Page 166 of The Sleepwalker
‘Are you?’
‘No, but .?.?. Maybe I’m just not cut out for operative work.’
‘Of course you are.’
‘I’m not sure anymore.’
‘I miss you, Saga,’ says Joona. ‘Do you have any plans tomorrow evening? I could cook, bring you up to speed on the case.’
‘I’m sorry, I can’t,’ she replies, a little too quickly.
‘Another time.’
‘Sorry,’ she whispers, her voice softer now. ‘I just can’t handle seeing anyone right now. I can barely stand to be with myself.’
‘You know you can always call me.’
‘Thanks, Joona,’ she says, swallowing hard.
They end the call, and he sits quietly for a moment, thinking about the fact that she struggles to spend time with other people, whereas it is loneliness that eats away at him.
It is late, but rather than going to bed, Joona gets up and locks his pistol in the gun cabinet. He leaves his police ID on top of the chest of drawers, then heads out and takes the lift down to the garage.
There isn’t much traffic on the roads as he drives over to Hjorthagen, where he parks the car and walks around the block to join the queue for the Sauna nightclub.
‘By four a.m. the dancefloor is so hot that everyone wants to strip off and roll around in the snow,’ a famous DJ had written on Instagram.
The people in the queue around Joona are all dressed to the nines, chatting drunkenly, laughing and peering longingly at the doors up ahead.
The area is clearly undergoing a dramatic transformation, but in the void between the traditional industries moving out and the redevelopment work beginning, pop-up venues seem to be flourishing.
The club is in a large building with a windowless brick facade.
Agneta told Joona that Olga Wójcik works at an exclusive members’ club called Redrum, which can only be accessed by getting past the bouncer on the door across the rear courtyard from Sauna.
Joona waves when he spots Stina Linton coming around the corner. She has taken off her glasses and tied her hair back with neon yellow bands, applied some red lipstick and swapped herusual outfit for a pair of black jeans and a thin leather jacket.
‘Very nice,’ he says.
‘Any excuse,’ she replies with a smile.
The heavy bassline that seeps out onto the cold street every time the door opens is like some sort of irresistible scent.
The line moves forward, snaking around the riot fences in the makeshift holding area and past the doorman.
Joona and Stina reach the front and get inside. They pay at the desk, sign their names on an exclusive members’ list, pass through a metal detector and a pat down, and make their way through the throng to the dancefloor.
Joona can feel the pulsing music in his chest as they push past the dancing, jumping people beneath the pink strobe lights.
The air is hot and damp.
On the little stage, there is a golden Christmas tree.
Joona leads Stina around the bar to a dark rubber door that opens onto a row of toilet cubicles.
The black-and-white-tiled floor is wet.
There is a strong stench of urine and vomit, and five women are queuing for the ladies’ toilets.
