Page 41 of The Sleepwalker (Joona Linna #10)

Without a word, Gregory and Peck open the boot of their car and put on their body armour. They pull on their coats over the top, then follow Joona down the narrow road towards the turnoff to Rickeby.

‘These politicians, they always promise lower petrol prices .?.?. We fell for it last time, and we’ll fall for it next time, too,’ says Gregory. ‘Because the truth is that unrealistic promises sound better than realistic ones .?.?. It’s like a self-playing piano.’

‘You could always vote for one of the left-wing parties instead .?.?.’ Peck suggests hesitantly.

‘What was that?’

‘I said—’

‘I can’t hear a fucking word you say,’ Gregory cuts him off. ‘You talk like a little bitch.’

‘Easy,’ Joona warns him.

The road meanders through a dark field, snow lingering in the furrows in the earth, a hunting stand over by the edge of the woods.

‘Tougher sentences, the politicians say .?.?. and the journalists, they lick their arses like dogs,’ Gregory continues. ‘But tougher sentences won’t make a fucking bit of difference. We don’t have the bloody capacity; the courts can’t keep up as it is, and the prisons are already full.’

‘What we need is preventative work,’ says Peck. ‘And a social—’

‘What?’

They pause behind a red barn right by the turnoff. The ground around them is littered with fallen roof tiles. It is hard to tell whether or not this building is also part of the Olssons’ farm.

‘Nice and quiet now,’ Joona says softly. ‘No visible weapons, no raised voices.’

They make their way down the narrow gravel track, Joona taking the lead and the two local officers bringing up the rear.

Their footsteps and breathing are the only sounds they can hear.

In the ditch, something flashes.

There is a white plastic motion detector mounted to a gatepost at one side of the road, and they have just triggered the alarm.

‘Well, they know we’re coming now,’ says Joona.

It feels as though the temperature drops as they continue.

The air smells like snow.

Through one of the windows in the main house, Joona notices the pale glow of a television. The light flickers sombrely over the low branches of the spruce trees outside.

Someone is chopping logs nearby, heavy blows followed by the thud of wood on wood.

The three officers slowly approach the dilapidated farm buildings.

In the yard, there is an old caravan with a green tarpaulin draped over one side, a white pickup and eight cars that have been largely stripped out.

The track swings off behind a barn before leading them in between the buildings, and on turning the corner they see a slim, bare-chested boy chopping wood over by a hydraulic splitter.

A brood of hens moves uneasily between broken buckets, car seats, blackened exhaust pipes and mufflers.

The three police officers pause in the middle of the yard.

Peck blows on his frozen fingers.

Beside the front door, a small Swedish flag hangs limply from a rusty pole.

There is a brown refrigerator up against one wall, beside a tap and a metal washbasin.

Four folding plastic chairs have been arranged around a metal table.

A man emerges from the open garage. He has slim shoulders and grubby hands, and is wearing rubber boots and a green raincoat buttoned over his rounded belly. It is ?ke Berg, Ann-Charlotte’s partner. His greying hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and he has a paisley scarf tied around his head.

‘Everyone’s seen that goddamn ad, huh?’ he says, tightening the belt on his coat. ‘We’ve only got ten sacks of seed potato and three sacks of chicken shit left.’

‘But we—’ Gregory begins.

‘No one wants chemicals in their food, but there’s chemicals in all the fucking food,’ ?ke continues. ‘That’s why we’re self-sufficient. We’ve got hens, sheep .?.?. fields, greenhouses.’

‘We’re here to speak to Ann-Charlotte,’ Gregory tries again.

‘Yeah, her raspberry jam .?.?. Fuck me, it’s good. But we only sell produce in the summer.’

The low sound of the TV in the main house is audible, and Joona tries to peer in through the window. The boy is still chopping wood, but he glances over to them every time he positions a new piece on the block.

‘Could we come in?’ asks Joona.

?ke uses his thumb to wipe his nose.

‘No can do, Lotta’s snoozing.’

‘Then maybe you could do us a favour and wake her up,’ Gregory says, pushing his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose.

‘Soon enough, yeah .?.?. But talk to me first. Doesn’t sound like you want to buy jam,’ says ?ke, pulling out one of the chairs by the table. ‘Sit down, tell me .?.?. What d’you actually want?’

‘This only concerns Lotta,’ says Joona.

‘Right-o. Sit yourselves down and I’ll go and get her,’ ?ke replies, nodding to the chairs.

He studies them as they sit down around the metal table. The ground is strewn with cigarette butts and empty beer bottles, and their breath forms clouds in the cold air.

?ke half-turns away from them and reaches into his raincoat. He pulls out a length of fishing line and winds the loose end around his index finger.

Using his left hand, he sets down four tin mugs on the table, followed by a bottle of murky liquid.

‘We were at the Christmas market over in Karby last year,’ he says. ‘Y’know, selling sweet pretzels and hotdogs at jacked-up prices .?.?.’

?ke moves over to the fridge and returns with a jam jar without a label. He then fetches a plate of small grey balls, possibly some type of dumpling.

‘You’ve gotta try some of our snacks and must.’

‘Thanks,’ says Gregory, popping one of the balls into his mouth. It crunches between his teeth as he chews.

‘Knut! Come and open the bottle,’ says ?ke.

The boy brings the axe down on the chopping block and shuffles over to the table with his head bowed. His face is grubby, his thin body covered in bruises.

He takes the bottle from his father and holds it out to the police officers like a waiter in a restaurant.

‘Who wants a sup, then?’ ?ke asks as he takes a seat.

‘Go and get Lotta,’ Joona tells him.

‘He’ll have some,’ says ?ke, ignoring him and pointing at Peck.

The boy unscrews the lid, fills the mug in front of Peck and takes a step back. Joona opens his windbreaker slightly in case he needs to access his gun.

‘Try the must,’ says ?ke.

Peck pretends to take a sip.

‘Very nice.’

The boy fills the remaining mugs with the murky liquid and leaves the bottle on the table. The pungent aroma of alcohol and raw onion hangs over them for a moment before dissipating in the wind.

‘Give it a proper go,’ says ?ke.

Peck does as he is told and immediately grimaces.

‘It’s quite bitter, but .?.?.’

‘You should ask for a Baileys next time,’ Gregory tells him, taking a drink from his own mug.

‘What d’you reckon, then?’ asks ?ke, turning to Gregory with a strange glimmer in his eye.

‘Nice and strong.’

A grubby-faced girl in a pink nightie appears from the side of the garage. She is holding a struggling rabbit by the ears in one hand, its long back feet practically dragging on the ground.

‘Might as well sit here and enjoy ourselves for a bit,’ says ?ke. ‘The chicken balls and drinks are on me, and you can to tell me exactly why you want to talk to Lotta.’

He smiles, revealing that he has no molars.

‘We can come back next week,’ says Joona.

‘Like hell.’

The boy scratches his arm. His lips have taken on a bluish tinge.

Small snowflakes swirl through the air above the gravel.

Gregory pops another chicken ball into his mouth and chews noisily.

The young girl is staring at them. The rabbit in her hand has stopped struggling, but its nose is still moving in time with its rapid breathing.

‘Doesn’t seem like you’re going to tell me why you’re here, huh?’ ?ke mutters.

‘We’re here to talk to Ann-Charlotte,’ Peck tells him.

‘You lot are really fucking repetitive, you know that?’

‘That’s not our intention,’ says Joona. ‘We’ll come back another day.’

‘Drink your damn must,’ ?ke replies, looking him straight in the eye.

‘No.’ Joona slowly gets to his feet.

‘The boy’s freezing. You should let him go inside,’ says Gregory.

‘Mind your own fucking business,’ ?ke snarls, a menacing tone to his voice.

‘I’m just saying that—’

‘Shut your mouth. Knut, get over here.’

The boy takes a step forward, and ?ke slaps him. He staggers to one side, but doesn’t raise his head.

‘God .?.?.’ Peck whispers to himself.

The boy stands still for a moment, then quietly moves back over to the chopping block and gets to work.

The hens peck at the ground around him in the darkness.

‘We’re going,’ says Joona.

?ke leans back, breathing heavily. He loosens the belt of his raincoat, giving Joona’s colleagues a glimpse at what he already suspected might be underneath: several large packs of explosive strapped around his torso.

‘Sit down, the lot of you. Sit down and put your hands where I can see ’em,’ ?ke tells them.

The detonator has been pushed into one of the bales, right through the protective paper. The safety catch is off, and the fishing line around his finger is tied to the fuse.

‘For your own sakes,’ he explains, studying them with a glazed look in his eyes. ‘If you want to avoid an accident, that is .?.?. Me, I don’t care either way.’