Unknown

MONDAY, JULY 26

On Sunday evening Knutas had tried numerous times to contact Mellgren, but without success. He didn't answer his cell phone, and when Knutas talked to Susanna Mellgren late that night, she still hadn't heard from her husband.

The whole thing was bewildering, to put it mildly. Mellgren had been subjected to the same terrifying experience as Gunnar Ambjornsson. Yet according to his wife he hadn't seemed particularly upset.

Knutas hadn't bothered with breakfast at home. He was eager to get to work, so instead he got a cup of coffee and bought a sandwich from the vending machine. The only one left was cheese on a rye roll with a few shriveled bits of red pepper. It had been there all weekend, of course.

The phone rang in his office just as he was trying to get the roll out of its tight packaging. As he reached for the receiver, half of his coffee spilled on the floor. He swore, hoping that none of it had splashed onto his pants.

It was Staffan Mellgren.

"I'm sorry that I haven't gotten in touch earlier, but I've been really busy and I forgot my cell phone at home," he apologized.

"Why on earth didn't you tell us about the horse's head?"

"I panicked. I didn't know what to do."

"Do you know anyone who might wish you harm?"

"I don't think so."

"Have you been mixed up in some sort of trouble, or have you made any enemies lately?"

"No."

Mellgren was now claiming that he had panicked. That didn't fit with his wife's version of the story. There was no doubt that the man was holding something back.

"So you have no idea why that horse's head ended up on your property?"

"That's right."

"Can you tell me the real reason why you didn't call the police when you found the horse's head?"

"Good Lord, you heard what I just said," roared Mellgren. "I was so shocked that I didn't know what to do. Then I thought about the fact that one of my students was murdered, and I wondered if there might be some connection."

"What sort of connection, do you think?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"Under no circumstances can this incident with the horse's head get out to the public. Have you told anyone about it?"

"Of course not."

"Then keep it to yourself, for God's sake. Otherwise you're going to have reporters behind every bush."

"Susanna and I have already talked about that, and the children don't know anything. The only ones who do are her parents, and they won't talk."

"Good. Now to another matter-and I want you to give me an honest answer, once and for all. Did you in fact have a relationship with Martina?"

Mellgren gave a loud sigh. "I've already told you. There was nothing going on between us."

"You've already lied to my face before, when you claimed that everything was just fine between you and your wife," said Knutas impatiently. "She's told us about your infidelities, you see. The fact that you're always going after new women. You seem to have, and pardon my bluntness, a mediocre marriage, to put it mildly. Why should I believe you now?"

Knutas never got an answer. Mellgren had already hung up the phone.

Knutas started off the meeting of the investigative team by telling everyone about the horse's head out at Mellgren's place.

"What is going on here?" growled Kihlgard agitatedly, making the bread crumbs fly. His mouth was full of Gotland rye bread, fresh out of the oven.

"Yes, things do seem to be getting worse and worse," said Knutas with a sigh. "Mellgren found the horse's head stuck on a pole outside his chicken coop on Saturday night. We didn't find out about it until yesterday afternoon when his wife called. He clearly didn't want to tell anyone about the incident."

"Why not?" asked Kihlgard.

"He told me that he panicked and didn't know what to do. At the same time, Susanna Mellgren claims that he seemed entirely unaffected by finding the head. They have completely opposite stories. Something definitely doesn't add up. But I think we should leave that part alone for the time being. The more important thing that I want to discuss is: What does it mean that the same bizarre thing has happened to Mellgren as to Gunnar Ambjornsson?"

"It must be a similar kind of threat, just like it was with Ambjornsson," Norrby stated dryly.

"Although Ambjornsson hasn't received any subsequent threats," interjected Wittberg.

"That's not so strange," said Jacobsson, rolling her eyes. "He's been out of the country ever since."

"He'll be home in a week," snapped Knutas. "So the safety of these two individuals could be at risk. We need to consider giving them some protection."

"Do we have resources for that?" Jacobsson raised her eyebrows.

"Not really."

"But should we actually regard Mellgren as under some sort of threat?" Wittberg objected. "Maybe he's mixed up in this whole thing himself. Why didn't he report the incident at once? And why wasn't he more upset? I, for one, have my suspicions."

"Absolutely," Jacobsson agreed. "Mellgren must have some skeletons in his closet. Pardon the pun."

"He's had a lot of adulterous affairs. Could it be a vengeful lover?" Kihlgard had a look of conspiratorial delight on his face.

"Someone who was also involved with Ambjornsson?" Jacobsson protested. "An amorous woman who in the heat of passion kills horses and decapitates them, and then puts the heads on poles at the homes of her former lovers? That doesn't sound terribly plausible, does it?" She gave her colleague a friendly poke in the side.

"Never underestimate the power of love," Kihlgard admonished her in a bombastic voice, shaking his finger like some sort of doomsday preacher.

"Let's stop joking around," Knutas interrupted them, sounding annoyed. "This isn't a game. We need to find out more about Mellgren. Who is he really? What sort of things does he do in his spare time? Is he politically active? What links can we find to Ambjornsson?"

"Yes, that's worth looking into. Maybe they've run into each other in connection with various types of construction. Archaeologists are often brought in on building projects," Kihlgard suggested.

"Here on Gotland that's true with nearly every building," said Jacobsson. "The island is literally overflowing with ancient relics."

"There's something else we should think about, just as Wittberg mentioned. Why did Mellgren seem so unaffected when he discovered the horse's head? At least according to his wife," said Knutas. "Yet he told me that he was panic-stricken, and that was why he didn't contact the police immediately."

"Extremely odd." Kihlgard tugged at a lock of his hair. "The guy is obviously lying."

"He must be a real cold-blooded type," Jacobsson added. "First his wife goes through the shock of seeing a horse's head stuck on a pole near their home. Then what does her husband do? He takes off and leaves her all alone, alarmed and frightened, and with four children. Not only that-he refuses to tell her where he's gone!"

"He doesn't give a shit about her. That much is clear," said Wittberg.

"We've actually already come to that conclusion," said Knutas. "But why was he in such a hurry?"

In his hand he carried an invisible mirror in which he saw his parents. Sometimes their faces disappeared, and he couldn't manage to conjure them up again, no matter how hard he tried. He had been interrupted.

In the early evening, as he stood there painting with even strokes the rough surface of the facade and the air breathed peace and tranquility, the man had appeared from around the corner of the house.

Not that it came as any surprise. The visitor was expected. The meeting could have ended in disaster, but he had managed to restrain his anger. They had talked, and he was indignant that the intruder had succeeded in his intention of upsetting him.

When the man left, he felt shaken, and it had taken a good amount of time to recover his sense of equilibrium. That made him even stronger in his conviction, and in his mind he was able to anticipate enjoying the sweetness of retaliation.

He sat down on the mound that he'd created only a few weeks earlier-yet another holy place that offered him inner peace.

The earth hid its secrets; truth pounded beneath the surface, wanting to get out. It would soon be time. The labyrinth in which he had wandered all his life was about to come unraveled. The angles and corners, the detours and dead ends, the obscure recesses, everything was crawling out into the light, becoming clearer and simpler and filling him with hope for a much better life.

He happened to think of a poem that he'd read in school and had saved ever since. It was by the great nineteenth-century Swedish author Carl Jonas Love Almqvist. You are not alone. If among a thousand stars only one looks at you, believe in the star's meaning, believe in the gleam in its eye…

Someone was looking at him. Not just one, but many.

Just as Knutas was considering calling it a day and heading for home, someone knocked on the door. It was Agneta Larsvik. She was normally so composed, but right now there was something agitated in her expression, and she moved in an abrupt manner as she sank onto the visitor's chair in Knutas's office.

"I've just come back from the Mellgren place," she explained. "I was in Stockholm over the weekend and didn't get back until around three this afternoon. At any rate, I drove out to their farm in Larbro, even though no one was home. I couldn't get hold of Staffan Mellgren or his wife, so I took a chance and just drove out there." She leaned forward. "This incident with the horse's head on the pole is a serious matter. Very serious. I think that Mellgren needs immediate protection."

"Why?"

"I interpret this as meaning that the perpetrator feels quite euphoric that he managed to pull off the first murder. It may be his way of announcing his arrival this time. He's sending a warning. At the same time, he's very self-confident, so confident he's going to get away with the crime that it doesn't matter if the individual receives a warning. On the contrary, that makes him all the more elated. I'm prepared to go so far as to say that the horse's head may very well represent a threat of homicide."

"But Martina didn't receive a horse's head before she was murdered."

"No, she didn't. For two reasons. Partly because he's gotten tougher. Partly because Martina lived with a lot of other people. It would have been more difficult to send her a personal warning."

"In that case, your analysis would mean that Ambjornsson's life is also threatened."

"Of course. Most likely the only reason that nothing has happened to him yet is because he's out of the country."

"It's lucky that nothing about the horses' heads has leaked to the press. At least we're not going to offer the perpetrator that sort of satisfaction. And no one outside this building knows anything about the horse's head found on Mellgren's property."

"Good. Keep it that way. It's important that the news doesn't get out. That would just make him feel even more exhilarated."

"So you seriously think that this man is going to murder more people?"

"I'm afraid that he will. The question is: How long will it take before he does? There's a real risk that another murder is going to be committed soon. Now that he's had a taste of the experience, he's going to want to do it again."

When the workday was over, Mellgren drove home. His wife had left a message on his cell phone, saying that she was taking the children over to her parents' house in Ljugarn. She didn't want to stay at the farm after the incident with the horse's head.

He stopped off at the college to pick up some papers from his office. The green park of Almedalen, which was down by the water, was filled with sunbathers, dogs, baby buggies, and teenagers listening to music. Crowds of youths were on their way to After Beach, near Kallbadhuset, where they had brought in sand from beaches all over Gotland to create a fine-grained sand beach in the middle of town where the shore was otherwise rocky. After Beach was very popular. After listening to a band and drinking a beer, they could move on to the next pub only a stone's throw away. Mellgren almost felt like going over there himself.

Inside the college he found the place deserted and the reception area locked. He picked up the papers and was on his way back to the car when a group of teenagers walked past. They were talking and laughing, and he thought that one of the girls, a cute little blonde, gave him an especially big smile. He stopped to watch them as they went into Kallbadhuset. At the same moment he heard the live band inside start playing. That was enough to make him decide. He hurried back to his office, grabbed a towel and a bar of soap from his closet, and went down to the locker room to take a quick shower. Upstairs again, he splashed on a little aftershave and changed into clean clothes. This was not the first time that he had chosen not to go straight home.

Back out on the street he was in high spirits as he strolled over to Kallbadhuset. It was true that he was over forty, but he looked young for his age. He was tall, slim, and fit. His hair was just as abundant and thick as when he was twenty. Staffan Mellgren was looking forward to the evening.

It was with a growing feeling of uneasiness in his chest that Knutas had listened to the forensic psychologist's opinion that both Gunnar Ambjornsson and Staffan Mellgren were in danger. Ambjornsson was expected back on Gotland in a week. As long as he stayed in Morocco he was probably safe. Mellgren, on the other hand, needed immediate protection. Knutas had made numerous calls to the cell phones of the investigative team, but without getting any response.

According to Susanna Mellgren, who was staying with her parents in Ljugarn, her husband was working in Frojel, as usual. He was then going to drive home. No one answered their home phone, even though the workday should have ended long ago.

"Could he be the murderer?" Jacobsson's voice sounded doubtful as they got into the car to drive out to the excavation site.

"I have a hard time believing that, but we've been surprised before," said Knutas tensely as he zigzagged between cars on the road. In July there was a lot of traffic on the coastal road between Klintehamn and Visby.

Martin Kihlgard, who was sitting in the backseat, leaned forward to offer his two colleagues a bag of onion chips. The car reeked of them. Knutas made a point of declining the offer, then rolled down the window as Jacobsson cheerfully accepted.

"I have a hard time imagining Mellgren as the murderer," muttered Kihlgard as he chewed. "It would be rather stupid to take the life of one of his own students, especially if he was having an affair with her. On top of that, it seems very unlikely that he would use his own pole to stick a horse's head on. And where the hell did he get the first horse's head from, since it wasn't from the same horse? Are there still no reports about any missing horses?"

"Not a single one," replied Knutas curtly. "And no one is saying that Mellgren is the murderer."

"I'd rather bet my money on the wife," Kihlgard went on, unperturbed. "She had both the opportunity and the motive. The guy is notoriously unfaithful, and he could very well have had an affair with Martina Flochten. We know that she was meeting someone in secret, and maybe that proved to be the last drop. Good Lord, the girl was only twenty-one, after all. Afterward, Susanna Mellgren tries staging the whole business with the horse's head in order to warn her husband, to threaten him. If she wanted to kill him, surely she would have done it at once. This is much more sophisticated. She wants him to realize that it's serious this time. If he doesn't stop his adulterous affairs, then he's going to meet the same fate."

Obviously satisfied with his explanation, Kihlgard leaned back and stuck his whole hand in the bag of chips.

"So you think that her intention is to frighten her husband out of his wits to such a degree that he won't look at another woman from now on?" Jacobsson sounded dubious.

"It wouldn't be the first time in the history of the world, at any rate. As I see it, she's the only one with an obvious motive."

"I must admit that I have a hard time seeing why anyone would want to kill Martina Flochten. A jealousy scenario could explain the matter," Knutas agreed. "But why would the wife use such a complicated method?"

"That may be a red herring," said Kihlgard. "Trying to make the whole thing seem mystical and ritualistic even though that has nothing at all to do with it."

They turned off at Frojel Church and drove all the way down to the excavation site. They bumped along on the last part of the road. It looked disconcertingly quiet and deserted. The carts were all properly locked, and everything seemed to be closed up for the night. Several pits were covered with plastic.

"All right, then," said Kihlgard. "He's not here, at any rate."

Knutas felt his irritation rising. We need to get hold of him, he thought, and quickly.

"We'll drive over to the college. He might be there."

He had a horrible premonition that they needed to hurry.

It was seven in the evening when Staffan Mellgren left Kallbadhuset to drive home. The band had stopped playing, and the young people were on their way out to join the action in Visby's pubs. He had deliberately chosen to keep a low profile, since he recognized several students from the college. They had greeted him with a nod. That was one thing he detested about living on Gotland-the fact that he could never be anonymous anywhere.

Even though he'd had two strong beers, he got behind the wheel. He drove out of the city as people walked past on their way to the restaurants and evening entertainments. The tourist season was at its peak, Visby was pulsing with life, and it was disappointing to have to leave it all behind and drive home to little Larbro.

His cell phone was still on the passenger seat, and he saw that he'd received quite a few messages, but he didn't feel like checking to see who they were from. It was probably Susanna, and he didn't have the energy to deal with her nervous carping right now.

The hens were clucking loudly in the yard when he arrived. Of course, they needed food, too; he'd forgotten to feed them in the morning.

In the refrigerator he found several old tomatoes that looked anything but fresh. They were good enough for the chickens. On a shelf Susanna had set a plastic ice cream container filled with eggshells, scraps of food, and stale bread.

He picked up the container and went out to the old barn that was used only as a junkyard and as a garage in the wintertime. At the far end of the barn was the chicken coop. When he opened the door, he was careful where he set his feet so as not to trample to death any of the tiny golden chicks that were peeping around his legs. What a life. He put down the ice cream container with the food scraps and filled a bowl with chicken feed.

Suddenly he heard the door to the barn slam shut. Cautiously he stood up from his squatting position and set down the feed sack. The hens kept up their clucking, making it impossible for him to hear anything. He slipped over to the doorway and peered into the barn.

He let his eyes scan the bare walls, covered with flyspecks and cobwebs. The windows were so filthy that the twilight hardly came through at all. The old stalls, which were lined up with walls separating them, hadn't been used in a long time. The door must have slammed shut by itself, he thought. He was just about to go back when he noticed that something was different. The old bathtub, which for years had been upside down among the other rubbish, had been moved and was now right side up.

Puzzled, he moved closer and saw to his surprise that it was filled to the brim with water, but he never managed to wonder who had been there or what the tub was going to be used for.

The college was locked, and they had to phone the security guard to come over and let them in. The place was completely deserted; not a soul around on this hot evening in July. They took the stairs up to the floor where Mellgren had his office. The door was locked. The security guard searched through his big bunch of keys to find the right one.

Mellgren's office was just as deserted as the rest of the rooms they had walked through. The faint scent of aftershave still hovered in his office.

"It's the kind Mellgren usually wears," said Jacobsson. "I recognize the fragrance."

Knutas quickly searched the desk but found nothing of interest. A wet towel was draped over the chair.

"He must have been here recently," said Knutas, "and he took a shower. Why didn't he go home to do that?"

"Because he was going out on the town, of course," said Kihlgard with a grin. "He was going to make a night of it, now that his wife is out in the country."

"Unless he had some other purpose in mind," said Knutas. He tried Mellgren's home phone number. Still no answer. He phoned Susanna Mellgren as well, but she hadn't yet heard from her husband.

"We might as well go and get something to eat," suggested Kihlgard. "I'm starving."

"Can't you ever think about anything but food?" snapped Knutas. "I'm driving out to Larbro. Are you coming with me, or should I call Wittberg?"

By the time they arrived at the farm, dusk had set in. Lights were on in all the windows, and a car was parked in the yard. The front door of the house wasn't locked, so they went in. The house was well lit but silent. They peeked into all the rooms, and it didn't take them long to realize that no one was there.

They went back out to the yard and saw that the barn door stood open. The only sound was the sporadic clucking of the chickens.

It looked as if the barn hadn't been used in a long time. At the far end a small door was ajar. Light was coming from inside. The three detectives exchanged glances. Surreptitiously they crept closer to the door. The rank smell of urine and ammonia came from what had to be the chicken coop. When they stepped across the threshold, they came face-to-face with a sight that was both unexpected and ghastly.

From a hook in the ceiling above the hens asleep on their perches hung Staffan Mellgren. He was naked, and someone had made a long cut in his abdomen to make the blood run out, but only a small pool had collected on the floor below. Knutas gasped for breath. In his mind he saw a sudden flash of a similar scene. Martina hanging amid the summer greenery. Youth and evil, a sudden death. Here it was red blood against white feathers.

It all had to do with contrasts.