Page 81 of The Sleepwalker (Joona Linna #10)
The road is blanketed in snow, muffling the sound of Joona’s tyres as he drives through one dark community after another following the power cut.
He tries to reach Hugo and Agneta again, but the phone network is still down.
Even the police comms system stopped working an hour ago.
The backup reserve is meant to last seven days in a situation like this, but the Tetran?t base stations all seem to have been knocked out, too, probably because of fallen masts.
Despite the stress bubbling inside him, Joona knows he can’t drive any faster. He passes an abandoned bus at the side of the road, and a second later it is gone, swallowed up by the swirling white.
When the blizzard rolled in over the fields and meadows, enveloping his car, his mind was cast back to Hugo’s hypnosis sessions, to the nightmare-addled second attempt and the stripped-back third.
Just like that, it all seemed so clear.
Heart racing with adrenaline, the thought that he deserved one of his chocolate coins flashed through his head.
At first, Hugo was looking in through a window with multiple panes of glass, then a window with rounded corners and a piece of trim hanging loose at the bottom edge.
But it wasn’t a case of nightmare versus reality. In actual fact, Hugo has witnessed two separate murders.
The first took place in his own home, upstairs in the big house, in the main bedroom with its parquet floor, brass transition strip and a lamp with a shade made from faux snakeskin.
Hugo saw his father murder a man through the door in the hallway.
Just to be on the safe side, Joona called Hall Prison and asked to speak to Gerald Pedersen. The inmate was happy to hear from him, telling Joona that he had been contacted by a lawyer who explained that while the process of being released may take time, it is essentially nothing but a formality.
‘When we met, you told me that your wife had been in touch with a psychologist,’ Joona said.
‘Yes .?.?.’
‘Did you mean the relationship column in Expressen ?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘Bernard Sand?’
‘Yes.’
Bernard has used his wildly popular advice column to find his victims. He receives hundreds of letters from people – letters that are revealing, honest and conceited.
His readers tell him all about their crises, their problems, their fears and anxieties, not realising that in doing so, they are making themselves and their families targets.
His rage seems to have been triggered by what he sees as betrayal where children are concerned – particularly when they are more vulnerable as a result of illness or other circumstances.
A branch on the road clatters against the underside of Joona’s car.
Despite the weak GPS signal on the satnav, the darkness and the snow-covered road signs, he realises he is approaching the bridge to St?ket, high above a narrow inlet of Lake M?laren.
Visibility is close to zero, but in the brief moments when the storm seems to pause for breath, he catches glimpses of the landscape around him.
The blanket of snow on the road is getting deeper and deeper, covering the tyre tracks from the cars up ahead. Time and time again, he tries to parry the powerful gusts of wind and the slight skids to the side as the snow gives way beneath his car.
Joona needs to get to Bernard Sand’s house.
As he drives out onto the bridge, he thinks that it won’t be long until Agneta works it out. She is extremely smart and has all of the pieces of the puzzle on the table in front of her.
The moment she puts two and two together, she will be in great danger. In addition to his carefully chosen victims, Bernard has already killed four people who got in his way.
The snow is barrelling down the inlet like a raging river, the wind so powerful that the entire bridge is shaking.
Up ahead, Joona can see five red lights, blinking like lanterns in the storm.
There has been an accident.
Slowing down, he gets his first glimpse of the crash on the bridge. A lorry is on its side, its windscreen cracked and the cab wedged up against the barrier on the wrong side of the road.
Joona drives towards it at a crawl.
The huge trailer is already half-buried beneath the snow.
The dolly is still the right way up, its axel warped.
A lamppost has fallen to the ground, and several cars have collided on both sides of the lorry.
The bridge is completely blocked.
Joona comes to a halt and attempts to back up, but has to stop almost immediately when another car appears behind him.
Its dipped headlights slow, and there is a muffled thud.
A third car has driven into the back of it, causing its lights to shake and veer sharply to one side.
The bonnet breaks through the fibreglass railing and hits the side panel.
Joona gets out of the car and realises there is a line of traffic behind him, stretching right back to the end of the bridge.
He runs over to the cars on the other side of the lorry. Despite having crashed, none of the vehicles seems too badly damaged.
A woman in a padded jacket is standing by one of the cars with a torch, talking to the man behind the wheel.
Joona walks over to her and asks her what is happening.
His hair blows in all directions, the wind tugging at his clothes.
The woman blinks repeatedly to keep the snow out of her eyes as she tells him that no one is seriously injured.
Joona asks her to make sure no one is trapped in any of the cars, then to get everyone to walk over to St?ket.
‘Stick to the right and head to the Sisters of Saint Elizabeth.’
Joona runs past the damaged cars to the other side of the bridge. He scrambles down the slope by the abutment and continues along a narrow road, sheltered from the worst of the storm.
He clambers over fallen trees, passing houses with broken roofs and pieces of garden furniture and barbecues.
A trampoline has taken down the power lines, and is caught in the scrub at the side of the road.
Joona makes his way down to a small marina, running past a black pickup outside a small house.
The boats brought ashore for winter have all tipped over, crushing their stands and supports. The ropes tied to frozen water drums are tangled, and the torn tarpaulins are flapping in the wind.
The frothing waves hurl large shards of broken ice ashore.
Very little of the pontoon jetty is still standing.
Joona runs over to two men who are busy trying to haul a large black rigid inflatable boat up a steel ramp with a hand winch.
One of them – a stocky, bearded man in orange overalls, boots and a black hat – has his hands on the side of the boat, keeping it steady on the ramp.
The other, who has a grey ponytail, a black jacket and green trousers with leather patches on the knees, is cranking the winch as fast as he can.
‘Go, go!’
‘Police!’ Joona shouts, holding up his ID.
The man with the ponytail glances in his direction, but doesn’t stop. A large wave breaks over the boat, and the man with the beard comes close to losing his balance.
‘Control the wire!’
‘Listen, I need to borrow this boat,’ Joona tells them.
‘No chance,’ the man with the ponytail mutters.
‘It’s an emergency.’
‘Yeah, for everyone. Come back next summer,’ he replies, wiping the snow from his eyes.
‘What’s going on?’ the other man asks, moving closer.
The trunk of a nearby pine breaks and falls onto the clubhouse. Snow cascades from its branches, and broken roof tiles crash to the ground.
‘I need to borrow this boat,’ Joona repeats.
‘Borrow?’
‘It’s serious; there are lives at stake.’
‘Yeah, and who the fuck’s gonna pay for it when you wreck my boat? D’you know how much something like this costs?’ the man with the beard asks, pointing at Joona.
‘It’s urgent.’
‘D’you think I’m stupid or something?’ The man snorts. ‘I’m not giving you my fucking RIB. Sorry. Ask someone else.’
Joona pushes the man with the ponytail to one side and releases the brake on the winch. There is a loud whizzing sound as the wire unwinds, and the heavy boat crashes back into the water.
‘Hey, what the fuck?!’
‘Is the key in the ignition?’ asks Joona.
‘You are not setting foot in my boat,’ the man with the beard snarls, bending down to pick up a spade.
He knocks the snow and ice from the blade on a rock, then adjusts his grip on the shaft.
Joona moves to one side, preventing either of the men from coming up behind him. The boat is floating parallel to the shore, the waves pushing it inwards and the cable straining in the winch.
The bearded man takes a slow step forward, gripping the spade like a baseball bat in both hands. Tiny ice crystals shimmer in his beard, and his eyes are wide. Snow has collected in the folds of his orange overalls.
The man with the ponytail moves round to one side, past the wreckage of an old rowing boat.
‘Careful, boys,’ Joona warns them.
‘People get hurt during storms,’ the man with the beard says as he takes aim. ‘They disappear.’
‘Ronny, just stop,’ the other one tells him.
‘Fucking pigs.’
Joona steps back and holds up a hand. A ripped tarpaulin flies through the air.
‘Let’s just stay calm. I promise you’ll get your boat back, but—’
‘I’ll cave your fucking head in,’ Ronny snarls.
‘If you don’t drop that spade, I’m going to break your nose and your shoulder before taking your boat anyway,’ says Joona.
Ronny swings the spade at him with a surprising amount of force. Joona ducks back, and the blade passes close to his face. The man loses his footing for a moment, but quickly regains his balance and raises the spade again.
His friend slips in the snow as he tries to get out of the way.
Ronny comes towards Joona again, jabbing the spade in his direction. He takes a quick step, feints a low blow, then swings it towards his head again.
Joona blocks Ronny’s arm, twists to one side and jerks his elbow upwards into his nose.
The man’s head snaps back, and he drops like a stone.
Joona wraps his arm around Ronny’s upper arm, pulls upwards and feels a crack as the bone breaks. The spade swings around, and the edge of the blade grazes Joona’s throat, leaving a deep gash.
Ronny lands heavily on his back in the snow.
Joona presses a hand to his neck, conscious that he is bleeding heavily.
The other man has pulled out a hunting knife, and Joona turns to him, taking a step closer.
Ronny gets up on one knee, his arm hanging limply by his side. He roars in pain, spraying blood and saliva into his beard.