Page 174 of The Sleepwalker

‘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.

‘Theylooklike 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.