Page 89 of The Sleepwalker

On the main road, a lorry thunders by. The ground shakes, and its headlights sweep over the hotel.

The stab vest makes Rikard’s movements feel heavy and awkward as he walks over to the door, enters the code and heads inside.

The unmanned reception is spacious, with large windows outonto the parking area and a spiral staircase leading up to the first floor. A heap of Christmas decorations has been dumped on the floor by the desk: electric Advent candles, tinsel, fairy lights, fake trees and boxes of red baubles and elves.

The only sound he can hear is the low hum of the air conditioning.

There is no sign of any other guests.

Rikard follows the signs past a simple dining room. The tables are bare, the cushions missing from the chairs. On a counter to one side, there are a number of shiny canteens, a coffee machine and a microwave. A patio door leads out to a seating area with a view of the main road and a plastics manufacturer.

He continues down a gloomy corridor.

The lighting is so dim that the floor seems to vanish beneath his feet unless he is standing directly beneath one of the weak bulbs.

The plastic numbers on the grey doors sweep by almost hypnotically.

131, 130, 129.

As he walks, he realises that the strange, dreamlike feeling that has taken over him is partly down to the brown carpet muffling his footsteps.

Someone could be walking right behind him, and he wouldn’t have a clue.

Rikard feels a rush of fear, and he stops and looks back over his shoulder before continuing.

A cleaning cart is blocking the hallway up ahead, and he has to push it out of the way to get past, causing a stack of fresh towels to tumble to the floor.

Rikard peers back again, thinking about the picture of the cute girl with the dimples in the ad.

Jezebel.

He knows that the person he is about to meet is probably someone else entirely, but she is most likely a woman, and – given that no one has mentioned either a man or an accomplice – likely working alone.

An ugly fucking whore, one of the victims said.

In Rikard’s mind’s eye, another image has taken hold. The cute girl is no longer smiling. Her face has hardened, and her chin is jutting out. She is almost two metres tall, gripping the axe in her hand so tightly that her knuckles have turned white.

Her forehead is flecked with hundreds of tiny red droplets, as though she has just walked through a light rain of blood.

33

Rikard pauses and tries to calm his breathing. He inhales deeply through his nose, then exhales through his mouth, forcing back the images by reminding himself why he is here.

He simply can’t allow Jezebel to get away. This might be their only chance before she kills again. Possibly their only chance ever.

Rikard knows that he is here to arrest a suspected serial killer, but Jezebel thinks she is here to rob and possibly even kill a john.

He continues down the murky corridor and notices that one of the doors has been left open.

It isn’t her room, but it could be a trap.

Rikard tugs down the zip on his windbreaker and reaches inside. Gripping his gun, he slowly makes his way forward.

He glances back over his shoulder before nudging the door open and peering into the room.

In the strange yellow light from the petrol station, he can make out a narrow bed with a crumpled terry throw.

A vision of Jezebel flickers through his head, cutting the cable ties securing her new axe to the glossy cardboard packaging and then loosening the plastic cover from the blade.