Page 213 of The Sleepwalker

Sparks rain down on the ground, and the cover drops with a thud, hissing as it hits the snow.

Joona repeats the process with the polished steel padlock, then turns off the gas and opens the door.

The shipping container is full of old furniture.

Joona pulls off his gloves, turns on his torch and guides the beam over display cabinets, speckled mirrors, bookshelves, chairs and floor lamps.

Towards the rear, a number of dressers and varnished wardrobes have been stacked right up to the roof.

In front of them, there are two chandeliers hanging on hooks. The crystals are dusty, their plugs yellowed from age.

Behind him, Joona hears Jamal talking to the commander about packing up and clearing out before the storm hits. The wind seems to be growing stronger by the minute.

The beam of his torch sweeps across a secretaire, a sideboard and an open box of tarnished silver cutlery.

At the front of the container, there is a dusty dining table on a Persian carpet.

A number of leaf panels made from the same dark wood have been propped up against the side wall, beside a gold pendulum clock.

Joona points his torch at the rug on the floor and notices a number of indentations.

The heavy piece of furniture seems to have been moved a few centimetres to one side.

He sets the torch down, lifts the end of the table and uses his foot to push the rug out of the way before lowering it again.

A soft clang reverberates through the container.

Joona bends down and rolls back the rug to reveal a square of fibreboard.

He lifts it out and reaches for his torch.

Beneath the board, there is a hole in the bottom of the container, with a narrow spiral staircase leading straight down into some sort of well.

The beam of his torch shakes.

Stale air fills his nose.

He can’t hear a sound from inside.

Joona turns around, crawls beneath the table and shuffles into the hole feet first.

His colleagues’ voices fade as he makes his way down the stairs.

Each step makes the structure shake, and he grips the cold handrail tightly.

The staircase has been screwed into the walls of the well, and something comes loose and clatters down the shaft.

Joona’s torchlight flickers.

Roughly four metres down, the well seems to open out into a concrete-lined space, possibly an old storage tank of some kind.

Joona has just reached the bottom and turned around when his torch goes out.

The stagnant air is heavy with the stench of damp, chlorine and rotten meat.

He pauses and shakes his torch, and the light comes back on.

The gravel crunches underfoot as he takes a step forward, and he hears the staircase creak behind him.