The Sandman. Ларс Кеплер

end of the corridor, on the right, is room number four. He bumps into a food trolley, sending a pile of cups to the floor.

      It’s as if he’s become detached from reality as he enters the room and sees the young man lying in bed. He has a drip attached to the crook of his arm, and oxygen is being fed into his nose. An infusion bag is hanging from the drip-stand, next to a white pulse-monitor attached to his left index finger.

      Reidar stops and wipes his mouth with his hand, and feels himself lose control of his face. Reality returns like a deafening torrent of emotions.

      ‘Mikael,’ Reidar says gently.

      The young man slowly opens his eyes and Reidar can see how much he resembles his mother. He carefully puts his hand against Mikael’s cheek, and his own mouth is trembling so much that he can hardly speak.

      ‘Where have you been?’ Reidar asks, and realises that he’s crying.

      ‘Dad,’ Mikael whispers.

      His face is frighteningly pale and his eyes incredibly tired. Thirteen years have passed, and the child’s face that Reidar has hidden in his memory has become a man’s face, but he’s so skinny that he looks like he did when he was newborn, wrapped in a blanket.

      ‘Now I can be happy again,’ Reidar whispers, stroking his son’s head.

       38

      Disa is finally back in Stockholm again. She’s waiting in his flat, on the top floor of number 31 Wallingatan. Joona is on his way home from buying some turbot that he’s planning to fry and serve with remoulade sauce.

      Alongside the railings the snow is piled about twenty centimetres deep. All the lights of the city look like misty lanterns.

      As he passes Kammakargatan he hears agitated voices up ahead. This is a dark part of the city. Heaps of snow and rows of parked cars throw shadows. Dull buildings, streaked with melt-water.

      ‘I want my money,’ a man with a gruff voice is shouting.

      There are two figures in the distance. They’re moving slowly along the railings towards the Dala steps. Joona carries on walking.

      Two panting men are staring at each other, hunched, drunk and angry. One is wearing a chequered coat and a fur hat. In his hand is a small, shiny knife.

      ‘Fucking bastard,’ he rattles. ‘Fucking little—’

      The other one has a full beard and a black overcoat with a tear on one shoulder, and is waving an empty wine-bottle in front of him.

      ‘I want my money back, with interest,’ the bearded man repeats.

      ‘Kiskoa korkoa,’ the other man replies, spitting blood on the snow.

      A thickset woman in her sixties is leaning against a blue box of sand for the steps. The tip of her cigarette glows, lighting up her puffy face.

      The man with the bottle backs in beneath the snow-covered branches of the big tree. The other man stumbles after him. The knife blade flashes as he stabs with it. The bearded man moves backwards, waving the bottle and hitting the other man in the head. The bottle breaks and green glass flies around the fur hat. Joona has an impulse to reach for his pistol, even though he knows it’s locked away in the gun cabinet.

      The man with the knife stumbles but manages to stay on his feet. The other is holding the jagged remains of the bottle.

      There’s a scream. Joona jumps over the piled-up snow and ice from the gutters.

      The bearded man slips on something and falls flat on his back. He’s fumbling with his hand on the railings at the top of the steps.

      ‘My money,’ he repeats with a cough.

      Joona sweeps some snow off a parked car and presses it to make a snowball.

      The man in the chequered coat sways as he approaches the prone man with the knife.

      ‘I’ll cut you open and stuff you with your money—’

      Joona throws the snowball and hits the man holding the knife in the back of the neck. There’s a dull thud as the snow breaks up and flies in all directions.

      ‘Perkele,’ the man says, confused, as he turns round.

      ‘Snowball fight, lads!’ Joona shouts, forming a new ball.

      The man with the knife looks at him and a spark appears in his clouded eyes.

      Joona throws again and hits the man on the ground in the middle of the chest, spraying snow in his bearded face.

      The man with the knife looks down at him, then laughs unkindly:

      ‘Lumiukko.’

      The man on the ground throws some loose snow up at him. He backs off, putting the knife away and forming a snowball. The bearded man rises unsteadily, clinging to the railing.

      ‘I’m good at this,’ he mutters as he forms a snowball.

      The man in the chequered jacket takes aim at the other man, but abruptly turns round instead and throws a ball that hits Joona on the shoulder.

      For several minutes snowballs fly in all directions. Joona slips and falls. The bearded man loses his hat and the other man rushes over and fills it with snow.

      The woman claps her hands, and is rewarded with a snowball to her forehead which sits there like a white bump. The bearded man bursts out laughing and falls backwards into a pile of old Christmas trees. The man in the chequered jacket kicks some snow over him, but gives up. He’s panting as he turns to look at Joona.

      ‘And where the hell did you come from?’ he asks.

      ‘National Criminal Police,’ Joona replies, brushing the snow from his clothes.

      ‘The police?’

      ‘You took my child,’ the woman mutters.

      Joona picks up the fur hat and shakes the snow off it before handing it to the man in the jacket.

      ‘Thanks.’

      ‘I saw the wishing star,’ the drunken woman goes on, looking Joona in the eye. ‘I saw it when I was seven … and I wish you’d burn in the fires of hell and scream like—’

      ‘You shut your mouth,’ the man in the chequered jacket shouts. ‘I’m glad I didn’t stab you, little brother, and—’

      ‘I want my money,’ the other man calls with a smile.

       39

      There’s a light on in the bathroom when Joona gets home. He opens the door slightly and sees Disa lying in the bath with her eyes closed. She’s surrounded by bubbles and is humming to herself. Her muddy clothes are in a big heap on the bathroom floor.

      ‘I thought they’d locked you up in prison,’ Disa says. ‘I was all prepared to take over your flat.’

      Over the winter Joona has been under investigation by the Prosecution Authority’s national unit for internal investigations, accused of wrecking a long-term surveillance operation and exposing the Security Police rapid-response unit to danger.

      ‘Apparently I’m guilty,’ he replies, picking her clothes up and putting them in the washing machine.

      ‘I said that right at the start.’

      ‘Yes, well …’

      Joona’s eyes are suddenly grey as a rainy sky.

      ‘Is