Page 90 of The Sleepwalker

His heart rate picks up.

Rikard’s hand is clammy, and he lets go of his pistol, wipeshis palm on his thigh and moves over to the corner, where the corridor turns sharply to the left.

He stops and listens.

Through the walls, he hears a dull clatter.

He slowly edges forward.

Behind him, something clicks.

She could be waiting just around the corner. She could be standing less than a metre away.

In the window, Rikard can make out the faint reflection of the hallway to the left. He presses up against the wall in an attempt to get a better look, then hesitantly moves another step closer.

A car drives by outside.

Rikard studies the row of reflected doors in the glass.

The sparse lighting resembles some sort of illuminated garland.

At the far end of the corridor, he can see a grey blob. A dark shadow, quivering slightly.

He takes a deep breath, swings around the corner and feels his heart pounding in his chest.

Rikard blinks firmly.

It looks as though there is a small, broad-shouldered man standing at the other end of the corridor, and Rikard has already reached for his gun before his brain manages to process what he is seeing.

It is just a chair with a hoodie draped over the backrest and a pair of trainers on the floor.

‘God,’ he whispers as he starts moving again. ‘It’s OK, I can do this .?.?.’

He passes an alcove containing a small pantry with a fridge, an oven and a small stovetop. On the stainless-steel counter, there is a white plastic chopping board.

His body armour is heavy and uncomfortable.

He continues along the row of closed doors.

Jezebel is a woman, he reminds himself. He is an armed police officer who has carried out hundreds of arrests over the years.

Despite that, he can hear the blood thundering in his ears as he reaches her room.

The door is ajar.

He moves to one side so that he can see in through the narrow crack.

The scratched laminate flooring is bathed in yellow light.

He can hear a low, monotonous roar.

Rikard knocks and takes a step back to wait. Staring in through the crack, he remembers the photographs from the crime scenes: the head on the ice, the body parts in the caravan, the blood on the walls and floor.

Reaching beneath his jacket again, he grips the handle of his gun and opens the door.

His heart rate rises even higher as he walks down the cramped hallway.

The bowing floor creaks softly underfoot.