Page 214 of The Sleepwalker

The acoustics are oddly flat.

Everything sounds so close, so intimate.

The beam of his torch wanders across the damp wall, over the thick spiderwebs in the corner, flashing when it hits a couple of glass jars on a rough wooden shelf.

Joona slowly pans back and stops.

There are five dusty jars on the shelf, all filled with what looks like formaldehyde.

In the first, he can see a grey ear wearing a gold earring. The ragged flesh where it was severed from its owner is still pink.

In the next jar, Joona can only make out a couple of coins in a pale sludge.

In the third, a pearl necklace is resting on top of two vertebrae filled with pink bone marrow.

The reflected light dances across the low ceiling, where rust from the reinforcement steels has seeped through the concrete.

Joona hears a couple of tinny shouts overhead, and he moves forward again, swinging his torch in the other direction, where a brownish-red arrow has been daubed on the wall.

It is pointing straight down at a large plastic drum.

The light fades again, and Joona hits the torch, crouches down and shines it on the drum. It is filled with vacuum-packed necklaces, bloody earrings, a rotten finger wearing a diamond ring, stained bank notes and watches.

A number of heavy metallic thuds reach him from the container above.

Joona turns around and sees a dirty mattress in the corner, a bulging rubbish bag in a pool of yellowed water, and some blue plastic bottles of chlorine.

A fly buzzes right by his ear.

At the top of the stairs, the door to the shipping container creaks. Someone shouts Joona’s name, and he replies, makes his way back up to the surface, crawls out from beneath the table and gets to his feet.

The commander of the tactical unit is waiting for him in the falling snow, radio in hand. A cloud of pale breath hangs in the air around his mouth.

‘The deregistered car and property are both owned by the same person,’ he says, sounding stressed.

‘Who?’

‘Lars Hjalmar Grind.’

74

The fierce wind whistles around the house, making the windows rattle. The rope on the flagpole snaps against the metal in double time, and old leaves and twigs swirl around the garden.

Moa is wearing nothing but a pair of knickers and a black sports bra, and Erik has taken off his shirt.

They had already started kissing and getting undressed when the power went out, and now – giggling – they are in the process of dragging the mattress out of the bedroom, past the bathroom and over to the hearth in the lounge.

They curl up by the fire, holding hands and sipping grappa from small glasses.

The logs crackle, and the warm light pulses through the room like a steady heartbeat, the heat making Moa’s cheeks flush.

She sets their empty glasses down on the mantelpiece.

The fire is reflected in the row of dark windows onto the garden.

Moa gives Erik a peck on the cheek, and he turns his head and meets her lips. They start kissing again, slowly building in intensity.

She peels off her bra, runs her fingers through her short hair and straightens the gold heart she wears on a chain around her neck, then lies back and meets his eye.