Page 128 of The Sleepwalker

‘You absolutely don’t have to, just so you know,’ Bernard tellshim. ‘I mean .?.?. they’ve already had you in custody and accused you of all sorts of terrible things.’

‘OK, I know that wasn’t right,’ Agneta speaks up. ‘But at the same time, we’re talking about a murderer here. Someone who has killed at least two people with an axe.Slaughteredthem .?.?. Imagine if you could help stop this madwoman.’

‘I know,’ Hugo replies, his voice little more than a whisper.

45

Linus has been following Ida’s car all the way from central Stockholm, and he pulls up behind her on the driveway of a 1970s slope house in Stocksund.

The cool lighting in the garden makes the white brick facade, the window frames and woodwork look like the icing on a gingerbread house.

Towards the bottom of the slope, a sailboat with a rusty keel is chocked up beneath a tarpaulin.

Linus watches Ida reach for her bag on the passenger seat and close the door. Her leather coat is unbuttoned over her burgundy dress.

The air is crisp and cold as he gets out of the car, locks up and follows her over to the house, the neighbourhood so quiet that he can hear the frigid wind blowing through the bare branches of the trees in the distance.

Ida drops her keys, and they jingle as they hit the cracked paving stones.

‘Nice place,’ he says, pausing behind her.

She bends down to retrieve the keys, then opens the door and turns off the alarm. After dumping her bag on the sideboard, she turns on the light and hangs up her coat.

‘Remind me where Sven Erik is,’ says Linus.

‘In Tenerife, on a golf trip,’ she replies without looking at him.

‘Right, right.’

As Linus takes off his shoes and puts his jacket down on the floor by the wall, Ida makes her way through to a large lounge with a scratched floor.

* * *

Ida Forsgren-Fisher is a twenty-six-year-old graphic designer at an ad agency, with wavy blonde hair and pale-blue eyes.

She flicks the switch on the floor lamp, casting a warm glow over the coffee table, then turns around and studies Linus in the hallway.

He has a hole in one of his socks, and she watches him twist the fabric so that it is hidden beneath his foot.

She turns on the patio lights.

The reflections in the glass always create the illusion of inside and out switching places, and it looks as though Linus is walking across the yellowed grass towards the house, when in actual fact he is making his way down the hall to the lounge.

They are both members of the Engelbrekt Church chamber choir, Ida a high soprano and Linus a baritone.

They were rehearsing a work by Hildegard av Bingen earlier this evening, and the music and lyrics from the twelfth century had risen towards the vaulted ceiling in the chancel.

‘Can you see the lake .?.?. or the sea, or whatever it is, when it’s light?’ he asks, gesturing vaguely towards the floor-to-ceiling glass.

‘Yeah, from every window. Feels like this place was built for the views,’ she replies.

Linus is four years older than Ida, with a master’s degree in literary studies, but he shares her passion for the Pitch Perfect films. His parents are from Estonia, and he is incredibly blond, with pale brows. He often radiates a nervous, slightly jitteryenergy, though he really opens up once you get to know him.

Ida can feel the music from choir practice lingering in her as if some sort of wistful anxiety, but that could just be down to what they are about to do.

‘I need wine,’ she says.

They head upstairs, and she realises that her legs feel slightly shaky. Through the gaps between the worn treads, she notices her son’s missing soft toy on the floor by the door to the boiler room.