Читать книгу The Sandman - Ларс Кеплер - Страница 6

It’s the middle of the night, and snow is blowing in from the sea. A young man is walking across a high railway bridge, towards Stockholm. His face is as pale as misted glass. His jeans are stiff with frozen blood. He is walking between the rails, stepping over the sleepers. Fifty metres below him the ice on the water is just visible, like a strip of cloth. A blanket of snow covers the trees and oil tanks in the harbour are barely visible; the snow is swirling in the glow from the container crane far below.

Warm blood is trickling down the man’s lower left arm, into his hand and dripping from his fingertips.

The rails start to sing and whistle as a night-train approaches the two-kilometre-long bridge.

The young man sways and sits down on the rail, then gets to his feet again and carries on walking.

The air is buffeted in front of the train, and the view is obscured by the billowing snow. The Traxx train has already reached the middle of the bridge when the driver catches sight of the man on the track. He blows his horn, and sees the figure almost fall, then it takes a long step to the left, onto the oncoming track, and grabs hold of the flimsy railing.

The man’s clothes are flapping around his body. The bridge is shaking heavily under his feet. He is standing still with his eyes wide open, his hands on the railing.

Everything is swirling snow and tumbling darkness.

His bloody hand has started to freeze as he carries on walking.

His name is Mikael Kohler-Frost. He has been missing for thirteen years, and was declared dead seven years ago.