Page 112 of The Sleepwalker
The air smells like snow.
Through one of the windows in the main house, Joona notices the pale glow of a television. The light flickers sombrely over the low branches of the spruce trees outside.
Someone is chopping logs nearby, heavy blows followed by the thud of wood on wood.
The three officers slowly approach the dilapidated farm buildings.
In the yard, there is an old caravan with a green tarpaulin draped over one side, a white pickup and eight cars that have been largely stripped out.
The track swings off behind a barn before leading them in between the buildings, and on turning the corner they see a slim, bare-chested boy chopping wood over by a hydraulic splitter.
A brood of hens moves uneasily between broken buckets, carseats, blackened exhaust pipes and mufflers.
The three police officers pause in the middle of the yard.
Peck blows on his frozen fingers.
Beside the front door, a small Swedish flag hangs limply from a rusty pole.
There is a brown refrigerator up against one wall, beside a tap and a metal washbasin.
Four folding plastic chairs have been arranged around a metal table.
A man emerges from the open garage. He has slim shoulders and grubby hands, and is wearing rubber boots and a green raincoat buttoned over his rounded belly. It is Åke Berg, Ann-Charlotte’s partner. His greying hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and he has a paisley scarf tied around his head.
‘Everyone’s seen that goddamn ad, huh?’ he says, tightening the belt on his coat. ‘We’ve only got ten sacks of seed potato and three sacks of chicken shit left.’
‘But we—’ Gregory begins.
‘No one wants chemicals in their food, but there’s chemicals in all the fucking food,’ Åke continues. ‘That’s why we’re self-sufficient. We’ve got hens, sheep .?.?. fields, greenhouses.’
‘We’re here to speak to Ann-Charlotte,’ Gregory tries again.
‘Yeah, her raspberry jam .?.?. Fuck me, it’s good. But we only sell produce in the summer.’
The low sound of the TV in the main house is audible, and Joona tries to peer in through the window. The boy is still chopping wood, but he glances over to them every time he positions a new piece on the block.
‘Could we come in?’ asks Joona.
Åke uses his thumb to wipe his nose.
‘No can do, Lotta’s snoozing.’
‘Then maybe you could do us a favour and wake her up,’ Gregory says, pushing his glasses back onto the bridge of hisnose.
‘Soon enough, yeah .?.?. But talk to me first. Doesn’t sound like you want to buy jam,’ says Åke, pulling out one of the chairs by the table. ‘Sit down, tell me .?.?. What d’you actually want?’
‘This only concerns Lotta,’ says Joona.
‘Right-o. Sit yourselves down and I’ll go and get her,’ Åke replies, nodding to the chairs.
He studies them as they sit down around the metal table. The ground is strewn with cigarette butts and empty beer bottles, and their breath forms clouds in the cold air.
Åke half-turns away from them and reaches into his raincoat. He pulls out a length of fishing line and winds the loose end around his index finger.
Using his left hand, he sets down four tin mugs on the table, followed by a bottle of murky liquid.
‘We were at the Christmas market over in Karby last year,’ he says. ‘Y’know, selling sweet pretzels and hotdogs at jacked-up prices .?.?.’
