard flying through the air.

Joona ducks as he runs, passing a plywood screen. He spots the next target behind an orange net, drops to one knee and pulls the trigger. His shot hits the red circle in the middle of the cardboard figure’s chest.

The ground is damp in the shade behind the rusty shipping container, and spent cartridges shimmer on the gravel.

Joona follows the painted route, rounding two plastic drums full of sand, dragging a heavy dummy to safety behind a police car and hitting the last target square in the forehead.

A cloud of dust hovers in the sunlight as Joona secures his weapon and pushes it into his holster.

For some reason, his thoughts turn to his father, himself a police officer, killed in the line of duty. Joona was only eleven when he died, but the loss was like a prism, bending the light and – in all likelihood – guiding him to become the person he is today.

He has spent his entire adult life trying to make the world a better place, first in the military and later as a police officer. Without a single thought about what the job was doing to him, he forged ahead for years on end.

He doesn’t need to look back to know that he has left a trail of death behind him. A battlefield on which more and more vultures have begun to gather to peck at the bodies.

Joona has often been told that looking back is futile, but it has become increasingly difficult to avoid it when he is alone.

I can’t handle the loneliness anymore, he thinks. Not in my private life, and not at work.

He already misses Valeria, and he longs to see his daughter, Lumi.

In the past, he always insisted that he preferred to work alone, but he has begun to realise that he needs someone by his side.

He wishes Saga Bauer could be that person. They would complement each other perfectly.

Saga feels like a sister. A brilliant but complex woman who needs him, too – though she would never admit that, even to herself.

She is too proud, too stubborn.

Joona is stubborn, too.

When he knows he is right about something, he is incapable of giving in, of backing down. It doesn’t matter what it costs him.

Joona brushes himself off, checks his time for the range and has just started making his way over to the next one when his phone rings.

The call is from Lisette Josephson, the prosecutor, and they talk briefly as he heads back to the parking area.

Five minutes later, Joona drives away from the National Tactical Unit’s training centre in Sorentorp. He tries to come out to the dynamic shooting range as often as he can.

During the call, the prosecutor explained that she had taken the decision to remand a seventeen-year-old male in custody overnight, citing article twenty-four, paragraph two of the Code of Judicial Procedure because they had been unable to establish his identity.

That morning, they had determined that the teenager’s name is Hugo Sand, and that he is registered at an address in H?gersten. He doesn’t crop up in any police or social services databases, but he is suspected of having carried out a violent axe murder.

The dismembered victim found in the caravan has also been identified as Josef Lindgren, a thirty-one-year-old teacher who lived in Tumba with his wife Jasmin and their young child.

Lisette Josephson asked Joona to assist her in the first interview with Hugo Sand, conducted in the presence of his guardian and solicitor.

Joona Linna is a detective superintendent with the National Crime Unit in Stockholm.

He is an expert on serial killers and has solved more complex murder cases than anyone else in Scandinavia.

Before he joined the police force, he was a member of the military’s special operations unit, training in unconventional close combat and innovative weapons under Lieutenant Rinus Advocaat in the Netherlands.

*?*?*

The suspect’s father and solicitor have taken their seats on one side of the varnished pine table in the windowless interrogation room.

Bernard Sand seems calm and composed, sitting tall with his hands folded in his lap. He is clean-shaven, and his thick, greying hair is neatly combed back, his eyes watchful.

Joona and Lisette Josephson are sitting opposite them. Lisette has sleek blonde hair, a slight underbite and a stern gaze. She is wearing a pair of chestnut brown leather trousers and a nougat-coloured cashmere sweater. Her coat is draped over the arm of her chair.

Joona flicks through the forensic technicians’ photographs from the static caravan for the second time, pausing to study the image from the bedroom where the teenager was found.

The axe is on the bed, the gleaming blade resting on the pillow, almost as though it had tossed the young man to the floor and then lain down to sleep.

There are bloody hand- and footprints everywhere, bright spatters high up the walls, smeared blood and a large pool around a severed arm on the vinyl floor.

The clear impression of a shoulder is visible in the middle of the pool.

There is a curt knock at the door, and Hugo Sand is led into the room by a guard who takes a seat by the wall.

Hugo sits down between his father and solicitor.

His green custody tracksuit makes his skin look pale and sickly, emphasising the dark circles beneath his eyes.

He immediately starts chewing on his thumb nail, and his father reaches out and gently pulls his hand away from his mouth.

After the usual formalities, the prosecutor welcomes everyone and explains that they will be following the national guidelines for the handling of cases involving minors.

‘That’s why we’ve held off on interviewing you so far, Hugo – until your solicitor could be here,’ Lisette continues.

‘OK,’ he mumbles.

A waft of the solicitor’s aftershave drifts through the air as he pours some water into the paper cups and loosens his tie slightly.

‘Right, shall we get started?’ Lisette asks, briefly reading from the files in front of her before she looks up.

‘Following a call reporting a possible break-in at Bred?ng Campsite, Hugo Sand was arrested by the responding officers at quarter past three this morning. Forensics found blood belonging to the victim on Hugo, and his fingerprints and DNA were also found at the crime scene.’

The solicitor leans forward and clears his throat. ‘My client doesn’t deny having been in the caravan when—’

‘His fingerprints are on the murder weapon,’ the prosecutor cuts him off.

‘Wait,’ says Hugo, his voice barely holding. ‘I don’t know what happened. I woke up when one of the cops shot the floor in front of me, but I had no idea what I was doing there.’

‘My client is a sleepwalker, clinically diagnosed and very well documented,’ the solicitor says, opening his briefcase.

‘A sleepwalker?’ Lisette asks, blushing slightly.

‘Here is a list of places where Hugo has previously woken up, including but not limited to a metro car, a rowing boat on Lake M?laren, a Thai massage parlour—’

‘Joona, perhaps you could take over?’ Lisette says, her voice faltering.

‘What did you do yesterday evening?’ Joona asks, fixing his eyes on the boy.

Hugo turns to his representative, who gives him a near-imperceptible nod in response, and then looks up at Joona.

‘Nothing.’

‘We ate dinner together around seven,’ says Bernard.

‘And after that?’

‘I hung out in my room with my girlfriend,’ Hugo says with a shrug.

‘How long did she stay?’

‘Till eleven.’

‘And what time did you go to bed?’

‘I don’t really know. I listened to some music, then fell asleep. Probably around twelve.’

Hugo tugs at the neck of his sweatshirt.

‘How often do you sleepwalk?’ asks Joona.

‘About once a month, I guess .?.?. Except when I’m having a bad episode. It happens pretty much every night then.’

‘And how often do these bad episodes occur?’

‘Not very often these days. Maybe every other year,’ Hugo replies, taking a sip of water.

Joona hears Lisette jot something down.

‘How long do the episodes last?’

‘Three months, max .?.?. I don’t know, it’s always pretty tough – for everyone around me.’

‘Do you know what triggers your sleepwalking?’ Joona continues.

‘If you mean the episodes, we haven’t managed to detect any concrete patterns,’ the father replies.

‘I’ve got a kind of parasomnia called RBD, which stands for REM-sleep behaviour disorder,’ Hugo explains.

‘You dream while you’re sleepwalking, in other words,’ says Joona.

Hugo nods and pushes his long hair back from his eyes. He has a number of small piercing holes in his lower lip, nostril and down the ridge of one ear.

‘My doctor calls them catastrophic dreams,’ he says.

‘What sort of catastrophes do they involve?’ Joona asks, leaning forward.

‘I dunno, I never really remember anything .?.?. But I’m always scared, and I usually have to run or hide.’

‘Who is your doctor?’

‘Lars Grind at the Sleep Science Lab in Uppsala,’ Bernard replies.

Joona turns back to Hugo. The teenager is slim and pale, with the face of a young fairy-tale prince – albeit with tired, bloodshot eyes and chapped lips.

‘Would you say that you’re capable of doing the same things as someone who is awake while you’re sleepwalking?’

‘You don’t have to answer that,’ the solicitor interjects.

‘It’s OK, I can explain what it’s like. What difference does it make?’ says Hugo, turning to Joona. ‘So, for example .?.?. when I’m sleepwalking, I can unlock my phone and call people without any problem, but when they pick up apparently I don’t make any sense.’

‘When did you first start sleepwalking?’ asks Joona.

‘I’m not sure, I was little.’

‘He’s always done it, but we sought help for the first time when he was six,’ Bernard says quietly.

‘Why?’

‘Hugo woke in the middle of a road with a lorry blasting its horn and slamming the brakes on .?.?. He’d got out of bed, gone down the stairs, unlocked the front door and walked almost two kilometres.’

Hugo smiles apologetically, but his face turns serious when he notices Joona’s eyes on him.

‘How often do you wake up in other places?’

‘Pretty often.’

‘And do you know where you are when you wake up?’

‘It varies.’

‘Have you ever been to Bred?ng Campsite before?’ Joona holds Hugo’s eye.

‘Yeah .?.?. I used to go there all the time with my friends. I’ve taken girls there, too, smoked hash.’

‘You never mentioned that,’ says Bernard.

‘Wonder why .?.?.’ Hugo mumbles.

‘As I understand it, sleepwalkers often have their eyes open. Is that the case for you?’ asks Joona.

‘Yes, he does,’ Bernard replies on his son’s behalf.

‘Do you remember any of what you see?’

‘Nope.’

‘So you have no idea whether you murdered the man in the caravan?’