Page 220 of The Sleepwalker
Peering into the darkness beneath the steps, he is convinced he can see a black snake curling up.
He forces himself to look away, absent-mindedly wandering over to one of the cars and studying the pretty lace-like frost on the windscreen.
Behind him, pieces of hinge clatter to the concrete.
In the flickering light from the angle grinder, Thor notices a number of footprints on the ground around the car parked at the far end of the port, left by shoes with a separate big toe, like some sort of foot mitten.
The registration plate gleams.
It is Lars Grind’s Tesla.
He raises his gun and slowly moves forward.
Through the side window, he can see a figure in the driver’s seat. A bald head, throat, shoulders.
A wave of adrenaline surges through him.
It feels as though he is pulsing, like a metal lampshade on an unearthed lamp.
He swallows hard, takes aim at the person behind the wheel and curls a trembling finger around the trigger as he slowly inches closer.
The beam of light from his helmet illuminates the inside of the car.
Thor stops.
Lars Grind is slumped back in the seat with his eyes closed.
His face is the colour of ash, and there are ice crystals on his eyebrows.
Thor opens the door, takes a step back and re-aims his gun at Grind.
After a moment, he moves forward, clamps his right hand beneath his left arm and pulls off his glove. He then reaches inside and, though he already knows the doctor is dead, presses his fingers to his cold throat.
* * *
The metro clanks out of a bend and speeds up. Hugo is almost alone in the carriage, and he feels the soft jolts travel through him.
The woman sitting opposite him looks weary, a couple of bulging Ikea bags by her feet.
Through the reflections in the window, Hugo has also noticed the young man a few rows back, his face hidden beneath the hood of his coat. He has his arms folded as if he is cold, and his thin, pale hands look as though they have no flesh on them.
Hugo sat with Svanhildur for an hour while he waited for Lars Grind to come back, then decided he could do without his medication and left the clinic.
He caught a bus to Uppsala, watching the trees shake andbranches break as they drove along the country roads.
Outside the station building, rubbish sailed across the square and around the fountain. The big Christmas tree had blown over, and the flags had all been torn from their poles.
By the time his train was approaching Stockholm, the snow had started coming down heavily, and there were repeated announcements about delays and cancellations.
Hugo headed straight down to the metro and jumped on a red line train to Norsborg.
The young man had nipped into the carriage just as the doors were closing.
Above him now, the lights flicker.
Hugo checks his phone and sees that Lars Grind has sent his records as a PDF file, accompanied by a brief message.
Dear Hugo,
