Page 222 of The Sleepwalker

‘I know. I’ll make a few more notes before I come down, just to be on the safe side,’ she says, turning to a clean page in her pad.

A sudden gust of wind makes the roof trusses creak and hurls snow at the window. It feels as though the storm is tugging at the house, trying to test how sturdy it is. One of the brackets on the gutter breaks, and a section of pipe swings up and hits the weather vane.

‘This gale,’ Bernard says quietly.

‘It’s mad.’

‘I’m a bit worried about Hugo. He said he was planning tocome home today.’

‘Let’s just hope he doesn’t head out in this,’ she replies, checking her phone.

The network is still down, and not even the emergency number seems to be working.

The section of gutter cracks and comes loose, clattering away over the roof.

‘I’ll get a fire going in the stove to keep the bedroom nice and warm,’ says Bernard. ‘And we’ll probably have to change our dinner plans unless the power comes back on.’

A couple of roof tiles tumble to the frozen lawn, shattering on impact.

‘We could always grill some sausages on the fire,’ she suggests.

‘Yes, very cosy. I’ll go and make some potato salad.’

Bernard uses the torch on his phone to light his way as he heads back down the stairs.

The storm whistles around the corners of the house, making the windows rattle worryingly.

The flame sways, and Agneta notices something catch the light inside the Järvsö cabinet. It almost looks like a small, floating halo.

She gets up, grabs her phone and shines it in on the middle shelf.

At the very back, there is a small loop of darkened iron wedged between the edge of the shelf and the backboard.

Agneta reaches inside. Whatever it is seems to be stuck at first, but when she wiggles it to one side she hears a soft click and sees a section of shelf pop up slightly.

She pulls on the loop, and the lid of a shallow hidden compartment opens.

The smell of old wood fills the air.

Inside the compartment, there is a dark cardboard folderwith a black band around it.

Agneta pushes back the urge to shout for Bernard when she realises that the folder might contain more letters from Hugo’s mother. Letters that he – for whatever reason – has chosen to hide.

She takes the folder over to the desk, sits down and loosens the band held in place by a small silver clip in the shape of a fleur-de-lys.

Bernard’s report card from Year 9 is on top of the pile, along with a swimming certificate and a class photograph from Year 1.

Agneta holds it up to the candle.

In the picture, young Bernard is wearing a brown-and-black-striped polo shirt. He is a skinny little thing, with a plaster on the bridge of his nose and messy hair. Oblivious to the camera, he is laughing at a taller boy, who is pulling a funny face by pushing his tongue against the inside of his lower lip.

Agneta flicks through documents about foster home placements, football diplomas, letters of reference from summer jobs and high school exam results, until she reaches an old colour photograph with dog-eared corners and a diagonal crease across the middle.

A strange sensation takes hold of her as she holds it up to the light.

In the image, a blonde woman in a dirty vest, jeans and a pair of work gloves is standing outside a workshop. She looks to be around thirty, with a resolute expression on her face and piercing eyes, and is holding a heavy wrench in her slim, muscular arms.

Behind her, on the wall of the run-down shed, there is a red neon arrow bearing the wordsSERVICE – FORD TRACTOR.