The Sandman

80

A police officer and a forensics expert are making their way across the deep snow between the dark trunks of the pine trees on snowmobiles. In some places they can go faster and cover longer distances by using cleared boundary lines and foresters’ tracks, leaving a cloud of smoke and snow behind them.

Stockholm wanted them to get out to a hunting cabin beyond Tranuberget. Apparently it had been owned by a Jeremy Magnusson, who disappeared thirteen years ago. The National Criminal Investigation Department have asked them to conduct a thorough forensic examination of the place, and to take video footage and photographs. Anything there is to be seized and packed up, and any potential evidence and biological matter is to be secured.

The two men on the snowmobiles know that the Stockholm Police are hoping to find something that might throw light on the disappearance of Magnusson and other members of his family. Obviously it should have been searched thirteen years ago, but at the time the police hadn’t been aware of the hunting cabin’s existence.

Roger Hysén and Gunnar Ehn are driving side by side down a slope at the edge of the forest in blinding light. They emerge onto a sunlit bog where everything is glistening white, completely untouched, and continue at speed across the ice before swinging north into denser forest once more.

The forest has grown so wild on the southern side of Tranuberget that they almost miss the building entirely. The low timber shack is completely covered in snow. It’s piled up higher than the windows, and is at least a metre thick on the roof.

All that’s visible are a few silver-grey timber planks.

They get off their snowmobiles and begin to dig the cabin out.

The small windows are covered by faded curtains inside.

The sun is going down, nudging the treetops as it sinks towards the great expanse of bog.

When the door is finally uncovered they’re sweating, and forensics expert Gunnar Ehn can feel his scalp itching under his hat.

A tree is rubbing against another in the wind, making a desolate creaking sound.

In silence the two men roll out a sheet of plastic in front of the door and get out their boxes, unpacking boards to walk on. They pull on protective outfits and gloves.

The door is locked and there’s no key on the hook under the eaves.

‘The daughter was found buried alive in Stockholm,’ Roger Hysén says, glancing briefly at his colleague.

‘I’ve heard the talk,’ Gunnar says. ‘It doesn’t bother me.’

Roger inserts a crowbar into the crack next to the lock and pushes. The frame creaks. He pushes it further in and shoves harder. The frame splinters and Roger gives the door a tentative tug, then pulls as hard as he can. It swings open and bounces back.

‘Shit,’ Roger whispers behind his mask.

The draught from the unexpected movement has made all the dust that’s settled inside the house fly up into the air. Gunnar mutters that it doesn’t matter. He reaches into the dark cabin and puts two boards on the floor.

Roger unpacks the video camera and hands it over. Gunnar bends down beneath the low lintel, steps inside the cabin and stops on the first board.

It’s so dark inside that he can’t see anything at first. The air is dry from the swirling dust.

Gunnar sets the camera to record, but the light won’t switch on. He tries recording the room anyway, but all he manages to get are vague outlines.

The whole cabin resembles a murky aquarium.

There’s an odd-looking shadow in the middle of the room, like a large grandfather clock.

‘What’s happening?’ Roger calls from outside.

‘Give me the other camera.’

Gunnar passes the video camera out and is given the ordinary camera in its place. He checks the viewscreen. Unable to see anything but black, he snaps a picture at random. The flash fills the room with a white glow.

Gunnar screams when he sees the long, thin figure right in front of him. He takes a step back, loses his footing, drops the camera, puts out an arm to regain his balance and knocks over a coat stand.

‘What the fuck was that...?’

He backs out, hitting his head on the lintel and cutting himself on the loose splinters sticking out from the frame.

‘What’s happening, what’s going on?’ Roger asks.

‘Someone’s in there,’ Gunnar says, grinning nervously.

Roger switches on the light on the video camera, opens the door cautiously, bends down and slowly makes his way inside. The floor creaks beneath the boards. The light from the camera searches through the dust and over the furniture. A branch scratches against the window. It sounds like someone knocking anxiously.

‘OK,’ he gasps.

In the dim light from the camera he sees that a man has hanged himself from the beam in the roof. A very long time ago. The body is thin and the skin has dried out and is stretched across the face. The mouth is wide open and black. His leather boots are lying on the floor.

The door behind the police officer creaks as Gunnar comes back in.

The sun has gone down behind the treetops and the windows are black. Carefully they spread out a body bag beneath the corpse.

The branch hits the window again, and slides over the glass with a scrape.

Roger reaches over to hold the body while Gunnar cuts the rope, but just as he touches the swaying corpse its head comes lose from the neck. The body collapses at their feet. The skull thuds on the wooden floor, dust swirls up around the room once more, and the old noose swings noiselessly.