Page 78 of The Sleepwalker (Joona Linna #10)

Snow and debris whirl through Ultuna, over the fields and roads, between the university buildings and industrial units.

The wind sounds like a jet engine.

The tall fence around the dark Sleep Lab is clogged with snow, making it look like a bumpy white wall.

Two black vans are parked on the street outside.

During the drive from Uppsala, as his eyes recovered from the tear gas, Thor reminded his team that it is not OK to shoot the lock out of a door.

He is the last to get out of the van, and the snow immediately peppers his grey-flecked beard. He turns his back to the wind and walks over to his team behind the other van.

In the deserted building site next door, a crane has blown over, crushing a loader.

‘Listen up,’ Thor says quietly. ‘There really aren’t enough of us for this, given the size of the place, but the comms systems are all down because of the storm .?.?. That means no backup, but we’re here now and we have a job to do before we can head home and give our boys and girls a squeeze.’

The plan is to enter the lab from two sides simultaneously, storming the main door and the staff entrance, searching every room, finding the suspected killer and arresting him.

Considering there are patients and researchers inside, they will need to make it clear that they are police officers, and should only use tear gas or stun grenades if they have no other option.

‘This fucking weather,’ Nolan mutters as he makes his way over to the fence with a pair of bolt cutters.

‘There’s no such thing was bad weather, just bad clothing,’ two of the operatives retort in unison.

Nolan cuts a large hole in the fence, bends back the sharp edges and uses cable ties to hold it open.

Thor turns on the light on his helmet and decides that he probably needs to talk to someone about the impact Kristina’s problems are having on him, eating away at his sense of calm and making him see things that aren’t there.

‘Wouldn’t it have been easier just to shoot a hole in it?’ one of the men jokes as he ducks through the opening.

Thor exchanges a look with Nolan and points out their approach.

Four men from the team make their way over to the main entrance while Thor and Nolan run across to the staff door.

There is an ominous groaning sound as the wind tugs at the metal roof.

The beam from Thor’s helmet light illuminates Nolan’s back, making his rectangular reflector badge flash in the darkness.

They round a concrete pillar and continue towards the carport, where four cars are parked beneath the flat rain cover.

A few pieces of white plastic garden furniture skid across the ground.

There is so much snow on Thor’s visor that he has to stop and take it off before he can continue, squinting up ahead.

It feels as though he is in some sort of dream world, a pale chaos twisting in all directions, changing speed and causing the laws of gravity to stop working.

The powerful gusts of wind slam against the building, making the snow swirl upwards.

Nolan continues towards the first car.

The drifting flakes have blown in beneath the rain cover, piling up against the wall of the building like a wave ready to break.

Thor feels feverish, and realises that he has begun to fixate on irrelevant details.

He wipes the snow out of his eyes and follows his colleague.

On the ground by a red car, there is a dead magpie.

Nolan runs over to the concrete loading dock and up the steel steps, pausing by the door and taking out an angle grinder.

Thor’s back is sweaty, and he feels a sudden rush of fear that someone is about to charge towards him through the haze.

With a whimper, he turns around and raises his rifle.

He hears a loud scraping, screeching sound, and sees sparks flying from the angle grinder, scattering across the loading dock.

Thor lowers his rifle and takes his finger from the trigger. His torchlight bounces off the cars.

Peering into the darkness beneath the steps, he is convinced he can see a black snake curling up.

He forces himself to look away, absent-mindedly wandering over to one of the cars and studying the pretty lace-like frost on the windscreen.

Behind him, pieces of hinge clatter to the concrete.

In the flickering light from the angle grinder, Thor notices a number of footprints on the ground around the car parked at the far end of the port, left by shoes with a separate big toe, like some sort of foot mitten.

The registration plate gleams.

It is Lars Grind’s Tesla.

He raises his gun and slowly moves forward.

Through the side window, he can see a figure in the driver’s seat. A bald head, throat, shoulders.

A wave of adrenaline surges through him.

It feels as though he is pulsing, like a metal lampshade on an unearthed lamp.

He swallows hard, takes aim at the person behind the wheel and curls a trembling finger around the trigger as he slowly inches closer.

The beam of light from his helmet illuminates the inside of the car.

Thor stops.

Lars Grind is slumped back in the seat with his eyes closed.

His face is the colour of ash, and there are ice crystals on his eyebrows.

Thor opens the door, takes a step back and re-aims his gun at Grind.

After a moment, he moves forward, clamps his right hand beneath his left arm and pulls off his glove. He then reaches inside and, though he already knows the doctor is dead, presses his fingers to his cold throat.

*?*?*

The metro clanks out of a bend and speeds up. Hugo is almost alone in the carriage, and he feels the soft jolts travel through him.

The woman sitting opposite him looks weary, a couple of bulging Ikea bags by her feet.

Through the reflections in the window, Hugo has also noticed the young man a few rows back, his face hidden beneath the hood of his coat. He has his arms folded as if he is cold, and his thin, pale hands look as though they have no flesh on them.

Hugo sat with Svanhildur for an hour while he waited for Lars Grind to come back, then decided he could do without his medication and left the clinic.

He caught a bus to Uppsala, watching the trees shake and branches break as they drove along the country roads.

Outside the station building, rubbish sailed across the square and around the fountain. The big Christmas tree had blown over, and the flags had all been torn from their poles.

By the time his train was approaching Stockholm, the snow had started coming down heavily, and there were repeated announcements about delays and cancellations.

Hugo headed straight down to the metro and jumped on a red line train to Norsborg.

The young man had nipped into the carriage just as the doors were closing.

Above him now, the lights flicker.

Hugo checks his phone and sees that Lars Grind has sent his records as a PDF file, accompanied by a brief message.

Dear Hugo, I wanted to apologise and say that you’re doing the right thing by reporting me to the Health and Social Care Inspectorate.

There is no doubt that I’ve pushed certain ethical boundaries, largely due to a sense of urgency which – ironically enough – stems from not having had time to check my prostate.

I desperately wanted to leave a lasting legacy, something that could help the next generation of researchers find answers to the big questions.

You have been like a son to me. My fondest regards, Lars

Hugo tries to call the doctor, but his phone seems to be switched off. Instead, he gazes out into the blizzard with a deep knot of anxiety in the pit of his stomach.

After a moment, he sighs and starts reading his journal, beginning when he visited the lab for the first time at just six years old.

Behind him, the young man whispers agitatedly to himself.

The train has just passed Liljeholmen when it slows down and stops in the middle of a tunnel. Over the speaker system, the driver announces that there has been a power cut. They have switched over to battery power, and will be able to reach the next station, but no further.

The train will terminate at Aspudden, and everyone will have to leave. Information about rail replacement buses will be provided at the next station.