Unknown

SATURDAY, JULY 24

The next day Staffan Mellgren stayed out at the excavation site for a long time. He had made a late night of it. He was hungover and tired, but he preferred to be at work instead of having to explain to Susanna why he had spent the night in town. Even though he suspected that she knew what he was up to and didn't care in the least whether he saw other women, she still seemed to enjoy pretending just the opposite. She played the role of the gullible and wronged wife, just for the pleasure of seeing him suffer.

In the car on his way home he called her, and, after the obligatory argument, she accepted his explanation that he'd had to work overtime. Sounding hurt, she reminded him that this was the third time in the past week he'd missed dinner. He played along, explaining that there was a lot of work to do during the excavation part of the courses. In fact, that happened to be true. Especially this time, since the excavation work had been delayed by Martina's death and the shock and despondency it had prompted among the students. Some had chosen to leave, but most of them were still there, and he was grateful for that. Three weeks had passed since the murder, and they were still being constantly reminded of it. The fact that the killer hadn't been caught didn't exactly improve the situation. Mellgren tried to explain all this to his wife, but she would have none of it. Instead she accused him of neglecting his family. He couldn't even count how many times he'd heard all this before. He regretted calling her, and he tried to placate her by offering to feed the chickens when he got home.

They lived in Larbro, about twenty miles north of Visby, so it was a bit of a drive. He turned up the volume on the stereo as loud as it would go, enjoying the music. It helped him to unwind.

He wondered when the love between them had disappeared. He couldn't remember when he'd last seen any warmth in his wife's eyes. He was living in a loveless, phony marriage. The laughter had gotten stuck in his throat long ago. Maybe a divorce was unavoidable, but he was too much of a coward to take the first step.

The children kept him in the marriage. They were still so young; the oldest was only ten. He had neither the energy nor the desire to get out of the marriage right now. It would have to wait. In the meantime he would do whatever he could to make it bearable.

When he drove into the yard, everything was quiet. The kids were probably asleep by now. He might as well go out to the chicken coop right away.

Their farm had a view of the pastures and fields. He looked at the whitewashed limestone house, the blue-painted trim around the windows with their curtains and potted plants, and the porch with its ornate gingerbread carvings. On one side was the studio where his wife made her pots; she even had her own kiln. How he used to admire her work. When was the last time they had talked about her pottery?

The dilapidated barn that they had planned to paint this summer looked the same as always. So far nothing had come of their plans. Why bother to paint it? Why should they fix up anything? No reason.

A sudden feeling of melancholy came over him, and he sat down on the bench outside the potter's studio and buried his head in his hands. He would feed the chickens in a minute; he just needed to gather his forces first. They had turned half of the barn into a chicken coop. Whatever good that would do. When they were newly in love and had moved out of Visby to live in the country, they both thought it seemed romantic to have chickens. Since then the years had passed and the romance had disappeared, but the chickens were still here.

He had a feeling that life was slipping away from him as he stood on the sidelines and watched. The days came and went, and nothing changed. He and his wife kept up their usual bickering, their sex life was largely nonexistent, and one routine followed another in a never-ending stream.

It had been a good long time since they'd had a real fight. Neither of them seemed to have enough commitment even to argue. Nothing but surliness and a steadily growing distance. Not that he wanted any closeness with her. Not anymore.

He stood up and sauntered across the yard toward the chicken coop. It was a lovely, quiet night. The scent of jasmine from the bushes in front of the house mixed with the smell of chicken manure.

The chickens were strutting around the yard, pecking here and there, and clucking softly. They were unusually quiet this evening.

Suddenly he caught sight of something sticking out above the open barn door. He was too far away to make out what it was, but something was definitely there, he was sure of that. He kept catching a glimpse of it from behind the maple tree's swaying branches that stretched over the building on this side.

He hesitated without knowing why and then stopped abruptly. He glanced around uncertainly but couldn't see anyone. All of a sudden an ominous feeling had settled over the yard.

When he got close enough, he was seized with horror. At first glance he had a hard time taking in what he saw. Slowly it became clearer, and the thoughts swirling around in his head gradually formed a coherent image.

The sight of the bloody horse's head shocked him at first, but it didn't take long before he understood exactly what the whole thing was about.