Unknown

WEDNESDAY, JULY 7

Kalle Ostlund's parents had bought the summer house near Bjorkhaga, just north of Klintehamn, in the fifties. Their family was one of the first to move into the small summer-house area. Most of the residents were islanders-some who had moved to the mainland but wanted to keep their summer house, and others who lived in Visby and felt it was the right location for a country place, about twenty miles away. It was a peaceful area for most of the year. During the summer it got livelier when tourists headed out there to walk along the Vivesholm promontory and admire the countless birds that frequented the shoreline. It was also a popular place for watching sunsets, when the whole sky would be colored crimson, with a view of the open sea in both directions. Kalle thought it was splendid, too, even though he had seen the drama thousands of times from here. For him there was no lovelier place on earth. He enjoyed fishing, and on this morning he was going out to pull up his net, which he hoped would be filled with flounder.

He had set the alarm clock for 5:00 a.m., and his wife, Birgitta, was sound asleep when he got up, but the dog was happy and wide-awake. Their Italian retriever, Lisa, was like a whirlwind. She loved to go everywhere with him, which she did. She scampered around his legs as he trudged off.

He opened the big gate facing the promontory, where the dairy cows were grazing in the summer pasture. The sky was a bright blue, and the clouds were woolly and harmless, hovering above the boathouses over by Kovik on the other side of the shore. The dirt road that ran along the promontory was light in color, bearing witness to the fact that the soil was rich in lime. Out here the landscape was heathlike. The vegetation was low-lying and consisted mostly of juniper and short-stemmed flowers.

At the moment the meadow along the shore shimmered with flowers of sea thrift, which looked like little pink balls.

He had brought Lisa's leash, just in case, but he let her run free on the path down to the boat. The birds' breeding season was over, so she wouldn't find any bird eggs. The promontory was the breeding ground for a large number of herons, cormorants, and various kinds of gulls.

When they had reached the middle of the shoreline meadow facing the sea, Lisa caught sight of a rabbit and took off in the opposite direction. He glimpsed the little bunny bounding away for dear life with the dog barking wildly right on its heels. Kalle called several times, but the dog was much too engrossed in the chase to pay any attention. He shook his head and kept on going. She'd come back soon enough. He got the boat ready, now and then casting an eye over the promontory and calling the dog, but Lisa was nowhere in sight.

Kalle decided to wait. He sat down on a rock and took out a can of Ettan snuff. He put a thick wad under his lip. Every now and then he heard a rustling in the grass and bushes from birds or from rabbits scampering in and out of their holes. A couple of shelducks with their characteristic red bills swam along the shoreline. Cows occasionally walked past the wooded area in the middle of the promontory, although right now they were out at the very end of the point. That was lucky. Lisa was so frisky today that she might even start chasing cows, and then she could end up getting kicked to death.

After Kalle had been sitting there for well over fifteen minutes without any sign of the dog, he decided to go and look for her. He was annoyed. If he didn't find her soon, it would be too late to go out fishing. He walked back across the meadow, over the cattle grid in the fence surrounding the woods, and in among the trees. Then he heard Lisa barking. She must have gone a good distance into the woods since he hadn't heard her until now. The fenced-in area contained remnants of a moat, a reminder of the days when Vivesholm was a Viking harbor and a defensive fort had stood on the site.

The woods got denser. He passed the old, rickety bird observation tower that stood on the edge of the woods. Farther along, the ground turned to marsh and then the sea began. He could glimpse the Warfsholm hotel from here, and the bird path wasn't far away. The barking got louder. The dog must be very close now. Then he caught sight of something champagne-colored between the trees, and there stood Lisa, barking wildly at a pine tree. What in the world could be so interesting?

He walked forward another ten feet and then stopped short. For several trembling seconds he tried hard to comprehend what he was looking at. He couldn't make himself take in the image of the young woman who was swaying freely in the air, naked, with a noose around her neck. Her head was bent forward, and her long blond hair hid her face. Kalle's first thought was that it must be a tragic suicide. He suddenly felt violently ill and was forced to sit down on the ground. Then he noticed that the woman was covered in blood. Someone had sliced open the lower part of her belly with a knife.

Just over an hour later Knutas turned onto the dirt road that ran past the summer houses to the sea and Vivesholm. With him were Karin Jacobsson and Erik Sohlman. Before they left, Knutas had gotten hold of the medical examiner, who was going to fly over from the mainland later in the day.

Standing next to the gate was a man of about sixty-five. He was wearing shorts and a knit shirt, and with him on a leash was a dog with curly, light-colored fur. The detectives parked outside the gate and walked on the grass next to the dirt road leading out to the promontory so as not to disturb any tire tracks.

Kalle Ostlund raised his hand and pointed. "He must have driven past the turnoff," he said. "Otherwise he would have been seen from the houses that are closest to the water."

They followed the older man toward a small wooded area and continued along a well-worn path that ran parallel to the old moat. Here and there grew sloe and rosehips.

There was almost no wind, and the only sound was the screeching of the birds above the sea. They didn't see the body until it was right in front of them.

Dangling in the air, surrounded by the lush summer greenery, was a young woman. Her hair fell over her face, and the slender body that hung lifelessly from a noose was a blotchy red. Across the smooth abdomen someone had made a cut over a foot long. Blood had run out of it and down over her crotch and legs.

There was a brutal contrast between her youthful beauty and the violence that she had suffered.

The detectives studied the body in silence.

"Well, this was how I found her," said Kalle Ostlund at last.

"And you haven't left the area since?" asked Knutas.

"No, I called my wife, but I didn't dare leave."

"Did you see or hear anyone on your way here?"

"No. I was here alone. Along with Lisa," said Kalle, patting the dog.

Knutas called to the police officers who had now joined them and were beginning to put up crime-scene tape.

"We need to cordon off the fenced-in area. I want some of you to start knocking on doors at the nearby houses right away. What about the canine unit?"

"It's on the way," said Jacobsson.

"Good. There's no time to waste. You can go home in the meantime," he told the man with the dog, "but stay there. We'll be talking to you and your wife shortly."

"It can't be anyone but Martina Flochten, can it?" said Jacobsson. "The body matches the age and the description."

"Yes, it's her. Without a doubt," Knutas agreed.

"What the hell kind of lunatic did she run into?" said Sohlman tersely. "Why would anyone hang a person after he'd already killed her?"

"Or why slash a person you've already hanged?" countered Jacobsson.

Knutas moved cautiously around the body, studying it from every angle. Martina looked like a terrifying doll. Her face was bright red, as if she had been straining hard. Her eyes were open but dull and lackluster. Her lips were brownish black and dry, her skin blotchy red, her calves and feet a mottled purple.

Flies were visible in the incision in the lower portion of her abdomen. Knutas's stomach turned over when he saw little maggots squirming in the wound.

"I wonder if she's been hanging here since Saturday," murmured Jacobsson behind the handkerchief that she had pressed to her mouth.

"What day is it today? Wednesday. If she was murdered on Saturday night, that would mean that it's been over seventy-two hours," said Sohlman. "It's possible."

"She'll have to stay like this until the ME gets here," said Knutas. "I want him to see how she looks at the scene."

Curious spectators had already gathered at the gate. Knutas declined to answer any of their questions as he and his colleagues hurried past.

They drove straight back to police headquarters.

He stood in the middle of the woods, leaning against the rough bark of the tree. His eyes were closed and he was listening. The wind rushing through the trees, a pine cone that fell to the ground with a soft thud, a crow cawing. There was a strong fragrance here in the shadows. Resin, pine needles, dirt, and blueberries. Slowly he bent his knees and slid his back down the tree trunk until he ended up in a sitting position. The uneven surface of the tree didn't bother him. He began muttering to himself, quietly and monotonously. Gradually he sank into the state that he was trying for, into a trance. He merged with the tree. His soul could stay there while he projected his consciousness into something else.

The transference was important for him; it was actually essential if he was going to complete his task.

He became one with the tree. There were no boundaries, none at all. He had slipped into another reality. The rest of the world no longer concerned him. Whatever had been worrying him before no longer had any importance. He had freed himself from all commonplace and trivial problems-everything that had to do with other people. He no longer needed to care about them, because he had entered into a different alliance that had nothing to do with human relationships. It was as if walls had fallen, obstacles had been swept aside, and the path lay straight and clearly marked before him. He realized that he possessed unusual powers.

Suddenly a twig snapped and a fox emerged from a thicket. It sat down like a cat right in front of him and began to wash, taking its time. Now and then the fox glanced up and studied him for a moment. When it headed back into the woods, it passed quite close without paying any attention to him. He took a deep breath.

That was the final proof that he had succeeded.

Knutas's phone rang nonstop after he got back to his office. He had his hands full dealing with questions from the press about the murder of Martina Flochten. Finally, after calling Patrick Flochten and notifying him of the discovery of his daughter's corpse, he was forced to tell the switchboard not to put through any more calls. He needed time to concentrate on his work.

It was decided that a press conference would be held later that afternoon. Lars Norrby offered to make the arrangements instead of taking part in the investigative meeting.

Knutas had notified the prosecutor, who took a seat next to him in the conference room. Birger Smittenberg was an experienced chief prosecutor, and he had worked for the Gotland district court for many years. Over time a solid trust had been established between him and Knutas. They had a long series of investigations behind them. Smittenberg was originally from Stockholm, but in the late seventies he had married a Gotland woman who was a ballad singer. He was deeply committed to his work, and he participated in the investigative meetings as often as he could.

"As you all know, twenty-one-year-old Martina Flochten from Rotterdam in the Netherlands was found murdered out at Vivesholm," Knutas began. "She was found around five thirty this morning by the owner of one of the summer houses in the area. A man named Kalle Ostlund. There is no doubt that she was murdered. Erik will describe the injuries in a moment. The ME is on his way from Stockholm and will be examining the body at the scene later today. The fenced-in area has been cordoned off and is now being searched by the canine patrol. We're also searching for clues around Warfsholm, as best we can. We can't very well demand that they close up the whole place. I think that's where I'll stop for the time being."

He nodded to Sohlman, who got up and went over to the computer. He clicked on a key and an aerial view of the area appeared on the white screen at the front of the room.

"This is Vivesholm. The land is privately owned by a farmer who lets his cows graze out here, but the area is open to the public. Lots of people come here to watch the birds or to see the view."

"It's also popular with windsurfers," interjected Thomas Wittberg. "I've been out there to surf several times. A hell of a great place."

"Out on the promontory there's a small wooded area surrounded by a fence. There's also an old birdwatching tower."

Sohlman changed pictures.

"This was where the body of Martina Flochten was found, hanging from a tree. Generally only the farmer or someone who might want to get a better view from the bird tower would enter this area at all. That's why it's not so strange that it took several days for the body to be found. Let's take a look at the injuries. This isn't exactly your usual sort of murder."

Several of the detectives began to fidget as soon as the pictures of Martina appeared.

"What's significant is that she seems to have been killed in more than one way," Sohlman went on pensively. "The victim was both strangled and knifed. One qualified guess is that she was first hanged from the noose, and afterward the perpetrator slashed her with a knife. The appearance of the incision indicates that it was probably done after death. Since she has no other injuries, it looks as if the perpetrator was able to cut her open in peace and quiet, so to speak. She didn't offer any resistance. But there's another issue."

Sohlman paused for effect and looked at his colleagues pointedly.

"We're not positive that she died from hanging. There are several indications that she was already dead when she was hung up in that tree."

"What sort of indications?" asked Knutas, looking startled.

"As I said, this is just a hunch-I'll gladly leave the confirming analysis to the ME-but I've seen quite a few hanging deaths when people committed suicide by kicking away the chair or whatever they were standing on and then were strangled by the noose. The deceased typically has specific types of injuries. These include bruises along the groove on the neck where the rope dug in, as well as hemorrhaging at the base of the neck muscles along the collarbone. These signs of vitality, as they're called, are easy to detect. You notice them at once if you've been at that type of death scene before. Martina doesn't have any of them. Something doesn't add up."

Jacobsson looked in surprise at the crime tech.

"So that means the murderer might have used several methods to kill Martina instead of settling for just one-and the hanging and stab wound in the abdomen were two of the methods. But what actually killed her?"

A tense silence followed. Wittberg was the first to speak.

"It's one thing when a killer stages an assault by using a knife, for example, to stab the victim and then continues to hack away even though the person is already dead. Or he keeps firing unnecessary shots at the victim. That's something that occurs in a fit of rage or because the killer is under the influence of drugs or has simply gone berserk. But this seems to be a different story."

"The murder feels ritualistic," murmured Knutas as he looked at the pictures.

"Yes," agreed Smittenberg. "The perpetrator would have had time to stop and think between the various steps; he should have calmed down."

"What about the motive?" said Jacobsson meditatively. "He had a definite reason for killing her in several ways. It symbolizes something. The modus operandi seems like some sort of ceremony, just as Anders said. The question is: Why is she naked? What does it mean?"

"There are no outward signs of sexual assault, but if she was assaulted it will show up in the autopsy. Yet the fact that she's not wearing any clothes clearly has sexual connotations."

"What sort of evidence have you found?" asked Wittberg.

"Not much so far," said Sohlman. "We're in the process of searching the entire promontory, and there's a lot of area to cover."

"We're continuing to go door to door in the summer-house area," interjected Knutas. "Let's hope it produces some results."

"How many summer houses are there?" asked Smittenberg.

"About twenty."

"Was the murder committed at the site where the body was found?"

"It's hard to say at the moment," said Sohlman. "I didn't see any signs of a struggle at the site. On the other hand, we haven't yet had a chance to examine everything thoroughly. The ME has to make his examination before we can move the body. Since the decomposition process has already set in, I would guess that she's been dead for two or three days. I can't give you a more specific time of death at the moment-but it seems likely that she was killed late Saturday night or early Sunday morning. It's virtually impossible to drive into the wooded area, so the perp probably carried her there if he killed her somewhere else. It's at least a couple of hundred yards away on foot, which means that we're dealing with someone who's quite strong. Martina was not a petite girl. She was both tall and muscular."

"I'm thinking about the decapitated horse in Petesviken," said Jacobsson. "I wonder if there's some connection. That seemed ritualistic, too."

"Of course we'll look for points of connection between the two cases," said Knutas. "We need to find out more about Martina Flochten's past. Who was she? What was she doing before the murder? Did anything unusual happen? Did her behavior change in any way? What sort of person was she? Can you take responsibility for finding out these things, Karin?"

"Sure."

"It's also important that we talk with every single summer-house owner around Vivesholm as soon as possible, and even more important, the guests who were staying at the hotel over the weekend. I'll leave that to you, Thomas. All the archaeologists have to be interviewed, too-the students taking the course, the teachers, and the others at the college. Since I don't want the press to get wind of this ritualistic angle, no one should say anything about it, and I mean not to anybody at all."

Knutas gazed sternly at his colleagues sitting around the table.

"If this gets out, we're done for. Then we'll have reporters chasing us all day long."

He stood up.

"At four o'clock this afternoon we're holding a press conference. Lars and I will handle it."

Staffan Mellgren looked haggard when Knutas met him in the reception area of police headquarters. His face was pale and his eyes red-rimmed and shiny. There was something jumpy about him, and his clothes were so wrinkled that it looked as if he had slept in them. They went up to Knutas's office where they could talk undisturbed. Mellgren declined the offer of coffee.

"How are you doing?" asked Knutas after they sat down across from each other.

"This is so terrible, what happened to Martina. I can't understand it."

"I want to start by talking some more about the student group. We understand that Martina was quite popular. Was there anyone who didn't get along with her?"

Mellgren shook his head.

"No, not as far as I know."

"Do you know of anyone who was particularly fond of Martina? Or maybe even in love with her?"

"Not exactly," he replied hesitantly, "but there are two guys who paid a lot of attention to her."

"Who are they?"

"Jonas is a Swede, from Skane, probably no more than twenty years old. Mark is American, a little older, about twenty-five, I would guess. Those two really get along-Mark and Jonas, I mean. They're as thick as thieves."

"In what way did they show an interest in Martina?"

"Well, they were always hovering around her. Both of them liked to talk and joke with her."

"Did one of them seem more fond of her than the other?"

"No, I don't think you could say that. I think they both liked her equally."

"Was the interest mutual?"

"I think Martina thought they were fun and nice as friends, but nothing more than that."

"How do you know that?"

"It's just a feeling."

"Are the two of them also staying at Warfsholm?"

"Yes."

"Have you noticed any strangers hanging around the excavation site?"

"Just the usual. People we know or one of the neighbors who drops by to talk for a while. Small groups of tourists show up several times a week, but they usually keep a safe distance away."

"As the leader of the course, do you have any idea who might have murdered Martina?"

"No."

"I've asked you this question before, but I'm going to have to ask it again: What was your relationship with her?"

"She was a student that I liked and respected, as a student, " said Mellgren in a sharp voice. "Of course there was nothing going on between us. I've already told you that."

"Where were you on Saturday night?"

"I was actually out having a beer."

"Alone?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"First at Donner's Well and later at the Monk's Cellar."

"Did you meet anyone you know?"

"I always run into a few acquaintances."

"When did you get home?"

"I don't know. I didn't look at my watch."

"But you must be able to say whether it was 9:00 p.m. or 3:00 a.m.," said Knutas impatiently.

He was starting to be genuinely annoyed, and he wondered what a married father of four was doing out on the town alone on a Saturday night. Why wasn't he home with his family if he hadn't planned to meet someone?

"I guess it was almost three."

"What's your marriage like?" asked Knutas.

Mellgren was slow to answer. His jaw visibly tightened.

"You'll have to excuse the question, but I need to ask it," Knutas went on as he stared back at the man.

"Things are fine between Susanna and me. Did she tell you otherwise?"

Knutas raised his hand in protest. "Absolutely not. I was just wondering."

The room in which the press conference was going to be held was buzzing with life. The reporters were taking seats in the rows of chairs, and microphones were being set up on the podium at the front of the room. Up until now the police had declined to issue any statement, so everyone was very curious about what they were going to hear about the murder of the young archaeology student.

The murmuring automatically stopped when Anders Knutas and Lars Norrby took their places up front.

"Welcome to the press conference," Knutas began. "The young woman who has been missing since Saturday, Martina Flochten, who was born in 1983, has been found dead outside of Vivesholm. That's just outside of Klintehamn, approximately nineteen miles south of Visby on the west coast. There is no doubt whatsoever that she was murdered."

He glanced down at his notes.

"The body was found at 5:45 a.m. by an individual who was out walking in the area. Many of you already know that Martina was born and raised in the Netherlands, but her mother was from Hemse here on Gotland. The mother died three years ago. Martina has lived in the Netherlands all her life. She came here in early June to take part in a course on archaeological excavation that is offered by the college. She had been on Gotland for a month before she disappeared on the night that a concert was held at Warfsholm. July third. We'll now take questions."

"Can you tell us anything about how she was murdered?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because the investigation is ongoing."

"Was some sort of weapon used?"

"Yes, but I don't intend to say anything more on the subject."

"Was she sexually assaulted?"

"We won't know until an autopsy is performed on the body."

"When will that happen?"

"The body was examined by the ME at the site this afternoon. Tonight it will be transported to the forensic medicine lab in Solna. The autopsy will be done in the next few days."

"Do you know how long she's been dead?"

"Not yet. The autopsy report will tell us that."

"Surely you must be able to say something about how long she'd been dead when she was found. Was it a matter of an hour? Or had she been dead since she disappeared?"

"This much I can tell you: It was most likely that she'd been dead at least twenty-four hours."

"Is it a question of one killer, or were there more?"

"We don't know at the present moment."

"So there could have been more than one?"

"That's possible."

"Do you have any suspects?"

"Not at the moment, no."

"Are there any witnesses?"

"We've been knocking on doors all day, and we're compiling statements from everyone in the area who might have seen something."

"Martina Flochten was half Swedish, and her mother was from Gotland. Is that significant?"

"Of course we're working on a broad front and will follow up on all possible leads."

"Does she have any relatives here on Gotland?"

"No. Her only relatives here were her maternal grandparents, and they've been dead for years."

"Has the area out there been cordoned off?"

"The wooded area where the body was found has been cordoned off."

"For how long?"

"Until the technical work is completed."

"How much contact did she have with Gotland?"

"She used to come here once a year on vacation."

"What could be a possible motive for the murder?"

"It's much too early to speculate about a motive," snapped Knutas.

"Was Martina Flochten known to the Dutch or Swedish police?"

"No, not as far as we know."

"She'd been missing for several days-why wasn't Vivesholm searched by the police earlier? It's so close to Warfsholm, after all."

"We didn't see any reason to do so. The police have to work on one area at a time, so we start with the location where the individual was last seen, and then we gradually expand our efforts from there."

"Was there any evidence left by the murderer?"

"A perpetrator always leaves evidence. I can't discuss what it might be, since the investigation is ongoing."

"What are the police going to do now?"

"As I said, we're working hard to interview people and take their statements. The police would like to appeal to the public for any tips, both from those who were at the Warfsholm hotel on the evening when the Eldkvarn concert took place, and from others who may have seen Martina with someone who could be of interest to the investigation. It's especially important at this early stage."

Knutas stood up to indicate that the press conference was over. He ignored the flood of questions directed at him. Various journalists began taking him aside for separate interviews.

An hour later the whole spectacle was finally over, and he could escape to his office. In all his years as a police officer he had always found it trying to deal with the press whenever major events occurred. It was a balancing act, trying to tell reporters enough without giving away too many details that might harm the investigation.

When Knutas was back in his office, the ME called. He had finished examining the body at the site.

"I must say that I've never seen anything like this before. We're dealing with a truly deviant killer."

"We've already realized that."

"I've done a preliminary examination, and I don't want to draw any definite conclusions, but there are a number of things that I can tell you."

"Let's hear it."

"I would say that she's been dead for at least three or four days."

"So it's possible that she was killed on the same night that she disappeared?"

"That might very well be. She was subjected to several types of violence, and I won't be completely sure of the cause of death until after the autopsy. Judging by the look of the injuries, I would guess that she was not killed by the knife wound in her abdomen."

"Sohlman suspected as much."

"On the other hand, there are signs that she may have died from drowning."

"Is that right?"

"I've found residue of a certain type of foam. When the victim drowns, foam gets whipped up in the windpipe and lungs. It gathers around the mouth and looks a bit like egg whites that have been whipped and then hardened. In addition, she has traces of seaweed and sand in her hair, as well as under her fingernails, which indicates that the killer may have pushed her head underwater somewhere along the shore. When she struggled, she buried her fingernails in the sea floor-that's where the seaweed and sand came from. She also has hand and fingernail marks on the back of her neck and on her upper arms. I've found sand and sludge from the sea floor in her mouth. And there are tiny specks of blood in her eyes, which she could have gotten from fighting back or from lack of oxygen. As I said, I don't want to be more specific about the cause of death right now, but judging by appearances, she was dead before she was hanged from that noose. The most probable scenario is that he first drowned her by holding her head underwater. In all likelihood she was drowned somewhere else. Her body was then transported out to Vivesholm."

"Why do you think she was killed somewhere else?"

"Simply because that type of sand isn't found out at Vivesholm."

"So she was killed near a sandy beach?"

"Not necessarily, but the sea floor was sandy. Out at the bird promontory where she was found, it's mostly rock. She would have had more injuries to her hands if she'd been drowned there."

"I see."

Knutas was taking copious notes. He was impressed by how much information the ME could read from a body.

"There's one thing that surprises me. How did the perpetrator manage to hang the body up there? He must have hoisted her up in some way, or else he didn't do it alone," the ME went on. "She looks as if she weighs between 130 and 145 pounds, at any rate. That much dead weight is difficult, if not almost impossible, to hoist up single-handedly."

"So you think there were more people involved?"

"Either that, or else we're dealing with a physically strong man with some sort of ingenious hoisting method." The ME cleared his throat. "There's something else that has me confused. It's that incision she has in her abdomen and the blood from it."

"What about it?"

"The incision looks to be deep enough to have damaged the aorta, which would result in a great deal of blood loss. The accumulation of blood on the ground under the body should have been bigger. It's almost as if the killer collected some of the blood."

"Is that right? Sohlman said the exact same thing about another recent case. Do you know about the horse that was decapitated a little more than a week ago?"

"Sure."

"The perp did the same thing."

"I didn't hear about that." The ME sounded surprised.

"Well, it's true. According to the veterinarian who examined the horse, the blood had been collected and removed. When can we get a preliminary autopsy report?"

"The body is being taken to the lab now. I'll try to finish the whole autopsy by tomorrow, so I can fax over a preliminary report to you tomorrow evening."

"That's great," said Knutas gratefully. "One more thing-could you tell if there was any sign of a sexual assault?"

"She has no external injuries to indicate that. Whether she'd had intercourse is something that we will hopefully know by tomorrow."

Knutas thanked him and put down the phone. He leaned back in his chair. A perpetrator who killed horses and women and drained the blood from their bodies. A ritual murderer.

It pained him to think about Martina Flochten. She'd had her whole life ahead of her. She was a student interested in archaeology. She had come to Gotland to help out on an excavation of the island's cultural treasures-and here she had met with such a cruel fate.

Patrick Flochten had fallen to pieces when the police told him the news of his daughter's death. Knutas was going to visit him later in the day, and he shuddered at the thought of seeing him. Dealing with family members of a victim was one of the most difficult parts of his job; he'd never gotten used to it. It was worst of all when young people were involved.

Possible connections between the decapitated horse and the murder of Martina were now being investigated. The question was: What kind of person would drain the blood out of his victim?

The police had to start by looking at the circle of people surrounding Martina, which included the students taking the course and their teachers. Knutas had gone over the list of students. Most of them were young, and there was almost an equal number of Swedes and foreigners.

He looked at the names and addresses and birth dates. Nearly all were between the ages of twenty and twenty-five, with a few exceptions. One woman from Goteborg was only nineteen, the British woman was forty-one, and one of the Americans was fifty-three. Knutas slowly spun his chair around.

Who was present during Martina's stay here? The students in the course, the teachers, the staff at the Warfsholm hotel and youth hostel. Surely she couldn't have met very many other people. That was where they had to start. Take them one by one as fast as possible, and at the same time find out who she'd met during the weeks she'd spent in Visby studying theory. Knutas sighed. He realized that his upcoming vacation was going to have to be postponed. Lina had probably already realized as much. He knew that it would be difficult for her to change her vacation, so she and the children would probably take the planned trip to Denmark. He could join them if the case was solved quickly. Even though at the moment it seemed very complicated, he could always hope for a miracle.

He might as well contact the National Criminal Police at once; they were going to need help. He thought about Martin Kihlgard. Although the inspector from the NCP had his bad points, they knew each other so well by now that he would probably be the easiest person to deal with. Knutas picked up the phone and punched in the number. It surprised him how relieved he felt when he heard his colleague's voice on the line.

Anyone who passed by the building wouldn't suspect a thing. It looked like any other dreary warehouse made of gray sheet metal with several parking slots near the unremarkable entrance. No one would believe that inside those walls were unimaginable treasures that had lain buried and forgotten for thousands of years, treasures that had been used by people in a different era, a different life. Utterly unlike anything that was familiar to people nowadays.

He used to come over here late at night when he was sure that all the employees had gone home. Then he had the whole place to himself. The same feeling of reverence struck him every time he opened the door and entered the first room.

He could roam up and down the aisles for hours. Pull out an archive storage rack here and there, take out something at random: an animal bone, a bead, a spearhead, or a nail. It didn't matter. For him no relic was more valuable than any other. Sometimes he would sit on the floor, holding an artifact in his hand. Everything around him would melt away, and the treasure in his hand became the focus. It spoke to him, whispered to him. He thought he could hear voices, echoes from the past. It was the same magical experience each time. Occasionally he had tried to transport himself into the same state as he did at home, but it never worked. This place had something different about it, maybe because it contained so much history from so long ago.

He was convinced that spirits lived in these objects. In here he also sensed a contact with the gods-they listened to him, and he heard their voices. They told him what he was supposed to do, gave him solace, and stood by him when he needed them. Nor did they hesitate to give him praise when he'd done something that was to their liking. He received guidance from them; he didn't know how he could have managed without their help. They told him what they wanted for themselves and what things they thought he could keep. He gladly did their bidding and was offered rewards when the time was ripe. His relationship with them went both ways, based on give and take, just like any human relationship.

Some of the artifacts he kept at home; others he sold off. That was a necessity. He had a responsibility, and he didn't hesitate to accept it. All the hidden things that were dug out of the earth belonged to him and his kinsmen; that was a feeling that had become stronger and stronger over the years. It was better for him to take care of the relics than for them to end up in a display case in some museum in Stockholm. If they were going to disappear from the island, he might as well be the one who decided where they would go. With his fingertips he caressed the shelves in the aisles. They were neatly marked with stickers and numbers, yet it was seldom that anyone checked to see that the drawers actually contained what was listed on the labels. That was why he was able to keep going, undetected. He had started out slowly many years ago and then just kept on. This was his world, and no one could take it away from him. He would never let go of his hold on it.

For the first time in his life he felt that he truly had something important to do. It was a task that he undertook with the greatest seriousness.

The investigative team had decided that all the students in the course, along with their teachers, should be interviewed before the night was over, so they had divided up the individuals for questioning. Jacobs-son and Knutas took one of the students with whom Martina had had the most contact: Mark Feathers, an American. They also had one of the teachers in the group assigned to them: Aron Bjarke.

The long workday was drawing to a close, and Knutas was genuinely tired. He was in charge of questioning Bjarke; Jacobsson was present as a witness. When they sat down in the interview room, Knutas couldn't hold back a yawn. He immediately apologized.

Bjarke had taught landscape reconstruction and phosphate analysis during the introductory two weeks of theory. He was a tall, middle-aged man with dark blond hair and a nondescript face. His hairline was receding a bit; otherwise he looked younger than his forty-three years. His chin was adorned with a well-trimmed beard, and his eyes were green with thick, curling lashes.

"What do you know about Martina Flochten?" Knutas began.

"Not much, I have to admit. She was a sweet, lively girl who showed a great deal of interest in the Viking Age in particular. I had the impression that she was more knowledgeable than most of the others. In general, she seemed extremely engaged in the subject."

If the teacher hadn't spoken with such a marked Gotland accent, Knutas would have sworn that he was from the mainland. There was something about his clothes and his style of wearing them, something slightly elegant and big city-like about his neatly pressed slacks and jacket. His voice and manner of speaking, strangely enough, didn't match his appearance. At the same time, there was something disarming about him. He gave Knutas a friendly look as he waited for the next question.

"Did you socialize with her outside of class?"

"No, at least not alone. But the whole group got together several times. We had dinner at the home of one of the other teachers, we went out for a beer, and we played a game of kubb in Almedalen. But we were all together, as a group."

"Were you at Warfsholm on Saturday night?"

"No, I've hardly seen the students since they moved out to Frojel and started excavating."

"Where were you on Saturday night?"

The soft-spoken teacher looked surprised at the question. "Am I a suspect?"

"Not at all. This is purely a routine question that we're asking everyone," Knutas explained. "What were you doing on Saturday night?"

"Nothing special. I was home watching TV."

"Alone?"

"Yes."

"Do you live alone?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any children?"

"No, not yet, anyway."

"Were you home all night?"

"Yes. I think I stayed up quite late. Then I went to bed around midnight. That's what I usually do."

"Did you notice whether Martina was ever together with anyone in the group or with one of the teachers?"

Aron Bjarke suddenly looked embarrassed. "Well, things like that are so hard to judge. Because you never know. It's possible that you imagine one thing and then maybe it's not true at all. I'd prefer not to say anything about it," he explained, putting on a pompous expression.

"What do you mean?" asked Jacobsson from the corner.

"I think that Martina liked to flirt and show off for the men in the group. It was quite obvious. They all fell for it."

"Was there anyone who seemed especially interested in her?"

"Hm…I don't know," he said hesitantly. "Maybe there was one person that I thought showed her a little too much attention, but I could be mistaken, of course."

"Who was it?"

Bjarke squirmed. "This is embarrassing because it's one of the teachers. I'm thinking actually of the excavation leader, Staffan Mellgren."

"Is that right?"

"At the same time, you need to know that he often has romantic escapades with cute young female students. It sounds awful to say this, but he has a hard time keeping his hands off them. This isn't the first time that he's shown an interest, so to speak, in a female student."

The man sitting across from Knutas leaned forward and lowered his voice.

"Staffan Mellgren is a lecher, a sex addict. Everyone knows that. He hasn't been faithful to his wife for even a week since the day they got married. And since he prefers"-here Bjarke held up both hands in the air and made the sign for quote marks-" lamb flesh, he usually goes for young female students who look up to the teacher and are easy conquests for him."

Bjarke certainly didn't mince words. The teacher's candor surprised both detectives. Knutas perked up.

"Do you mean to say in all seriousness that Mellgren has previously had relationships with students?"

"Of course. It happens all the time. It would be strange if Staffan gave a course and didn't get mixed up with at least one of the female participants."

"How long as this been going on?"

"For ten years at least."

"Does Mellgren's wife know about his affairs?"

"It would be hard for me to imagine that she'd accept something like that."

"You seem to know Mellgren well."

"We've worked together for over fifteen years."

"How has he managed to keep his love affairs a secret from his wife all these years?"

"He and Susanna lead separate lives. She stays home with the kids and takes care of the house and the farm. His job takes up a lot of his time. I don't think they actually see much of each other."

"What was it about Mellgren's behavior toward Martina that attracted your attention?"

"I can't say with certainty that there was actually anything going on between them. The whole group didn't get together very often. I taught my classes, and he wasn't part of that. But when the course started, when everyone was in Visby, we did have a number of group activities. Since I've seen Staffan in action, so to speak, numerous times before, I can tell at once when he goes into pursuit mode."

"In what way?"

"Well, it's really the same old story. He laughs and jokes a lot with the person he's interested in at the moment. He gives her long looks without saying anything. His old tricks are so obvious that it's ridiculous."

"You seem quite certain about this."

"Let me put it this way: A young woman has been murdered, which is an enormously serious matter, of course. Obviously I don't want to single anybody out or make any claims that might make the person suspect in your eyes. To do that, I realize that I'd have to be absolutely positive about my claims. This much I can tell you, though: He at least tried to get together with Martina Flochten. Whether his advances were returned, I can't say. I don't know anything about that. After the two weeks devoted to theory, the group moved out to Frojel, and I haven't seen Martina since then."

Jacobsson and Knutas took time out for a cup of coffee before the next interview. Both of them felt the need for a break after their meeting with Aron Bjarke.

In the corridor other students and teachers from the college were going in and out of the various interview rooms. There were many that had to be dealt with.

"Considering what that teacher told us, it's going to be damn interesting to hear what the other interviews have produced," said Jacobs-son as they waited for their plastic cups to fill with coffee from the machine. "Do you think he's credible?"

"Hard to know. He was undeniably candid. That always makes me suspicious."

"Why's that? I thought you valued openness," said Jacobsson with a smile.

The interview with the American student Mark Feathers was conducted by Jacobsson. Once again Knutas's command of English wasn't sufficient.

At first glance Feathers looked like the archetypical American guy: close-cropped hair, baggy knee-length shorts, and a big, wrinkled T-shirt that was not tucked in. On his feet he wore tennis socks with a blue border and the obligatory sneakers. He was tall and muscular with an angry expression. He looked more like a baseball player than someone who patiently devoted himself to archaeological excavations.

He seemed upset.

"I just can't believe that she's gone. The whole thing is sick. What did that bastard do to her?" Feathers spoke in a loud, forceful voice, and he glared at Jacobsson aggressively.

"I'm afraid I can't tell you how Martina died."

"Was she raped? Was it a sex crime?"

"No, we don't think so, but it's too early to say for sure."

"If only I could get my hands on that monster." He clenched his fist in a threatening gesture.

"We understand that you're shocked, but you really need to calm down," Jacobsson admonished him. "The important thing right now is that we find out as much as we can about Martina and what she was doing during the days before she disappeared. Can you help us with this?"

"Sure. Of course," he said, sounding a bit more subdued.

"How would you describe Martina?"

"Smart, nice, cute, and damned good at anything having to do with the Viking Age. She knew more than anybody. She was very energetic. She worked harder than any of us. Above all she was loyal, as a friend, that is."

"Was there anything flirtatious or provocative about her behavior?"

Feathers hesitated for a moment before replying.

"I wouldn't really say that. She was lively and open-but flirtatious…no."

"Did you notice any change in her behavior lately?"

"No. She was the same as always."

"So there wasn't anything special that happened before she disappeared?"

He shook his head.

"Do you know whether she has a boyfriend here?"

"I'm not sure, but I think so."

"What makes you think that?"

Feathers gave both officers a solemn look. "Jonas and I share the room next to Martina and Eva's. Every day after excavating, we take a bus back to Warfsholm. After working in the heat and dirt for eight or nine hours, everyone is really eager to take a shower and change clothes. But Martina would often disappear as soon as we got home."

"Where did she go?"

"I have no clue."

"Did you see which direction she went?"

"Yes. The bus would pull up right in front of the youth hostel and stop. Then everyone rushed out to get to the shower first. In the beginning I didn't give a thought to the fact that Martina didn't go inside with the rest of us. It took a few days before I noticed. She headed over to the hotel instead."

"Did you ever ask her where she was going?"

"Once. She told me that she was going to buy some ice cream. There's a kiosk next to the restaurant."

"Did she usually go off alone?"

"I never saw anyone go with her."

"And you think that she was meeting someone?"

"Yes, because she always came home at the same time, a couple of hours later."

"Did you mention this to any of the others?"

"To my roommate, Jonas, of course. He had a better handle on what Martina did than anyone else."

"What do you mean by that?"

"He was in love with her, although that's not something that he wanted to talk about."

"Did anyone else know about this?"

"Sure. It was really obvious."

"Were his feelings reciprocated?"

Feathers shook his head. "No, not a chance."

Jacobsson decided to change tack. "Is this your first time in Sweden?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Why shouldn't I ask?"

"Er, I don't know…It just seems so unrelated to what's happened."

"How about answering the question?"

"Well, no, I've actually been here before."

"When was that?"

"I was here on Gotland last year, and also the year before."

"How did that happen?"

"The first time, I was with a friend whose girlfriend was from here. They met when she was an exchange student in the States. I hung out with him, and we had such a good time that I wanted to come back. So when it was time for him to come back, I came along."

"Isn't it awfully expensive for a student to come over here?"

"My parents pay for it," said Feathers, unperturbed.

"How long have you been studying archaeology?"

"About three years, off and on."

"What do you mean by 'off and on'?"

"I've dabbled in a little of everything-traveled, sailed. I compete in a lot of windsurfing contests."

That's the reason for the muscles and the athletic look, thought Jacobsson.

"Have you made any friends here during your visits?"

"I've met a lot of people, of course, but the ones you meet in the summer, at the beach or in a pub, are often from somewhere else. So I haven't met very many people who actually live on Gotland."

"Can you mention any at all?"

"Sure. A few who live in Visby."

Jacobsson took down their names and phone numbers.

"How long are you planning to stay here this time?"

"The course goes until the middle of August. After that I plan to stay a couple more weeks."

"Where are you going to stay?"

"With friends in Visby."

"The ones you gave me the phone numbers for?"

"Yes. I'm going to stay with Niklas Appelqvist."

"Did you meet Martina during your previous visit to Gotland?"

"No."

"What were you doing on the night she disappeared?"

"Why do you ask?"

"It's routine."

"I was drinking beer with some others in the group on the hotel porch after the concert. Martina was there, too."

"How long did you stay?"

"As long as the others did, until three or four or so. After that we all went to bed. Jonas and I share a room, so we were together all night."

"So he can confirm that you were with him all evening and all night?"

"Sure. I can vouch for him, too."