Page 61 of The Sleepwalker (Joona Linna #10)

The snow-covered park in the middle of the complex is criss-crossed with trails left by dogs and people.

Joona gets out of the lift on the fifth floor, steps over a blue plastic sledge and walks through the shabby stairwell.

The wig made using Ann-Charlotte Olsson’s hair was bought by a woman called Veronica Nagler, who suffered from alopecia.

Just two years later, Veronica was found dead in her own garden.

Following an autopsy, her death was ruled an accident, despite the fact that she had unusually high levels of zopiclone in her blood. The ladder had slipped on the recently cut grass, and she had fallen and hit her head on one of the rocks laid in a circle around the trunk of the apple tree.

After Veronica’s death, her husband Erland and their son Kasper moved from the cottage in Steninge to this apartment on Kometv?gen.

Joona stops and rings the bell when he reaches Erland’s apartment.

He hears shuffling footsteps inside, and a man with a crooked back, slicked-back hair and grey stubble opens the door.

The man is wearing a brown cardigan with holes in both elbows over a checked shirt, a pair of trousers pulled up to his waist, and brown leather slippers.

‘Erland Nagler?’

‘That’s me.’

According to official records, Erland is just over fifty, but the man in the doorway looks much older.

The smell of grease and old fabric drifts out onto the stairwell.

On the floor beside a small stool, there is a single pair of men’s shoes, a black coat hanging on a hook on the wall.

Joona introduces himself and gives the man a moment to study his badge.

‘A detective superintendent from Stockholm?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s happened?’ asks Erland.

‘Could I come in?’

Joona takes off his shoes, ducks beneath the low ceiling light and walks through to the kitchen behind Erland.

The brown cork tiles are badly worn, and there is a red Christmas curtain hanging in the window.

A glass and a plate have been left in the sink, and there is a pre-sliced roll in a plastic wrapper by the breadbin.

‘Is it too early for eleven o’clock coffee?’ asks Erland.

‘No, I’d love a cup. Thank you.’

‘I’ve got one of those newfangled machines now. You just fill it with water from the tap, measure the coffee into the filter and press the button,’ he tells him before repeating each step in turn.

‘Handy,’ says Joona.

‘I used to grind the beans and boil it up in a pan .?.?. And my old man, he had a fish skin for clarifying the coffee.’

As the machine splutters, Joona follows Erland into the living room. The Venetian blinds are closed. There is a rag rug on the yellow linoleum floor and two pink plush armchairs facing the TV.

On one of the pale-brown walls, Erland has a lacquered walnut clock. Through the polished glass, the pendulum swings restlessly from side to side.

Joona takes a seat in one of the armchairs while Erland goes back into the kitchen. The door to the bedroom is ajar, and he can see two small blue hand weights on the floor by the bed.

Erland returns a couple of minutes later, setting a coffee pot, cups and saucers down on the table, followed by two spoons, a box of sugar lumps and a plastic tub of biscuits.

‘I don’t understand it,’ he mumbles to himself.

‘What?’

Erland glances up and shakes his head slightly before opening the lid of the tub.

‘They look like proper biscuits, but they taste .?.?. I don’t know. The boy and I used to bake every Sunday, but nowadays .?.?.’

‘My mother made dream cookies and Finnish sticks,’ Joona says, helping himself to a small pink biscuit.

Erland stirs two lumps of sugar into his coffee, then taps the spoon on the edge of the cup and looks up.

‘Would you mind telling me why you’re here, Detective?’

‘I need to ask you a few questions about your wife, Veronica .?.?. About her wig.’

‘Ah, I see,’ he says, his voice barely audible. ‘I’m not sure I—’

‘I know it might be hard,’ Joona replies, sipping his coffee.

The clock chimes twice as the hand strikes ten thirty.

‘She keeps the time, but she never gets any older,’ says Erland.

‘Returning to Veronica’s wig .?.?.’ Joona reminds him.

‘It was like she became shy at first, after she lost her beautiful hair. But .?.?. I don’t know, that wasn’t the only tough part .?.?. As for the wig, it just vanished one day .?.?. She was buried without it,’ he says, his face twisting in grief.

Small black fruit flies swarm around a pot plant on the window sill. The plastic door frame has yellowed, and there is a boxset of Breaking Bad DVDs on the bookshelf, alongside a number of paperbacks and old souvenirs.

‘Did it ever turn up?’ Joona asks after a moment.

‘No.’

‘What happened to it?’

‘Veronica was always losing things. She was so tired all the time .?.?. So suspicious towards the end, too. She was convinced one of the nurses had nicked it.’

‘I know she bought the wig from Carl M. Lundh’s and that it was made using the hair from a woman called Ann-Charlotte Olsson.’

Joona places a photograph of Lotta on the table in front of Erland. The picture was taken shortly after she sold her hair for the first time, and she is wearing a shaggy blonde wig of synthetic hair, squinting through her glasses and smiling as though she is embarrassed about her teeth.

‘Do you recognise this woman?’ he asks.

‘No.’

‘She lives in a place called Rickeby, not far from Rimbo.’

Erland shakes his head and sips his coffee.

‘After Veronica died, I sold the house .?.?. The boy and I moved here, to a modern apartment with hot water and a shower,’ he mumbles.

‘Does your son still live here with you?’

‘Kasper? Not at the moment, no. But officially, yes.’

They sit in silence for a moment. Joona can hear the ticking of the clock and the hum of a radio in the apartment next door, the subdued sound of the traffic outside.

‘We miss that house. Well, I do .?.?. It was old, but it was right by the lake, with a lawn and fruit trees and a hammock,’ Erland says with a sigh.

‘I still wake up at five every morning, can’t shake the habit .

.?. Going down to the shed for some logs and wood shavings to get the fire going in the kitchen, so I could have the water boiling before Veronica got up. ’

Erland tops up their cups and pushes the tub of biscuits towards Joona. He then stirs another two sugars into his coffee and taps his spoon on the cup.

‘No, I don’t understand,’ he mumbles to himself.

‘What are you thinking about, Erland? What is it you don’t understand?’ Joona asks patiently.

‘After everything, when it was just me left .?.?. I was sitting here, going through her phone, and I found some love letters she’d sent to another patient at the clinic. I don’t think she was cheating on me, though. I think it was just part of her confusion.’

‘Which clinic are you talking about?’

‘You know, the Sleep Lab over in Uppsala,’ Erland replies.