Page 211 of The Sleepwalker
He staggers back towards the tiled stove in the corner, blinking repeatedly as he pulls out a knife with a blue plastic handle and brandishes it in front of him.
‘Drop the knife,’ Joona tells him.
‘Go fuck yourself,’ he wheezes.
Jamal comes into the room behind Joona, moving level with him and taking aim at the man.
‘No one shoot,’ says Joona.
Illuminated by Jamal’s tactical light, the man lowers the knife. He is breathing heavily now, and his shadow rocks slowly back and forth over the wallpaper and the pale rectangles left by the frames that once hung there.
Joona holsters his gun and holds up both hands.
‘Toss the knife,’ he says as he slowly approaches the man. ‘Drop it, put your hands behind your head and turn—’
The man lunges towards him without warning, thrusting the knife in Joona’s direction. Joona twists away from the blade and knocks the man’s arm upwards, grabbing his hand as he rams his knee into his chest.
The knife clatters to the floor and skids beneath the empty wood basket.
Gripping the man’s wrist, Joona kicks his feet out from beneath him.
There is a loud bang as the man lands on his back, hitting his head on the floor. Saliva and mucus spray across his grubby face.
Joona twists his arm, forcing his shoulder up off the floorboards, then uses his foot to turn him over onto his front and cuffs both hands behind his back.
The man gasps desperately, as though he has just come up for air, and then starts coughing.
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The yard outside the building is full of emergency vehicles as the tactical operatives lead the suspect out.
Joona notices that one of the grey-haired man’s boots has come off in the hallway, and he bends down to pick it up before following them out into the cold air.
Blue lights sweep through the falling snow, over the brick building, the shipping container, the trees and brush.
The tactical commander has fastened the earflaps on his hat beneath his chin. The tip of his nose has turned red, and he has his hands buried deep in his pockets.
‘Good work,’ he says.
‘Thanks .?.?. though it’s hard to believe he’s the Widow,’ Joona replies, shaking the blood from his hand.
Over by one of the ambulances, the man has been strapped to a gurney, his hands cuffed to the railings on each side.
‘Where’s Leica? Has someone got Leica?’ he wheezes.
A paramedic steps forward to examine the man’s ears.
Blue light pulses up the side of the silo.
Joona is having the cut on his arm treated and bandaged when one of the local officers comes over.
‘I don’t know what all this is about .?.?.’ he says, ‘but I think you’ve got the wrong guy.’
‘He’s wanted in Stockholm,’ the tactical commander replies.
‘Right, but Boris never leaves Grillby. That’s the main problem with him, from our point of view.’
‘Go on,’ says Joona.
