Page 66 of The Sleepwalker (Joona Linna #10)
He swings out into the oncoming lane as he overtakes a dirty Tesla.
The blue lights from the patrol car sweep across mature gardens on both sides of the road, glaring in the villas’ windows.
‘We’ve lost contact with the caller, and she’s not answering her phone,’ says the operator.
Around one hundred metres up ahead, a woman pushing a buggy starts to cross the road. She has earbuds in, and is looking down at something on her phone.
Danny blasts the horn, but she doesn’t hear him.
On the other side of the road, a minibus stops at the crossing to let her pass. She walks in front of it and has almost reached their lane.
‘Fuck,’ Danny mumbles, stepping on the accelerator and half-mounting the kerb, speeding past her within touching distance of the buggy.
In the wing mirror, Petrus sees her gesture angrily.
They turn sharply onto Jaktstigen, crossing the strip of snow in the middle of the road and briefly losing control of the vehicle. The back of the car swings out and hits a green rubbish bin, knocking over the fence behind it, and Danny steps on the gas again.
During their anxious drive from the museum, they have learned that the suspected killer is armed with an axe.
They pass snow-covered oaks, flagpoles and expensive cars parked in driveways. Between the exclusive houses on the left-hand side, the frozen bay is visible.
‘It’s just up here,’ says Petrus. ‘Pull over there, d’you see where I mean? By the posts with the lights that—’
He is thrown forward and feels the seatbelt cut into his shoulder as Danny slams on the brakes.
The suspect’s Opel Kadett is parked just beyond the lamppost, a cluster of air fresheners hanging from the rear-view mirror.
They turn left and speed down the driveway to the house.
‘The suspect’s car is here,’ Petrus reports over the radio. The smell of the clementine juice on his fingers fills his nose.
Danny feels the braking system shudder through the car as he screeches to a halt outside the double garage doors.
They quickly get out and run towards the front of the house.
‘We ready for this, Pingu?’ the younger officer whispers, a cloud of breath hanging in the air in front of him.
Petrus meets his eye and nods. He pulls his pistol from his holster and loads a round into the chamber.
Danny tries the front door.
‘Locked.’
‘Get the claw,’ says Petrus.
Danny runs back to the car and returns with the heavy tool. He jams the grooved head beneath the top set of hinges and pulls back as hard as he can.
The doorframe creaks and breaks, taking the hinges with it.
Danny moves the tool down to the lower hinges and repeats the process.
‘We’re going in,’ Petrus reports over the radio.
As Danny drops the claw to the floor, he realises his fingers have started to stick to the cold metal. He draws his pistol.
The lock and the strike plate make a loud crunching sound as Petrus forces the door to open inwards. Splintered wood, bent screws and pieces of broken hinge clatter to the floor.
The two officers peer in to the spacious hallway with grey marble floor tiles and modern wooden panelling.
‘I’ll take point, like normal,’ says Petrus. ‘You cover my back and the right.’
‘Yup.’
Petrus steps inside and swings around to the left, scanning the row of closed cupboard doors.
His glasses immediately fog up, and he yanks them off, squints down the hallway and takes a hesitant step forward.
A blurry figure emerges against the orange background.
His finger trembles on the trigger.
The house is too quiet, as though it is holding its breath.
Petrus pushes his glasses back on and realises that the figure up ahead is just a man in an oil painting on the wall.
‘What’s going on?’ Danny asks behind him as he checks the cloakroom to the left.
‘Trouble with the specs, but it’s all good now.’
They cover each other, quickly securing the room as they continue deeper into the house.
In one direction, the entrance hall leads to a number of bedrooms, but the other opens out onto a sumptuous, multi-level living room.
A staircase with glass railings leads up to the first floor.
The two officers hear an irregular creaking sound overhead, as though a child is trying to shuffle forward on a rocking horse.
On the far side of the living room, the sliding door to the snowy pool area is open. A trail of wet footprints lead straight over the wooden floor and rug.
Petrus feels a rush of fear for Danny, and he glances over to him. His young colleague is breathing heavily through his half-open mouth, and his eyes look tense and alert. His black pistol – a regular Glock 45, with a scratched barrel – is trembling in his hand.
Petrus moves forward again, then pauses. He has broken out in a cold sweat, he realises as his eyes turn towards the enormous floor-to-ceiling window, and he sees the dimly lit living room reflected behind him.
He and Danny are standing perfectly still, like a couple of wayward guests in a castle made of glass, when he notices a sudden movement from the corner of one eye.
Petrus swings around and hears the heavy thud of snow falling from the roof to the ground.
His heart is racing.
He feels as though he is being watched, and he looks up. Through the glass, he can see an angled window on the first floor.
‘Pingu,’ Danny says quietly, pointing to the footprints continuing towards the bedrooms.
Petrus lowers his weapon, giving his arms a brief rest as they turn back into the entrance hall.
Somewhere outside, a car engine starts.
Petrus takes the lead again, raising his Sig Sauer as he moves forward into a dressing room with a white carpet, gold-framed mirrors and pale wooden cupboards.
One of the doors is open, blocking his view up ahead.
Petrus realises just how tense he is when he starts thinking that the crazy Don Quixote from the supermarket could be hiding behind the door with a pan on his head.
Face pale, dark circles beneath his eyes, a samurai sword in one hand.
He reaches out and tries to close the wardrobe door, but it bumps up against something, sending a shiver down his spine.
Leaning into the door, he can see a little more of the dark bedroom reflected in a mirror.
There are bloody footprints all over the white carpet.
Petrus composes himself and takes a small step forward, up against the wardrobe door. In the mirror, he can now see that there is a large amount of blood all over the floor and a white armchair.
He backs up and walks straight into Danny. The older officer catches the trainee’s eye and gestures to let him know that there could be someone hiding behind the door.
The adrenaline is making every muscle in his body tingle in intense anticipation.
Without a sound, they take up their positions.
Petrus counts them in, and on three they swing around the door and secure the room.
It was just a pile of folded towels that had fallen from the shelf and blocked the door.
The air is heavy with the earthy stench of blood and urine.
Weapons drawn, they continue through to the bedroom, where the blackout blinds are half-closed.
‘Jeez .?.?.’ Danny mumbles.
On the floor, a dead man is sprawled in a huge pool of blood. His head has rolled beneath the bed.
Over on the nightstand, his phone screen lights up with a message, and in its sudden glow the two officers see that the room resembles a slaughterhouse.
Blood has sprayed across the furniture and walls, dripping from the ceiling and lampshades and glistening on the fringing on the edge of the bedspread.
The door to the bathroom is ajar.
Danny moves over and opens it. He trains his pistol on the darkness inside, fumbling in vain for a light switch.
In the soft light from the frosted window, he can make out the rough sandstone tiles on the floor and walls. There is a round bathtub, an open shower with two ceiling-mounted heads and an invisible drain.
Danny feels the shock of the scene wash over him, and the gun in his hand starts shaking so much that he has to steady it with the other.
As if in a daze, he hears Pingu talking on the radio, saying that the victim has been beheaded and that the killer has likely already left the scene.
‘We think Nina is still upstairs.’
Danny needs to get out into the cold air. He feels like he is about to fall apart, like he might implode from fear.
Petrus glances in his direction, then comes over, gives him a hug and says that the emotions will have to wait.
He lets go of his young colleague and studies him for a moment.
‘You OK?’
‘Think so. Thanks,’ Danny replies, tugging down the zip of his coat.
Petrus hears a soft scraping noise, but he can’t quite localise the sound. He turns around, raises his gun, moves back over to the bathroom door and peers inside.
His heart rate picks up as he realises that the sound could have been one of the clothes hangers in the dressing room.
He turns back towards the bedroom and sees Danny bracing himself against the wall with one hand, the other pressed to his mouth.
The low scraping starts again, but this time it doesn’t sound like metal on metal. It sounds like metal on rock, like the blade of an axe on rough sandstone tiles.