Cornelis Loots, who has kept his coat and hat on since rushing over from the hotel, grabs hold of his arm to stop him and Karl turns around.

‘What was that?’ Cornelis says.

He is addressing Helena, whose face seems to have regained the faintest tinge of colour.

‘The wine cellar,’ she says weakly. ‘He locked her in there until . . . I was supposed to . . .’ She falters.

‘You were supposed to what?’ Karl roars and is blocked by Andersén when he, too, takes a step forward.

But Helena meets his eyes.

‘It’s too late now anyway,’ she says. ‘He’s probably back already.’

Chapter 81

81

She takes twelve steps at a time, stops and raises the shade to check the draught. It’s getting colder by the minute now and she can feel the wind clearly on her face without bending down. Another set of twelve steps. Then another. Her hand disappears around a corner, signalling another fork in the road, but this time she knows which way to go.

Without asking herself why, she continues to count her steps, twelve at a time, then a pause, straining with all her senses. Listening for noises, looking for a lessening of the darkness and feeling the wind on her face, each time more strongly. She no longer bothers to raise the shade. Walk, pause, continue. Walk, pause. And suddenly, she hears something. A faint, keening sound. Another series of steps and then another. Now she can make out the keening clearly – and something else as well. The gusts of wind outside are making something move just in front of her with a deep, trembling sound.

She knows what it is before she sees it.

The colour shift is almost imperceptible. But the candle finally picks up a grey rectangle just a few feet away. The opening has been carefully boarded up from the outside. Eight six-inch boards with one going crosswise on the inside and probably another on the outside. Relief makes her heart skip a beat. Nails, not mortar.

The boards are set close together, but the millimetre-wide gaps between them is all she needs. She kneels down and puts her eye to one of the gaps. Another gust of wind makes her pull back abruptly, but she saw enough. It’s dark outside and very windy, likely a full-blown storm. And yet, the night is not completely dark, not that solid, merciless black that fills the tunnels behind her. The snow must be reflecting the lights from the TV tower in Skreby, she reasons and shudders. Then she can’t have far to go. Half a mile, one at most. Close enough that the cold won’t kill her. Or will it? As an icy wind pushes through the gaps between the boards and swirls around her body, she recalls the map from the forecast. Seventeen below and she’s in a T-shirt.