Siren Song: A Different Scandinavian Crime Novel by Erik Boman Page B

one of the knives from his bag, stands next to the door, and flicks the light switch. Darkness fills the room.
    A key rasps in the door’s lock, and the door swings open. Pale street lights illuminate the snowflakes blown inside. Hesitantly, a man steps into the room and stamps hard on the floor to shake the snow off his boots.
    “Anyone here?” the man asks as he fiddles with a dark cylinder in his hand.
    Standing at an angle behind the man, John moves forward with the knife held low, but his planned strike misses as the beam of a flashlight explodes in his face.
    The man who has entered staggers backwards with a choked scream. John trips over a toolbox and slams back-first into the ladders, which topple and fall down around him with piercing bangs.
    As John pushes the ladders away and rises up, the strip lights come back on.
    “John?” The man with the torch leans against the opposite wall. “It’s me, Nils. I almost had a heart attack, for God’s sake. Didn’t you recognize me?”
    “I thought someone was trying to break in,” John says. “I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”
    “You nearly scared me to death,” Nils says and laughs nervously. “Why weren’t the lights on?”
    “I wanted to hide. I guess I panicked a little.” John makes a sheepish grimace and shrugs.
    “You’re paranoid, mate.” Nils peers at John. “Actually, you look terrible. Have you slept at all lately? And is that blood on your face?”
    “It’s gouache,” John says. “I’ve been up all night painting.”
    “What about your hands?” Nils asks, noticing the gash on John’s hand.
    “I slipped with a knife back home. It looks much worse than it is. I’m going to clean it up in a bit.”
    “If you say so,” Nils says, sounding unconvinced. “Are you working tonight? I thought you were off to see your girlfriend.”
    “I’ll see her later. There’s something I need to fix first.”
    “Well, lucky you.” Nils shakes his head. “I’ve got shifts the whole weekend, and the tunnels are fucking freezing. I’m just going to grab a few batteries, then I’m off. As soon as I get my breath back,” he adds with a forced laugh.
    Nils sits down in the office chair with a heavy thump and points at the computer. “Is that yours?”
    John nods. “I’m printing a birthday card for my girlfriend.”
    “On this?” Nils taps the printer. “I’m surprised it works. It’s as old as my son.” A ringtone beeps from his pocket. He checks the screen and rolls his eyes.
    “It’s the boss,” he says. “Probably thinks I’m in a pub.” Sighing, he takes the call.
    John turns away and pretends to examine his damaged jacket while he watches Nils in the mirror.
    “No, I’m at Kristineberg,” Nils says to the person on the other end of the conversation. “My torch gave up. I’ll be at the site in fifteen minutes. What?” He frowns and presses his phone to his ear. “Yes, I have. Why?”
    Behind Nils’s back, John takes a step closer to Nils.
    “Oh,” Nils says. He scratches at his neck and swallows. “Look, can I call you back in a few minutes? The reception’s bad in here.”
    Slowly, John crouches down and reaches for a toolbox next to his feet.
    *

Lena
    Lena scoops up water from the sink, splashes it over her face, and gasps; the water is chilled from travelling through near-frozen pipes. She is alone in the bathroom. Her only company is the odour of disinfectants, the humming pipes, and the wind rattling windows coated with frost.
    She looks up at her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes are bloodshot, her skin pasty. Her thoughts are constantly derailed by flashbacks bobbing to the surface of her consciousness. Molly’s flat, John’s paintings, the shopkeeper’s concerned look. The wine glasses and the burning candle. Forgetting to put away her gun.
    She has to find these men. Before she cracks, she will catch a killer and stop another man from becoming one. The missions will be the glue that keeps her