Page 212 of The Sleepwalker
‘It was just a dumb rumour .?.?. No one knows where it started, but it kept on building, and in the end Boris had to quit his job at the school library. His life fell apart, he started avoiding people. Just stayed home all day, didn’t pay any of his bills and wound up losing his house.’
‘In that case, it might not even be the right car,’ the commander speaks up.
Joona walks over to the forensic technicians and asks if they have any Bluestar to hand, waiting as they open the bottle and fit the spray nozzle.
‘Thanks,’ he says, carrying it over to the old Opel, which is parked by the silo.
The driver’s side window is open, and Joona can smell the pine scent of the air fresheners as he peers inside. The interior of the car has definitely seen better days, but it also looks as though it has recently been cleaned. In the footwell by the passenger seat, there is a roll of kitchen paper and some cleaning products.
Taking care not to touch anything, Joona reaches inside with the bottle of Bluestar and spritzes a few times.
An icy blue glow appears almost immediately on the seams and piping around the edge of the driver’s seat, on the floor mat and the grooved rubber pedals.
Blood seems to have dripped down the gear stick, and the back of the wheel is practically quivering with bluish light.
On the windscreen, a couple of bright smears reveal that someone has used a cloth in an attempt to clean the glass.
The entire car is like a fluorescent underwater world.
It must have been completely drenched in blood before it was cleaned.
‘Damn,’ the tactical commander mutters.
Joona returns the bottle to the forensic technicians and asks them to try to find the car’s vehicle identification number as quickly as they can. It has been scraped off the window, but should also be punched into the metal beneath the passenger seat.
He then heads over to the grey-haired man on the gurney. His eyes are bloodshot and his face red from the tear gas.
‘Sorry, like,’ he wheezes.
‘I need to ask you a few questions before you go,’ Joona tells him.
‘Huh?’ The man cocks his head to hear him better.
‘Do you know whose car that is?’
‘The Opel? Nah .?.?. Been here years. Probably deregistered.’
‘How often do you come here?’
‘Every other week, maybe. Never stay long anywhere, me,’ the man replies, baring his rotten teeth in a grin. ‘I own Grillby. The whole place is mine.’
‘Have you ever seen anyone else here?’ Joona asks.
‘Other than the kids trying to get into the silo or riding about on their motocross bikes, y’mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘The washing machine was on once, and another time there was a light on in the container .?.?. When I got here yesterday, the key wasn’t in the electric cabinet, and then the door broke.’
Joona walks over to the tactical unit’s van, takes out a dark red canister of acetylene and a silver oxygen tank, carries them over to the shipping container and attaches the cutting torch.
There is a steel cover over the sturdy padlock on the container, preventing anyone from breaking in with a hacksaw or bolt cutters.
Joona pulls on a pair of thick gloves and ignites the torch with a lighter.
He directs the surging flame at one edge of the steel cover,heating the metal to over 2,000 degrees before switching to a jet of pure oxygen.
The flame shrinks to a white blade, cutting through the thick metal like butter.
