Unknown

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 30

He drove the red pickup along the dirt road, sending up clouds of dust. It was very early, about 2:00 a.m. The first rays of the sun were just making their way above the horizon. The whole countryside was asleep, including the cows, who lay close together with their eyes shut in the pastures he drove past. The only movement was a rabbit or two bounding across the fields. He smoked as he listened to the all-night radio station. It had been a long time since he had felt so content.

The narrow dirt road was wide enough for only one car at a time. Here and there it widened so that it was possible to pass cars coming from the opposite direction; the passing zones were marked by blue road signs with a big white M. Not that it was really necessary. No cars ever came from the other direction on this road. Their farm lay at the very end; it was impossible to go any farther. When he was a boy it was not something he thought much about. He probably just assumed that everyone lived more or less the same way. It was the reality that he knew, what he had grown accustomed to.

Every time his childhood home appeared from around the last bend in the road, a touch of that old panicky feeling would arise, as if on command. He felt a pressure in his chest, his muscles tightened, and his breathing grew strained. But the symptoms quickly subsided. He was surprised that it never got any better. After all these years, his body still seemed to react on its own, without any coaxing from him.

The farm consisted of a house that had once been quite magnificent, made of wood and painted yellow; the paint was now peeling off. On one side stood a low, dilapidated barn and on the other a small hay-barn. The remains of a manure heap in the back recalled the time when they'd had animals on the farm. The surrounding pastures were now empty; the last of the livestock had been sold after the death of his parents a year ago.

He parked behind the hay-barn-a precaution that wasn't really necessary, but it was an old habit. He opened the tailgate, took out the sack, and walked briskly across the yard. The barn door creaked, and the air inside smelled musty. Thick layers of cobwebs hung from the ceiling, along with sticky ribbons covered with the black dots of long-dead flies.

The old freezer stood in its customary place, even though it hadn't been used in a long time. Several days earlier he had plugged it in to make sure that it still worked.

Cold air struck him as he opened the lid. The sack fit inside easily. Quickly he closed the lid and then carefully wiped off the exterior of the freezer with soap and a wet rag. It had probably never been this clean before. Then he picked up the bundle of clothes and the rag and put them in a plastic bag.

Behind the barn he dug a deep hole in the ground and stuffed the bag into it. Carefully he filled up the hole, placing some straw and branches on top. Nothing aboveground gave away his hiding place.

All that was left was the truck. He brought out a hose and spent over an hour cleaning it up, both inside and out. Finally he took off the phony license plate and replaced it with the real one. No one could claim that he wasn't thorough.

Then he went inside to make breakfast.

A fresh mist slowly floated over the meadows still damp from the night, weaving its way between the grass and stalks of grain. It caressed the clumps of reeds where a couple of swans were meticulously grooming their white plumage. Several terns were squawking over the bay, and rowboats rocked serenely at their moorings a short distance out in the water. The rotting gray fishing boats at the shore were no longer in use.

It was an uncommonly beautiful morning-one of those summer mornings that would be summoned up as a memory when winter drew its silent dark coat over the island of Gotland.

Twelve-year-old Agnes was awake earlier than usual. It wasn't even eight thirty when she woke her little sister, Sofie. In her sleep-muddled state she was easily persuaded to go for a dip before breakfast. Their grandmother was sitting on the steps, having her coffee and reading the paper. She waved to them as the girls pedaled off with their towels in the bike baskets. The dirt road ran parallel to the beach, a few hundred yards higher up. They had to bike about half a mile before they could turn off to reach the section that was good for swimming.

Agnes stayed ahead of her sister, even though they could have ridden side by side. The traffic on this road was practically nonexistent, even at the height of the summer. Agnes always wanted to be slightly ahead. She had plucked a blade of grass from the roadside and was sucking on it; she liked the taste of the fresh sap.

The dirt road first wound its way through the woods, and then the landscape opened before them. Fields and pastures stretched out side by side down toward the water, which was visible almost the whole time. Several farms were located along the road, with horses, cows, and sheep grazing. At the last whitewashed farm building on the road, they biked past a large pasture before they turned off to go down to the beach. The horses-three Gotland ponies and a Norwegian fjording- were outside day and night at this time of year, along with the shaggy Gotland sheep. The rams were splendid with their twisting horns like pretzels on each side of their head. Sometimes the farmer allowed the girls to ride the ponies. He had a daughter who was a few years older, and if she felt like it she would let them come along for a ride. Agnes and Sofie visited their grandmother and grandfather often. They spent large parts of their summer vacation here in Petesviken in southwestern Gotland while their parents stayed home in Visby to work.

"Wait a minute. Let's say hi to the horses," Agnes suggested as she stopped at the fence.

She clicked her tongue and whistled, which had an immediate effect. The animals stopped grazing, raised their heads, and came trotting over to the girls.

The biggest ram started bleating. Then another and another, until they all joined in. The animals crowded around the gate, hoping for a treat. The girls patted all of them as best they could. They didn't dare venture inside the fence when they were alone.

"Where's Pontus?"

Agnes surveyed the pasture. There were only three horses. Their favorite pony, a black-and-white dappled gelding, was missing.

"Maybe he's over in the trees."

Sofie pointed to the narrow grove of trees that stretched like a dark green ribbon down the middle of the pasture.

The girls shouted and then waited a few minutes, but the pony didn't appear.

"Forget about it," said Sofie. "Let's go swimming."

"How strange that he doesn't come." Agnes frowned, looking worried. He was always so affectionate. Her eyes swept over the hillside, past the water trough, the salt licks, and the trees farther down the slope.

"Oh well, never mind about him. He's probably lying down somewhere asleep." Sofie poked her sister in the side. "You're the one who wanted to go swimming. Come on." She got on her bike.

"There's something wrong. We should at least be able to see where Pontus is."

"They've probably taken him inside. Maybe Veronica is planning to go out riding."

"But what if he's lying down somewhere and he's sick and can't get up! He could have broken his leg or something. We have to go and see."

"Don't be silly. We'll say hi to him on our way back."

Even though the ponies were gentle and small in size, Sofie had respect for them and wasn't eager to go into the pasture. The fjording was big and powerful and didn't seem trustworthy; he had kicked her once. The sheep were also a little scary with those big horns of theirs.

Agnes paid no attention to her sister's protests. She opened the gate and went into the pasture.

"Well, I, at least, have no intention of forgetting about Pontus," she snapped angrily.

Sofie groaned loudly, to show her disapproval. Reluctantly she hopped off her bike and followed.

"You'll have to go first," she muttered.

Agnes clapped her hands and yelled to shoo off the animals, and they bounded off in all directions. Sofie kept close to her big sister and looked around uneasily. The tall grass tickled and scratched at their legs. They didn't say a word to each other. The pony was nowhere in sight.

When they reached the grove of trees without having found anything unusual, Agnes climbed up on the fence on the other side of the pasture to get a better view.

"Look," she cried, pointing.

Farther off, at the edge of the trees, she could see Pontus lying on his side. He seemed to be asleep. Overhead a flock of crows cawed and screeched.

"There he is. He's sleeping like a log!"

Eagerly she ran toward the horse.

"Then it's all right. There's nothing wrong. We don't need to go any farther, do we?" Sofie objected.

Their view was partially blocked. The horse didn't move a muscle.

The only sound was the noisy screeching of the crows. Agnes, leading the way, had time to think that it was odd to see so many crows. When she got closer she stopped so abruptly that her sister ran right into her.

Pontus was lying there on the grass, and his coat gleamed in the sun. The sight would have reassured them if it weren't for one thing. The place where his head was supposed to be was now empty. His neck had been severed. All they saw was a big bloody hole and the flies that were swarming in a black cloud around the fleshy opening.

Behind her Agnes heard a thud as her sister fell headlong to the ground.

Detective Superintendent Anders Knutas discovered to his dismay that patches of sweat had already started to appear under his armpits by the time he parked his run-down Mercedes at police headquarters. It was one of those rare days in the year when it became painfully obvious that the old car had no air-conditioning. Now his wife, Lina, would once again have grist for the mill when she lobbied for purchasing a new car.

Under normal circumstances it would never occur to him to drive to work. His house was located just outside the South Gate, only half a mile from his office. Knutas had worked in the Visby police department for twenty-five years, and he could easily count the days when he had not walked to work. Sometimes he would stop at the Solberga Pool and go inside to swim a mile or more. This summer was no exception. In August he would celebrate his fiftieth birthday, and over the past few years he had noticed the difference the minute he stopped exercising. He'd been more or less thin all his life, and that wasn't something he wanted to change. It just required a little more effort nowadays. Swimming kept him in shape and helped him to think. The more complicated the case he was working on, the more often he paid a visit to the swimming pool. He hadn't been there in quite a while. He wasn't sure whether that was good or bad.

On this last day in June his family was planning to drive up to their summer house in Lickershamn to mow and water the grass. Knutas was intending to leave work early and pick up his wife at the hospital when she was done with her shift at the maternity ward. Contrary to all expectations, their twins, Petra and Nils, who would soon turn thirteen, had agreed to come along, even if they weren't thrilled about it. Lately they usually preferred to spend their time with friends.

Cool air struck Knutas as he stepped through the front door. Silence reigned in the hallway of the criminal investigation division. Summer vacations had started, and it was noticeable.

Knutas's closest colleague, Detective Inspector Karin Jacobsson, was sitting in her office talking on the phone when he walked past. Knutas and Jacobsson had worked together for fifteen years, and they knew each other well on a professional level. When it came to their private lives, Jacobsson was much more reticent.

She was thirty-eight and single, or at least Knutas had never heard her talk about any boyfriend. She lived alone with her white cockatoo in an apartment in Visby, and she devoted most of her free time to playing soccer. Right now she was sitting there waving her arms around and speaking in a loud and furious voice. She was petite, with dark hair. She had warm, lively brown eyes and a big gap between her front teeth. Her mood could change dramatically, and she didn't make much of an effort to rein in her hot temper. She was a splash of color and a bundle of energy, and her sweeping gestures were in sharp contrast to the less than uplifting backdrop of closed blinds and gray-painted bookshelves.

Knutas sank down on the chair in his office and started going through the mail from the past few days that was still untouched. Among the anonymous official letters he found a colorful postcard from Greece. The picture showed a typical Greek meal: grilled chicken on a spit with a bowl of tsatziki and a bottle of wine on a round cafe table. In the background was a glimpse of sunset, and light was glinting off one of the two wineglasses on the blue-painted tabletop.

The message said: "Not exactly the same thing as grilled lamb's head with mashed turnips-what do you say, Knutie? On Naxos for two weeks, taking it easy. Hope you're well, and maybe we'll have a chance to meet again soon. Martin."

Knutas couldn't help smiling. How typical for Martin Kihlgard to send a postcard with a picture of food on it. The inspector from the National Criminal Police was the biggest glutton Knutas had ever met. He was always eating. They had worked together several times on various homicide cases when Knutas had asked for reinforcements from the NCP.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. The next moment the door was opened by his colleague Thomas Wittberg, who was more than twenty years his junior. Wittberg refused to cut his thick blond hair, in spite of constant kidding from everyone at work. The tight white T-shirt accentuated his suntanned torso, which was subjected to regular sessions in the gym at police headquarters. Wittberg had real charm, and he knew how to use it on vacationing women as soon as the season got started. The young detective liked to joke that his goal was to meet women from every region of Sweden, from Samiland in the north to Skane in the south. Knutas didn't doubt for a moment that his colleague would succeed. As far as he knew, Wittberg had never had a relationship that had lasted more than a few weeks. Every summer different women would call him at work, and some would even show up unannounced to see him.

On the job he had also made good use of his popularity with the ladies. It had helped the police to make progress in quite a few investigations. Thomas Wittberg had quickly been promoted from a cop on the beat to the violent crimes division and then to police detective, and for the past two years he had been a regular member of Knutas's core group. Right now his intense blue eyes testified to the fact that something special had happened.

"You've got to hear this," he said as he dropped onto Knutas's visitor's chair holding a sheet of paper in his hand. Knutas noticed that it was covered with Wittberg's illegible notes.

"A decapitated horse was found in a pasture outside Petesviken. Two little girls discovered it this morning."

"Good Lord."

"Around nine o'clock the girls were biking to the beach for a morning swim when they noticed that one of the horses was missing. They found it lying farther off in the pasture with its head cut off."

"Are you sure they didn't just imagine the whole thing?"

"Their grandfather and the owner of the farm went back with them to have a look. They just called in the report."

"What sort of horse is it? And who owns it?"

"An ordinary pony. The owner is a farmer named Jorgen Larsson. He has four horses that his family keeps for riding. The other three were in the pasture."

"And they weren't harmed in any way?"

"Apparently not."

Knutas shook his head. "That sounds very strange."

"There's one more thing," said Wittberg.

"What's that?"

"The head wasn't simply cut off. It's missing. The farmer has searched everywhere for it, but he couldn't find it. It's not anywhere near the body, at any rate."

"You mean that the perp took the head away?"

"So it seems."

"Did you talk to the farmer yourself?"

"No, I got the information from a patrolman."

"I hope he doesn't go rummaging around in the pasture, disturbing all the evidence," Knutas muttered as he reached for his jacket. "Let's get going."

Several minutes later Knutas, Wittberg, and the crime-scene tech Erik Sohlman were sitting in a police car heading south. Sohlman was one of the officers that Knutas valued most, along with Jacobsson. Both of his favorite colleagues shared a temperamental nature and an interest in soccer, but unlike Jacobsson, Sohlman was married and had two small children.

"What a strange thing," said the technician. He brushed his curly red hair back from his forehead. "I wonder whether it's some mentally ill person who likes to hurt animals, or whether there's something else behind it."

Knutas muttered something inaudible in reply.

"Do you remember that trotting horse that bolted during a race at Skrubbs and ran off the track?" Wittberg leaned forward from where he was sitting in the backseat. "The driver fell out of the sulky and the horse took off. I seem to recall that we searched for a week."

"Oh, right. The one that was later found dead in the woods in Follingbo," Knutas interjected. "The sulky had gotten stuck between two trees, and the horse died of dehydration."

"My God," said Sohlman with a shudder. "That was not a pretty sight."

They continued in silence along the coast road, past Klintehamn and Frojel and the little village of Sproge with its lovely white church. Then they turned off on a dirt road, a long straightaway heading toward the sea with short pine and spruce trees on both sides. They soon reached Petesviken. Several farms stood in a row, with a view of the sea. In the pastures livestock was grazing. It looked as harmonious and peaceful as could be.

At Jorgen Larsson's property a truck was parked on the gravel in front of the house, along with a newer-model Opel. Several cages for rabbits had been set up on the lawn, and the officers were met by a beagle happily wagging his tail. A man wearing blue overalls and a cap came out on the front porch just as their car turned into the yard. The man took off his cap in the old-fashioned way of greeting as he said hello to the three officers.

"Jorgen Larsson. We might as well go right out there. This sure is a nasty business. I can't believe it happened. My daughter is very upset. It was her pony, and you know how it is with young girls and their horses. Pontus was everything to the poor girl. She just keeps crying and crying. I can't understand how anyone could do something like that. It's completely incomprehensible."

The words came pouring out, nonstop and all in one breath, and none of the officers had time to respond before the farmer started heading across the yard toward the pasture.

"Both my wife and the kids are really upset. It's a real mess. I think they're all in shock."

"Of course," said Knutas. "I understand."

"And Pontus…well, he was something special, you know," Lars-son went on. "The kids could ride him whenever they liked, and they could do whatever they wanted with him. You couldn't find a more gentle horse. He was almost stupidly nice, you see. They would climb up on him when they were little and pull his mane and tug on his tail and things like that, and he let them do it. Well, he wasn't exactly a youngster anymore, fifteen years old, so sooner or later he would have ended up at the butcher's, but I like to think he still had a few more years left. Anyway, his life shouldn't have ended the way it did. I never could have imagined this."

"No," Knutas interjected sympathetically. "Do you know-"

"I bought that horse after we had our first son, thought it would be fun for him to have a horse to ride, you know. We don't have much else other than livestock out here in the country. Though we do have a dog, and she's had several puppies, you know. And we almost always have kittens-that cat must have had four or five litters by now, so we're going to have to get her fixed; well, you know what I mean. We also have rabbits, and baby rabbits, too. Well, the kids don't have much else to occupy their time, and besides, they're interested and they want to help out with the cows and calves, and that's something a man has to be grateful for. The fact that they're so interested."

"But-" Knutas ventured.

The farmer took no notice and just kept on talking.

"My oldest boy is sixteen and does the work of a full-grown hired hand when he comes home from school. Yes, he does. Every single day, too. He's as reliable as the amen in church. We have forty milk cows and twenty-five calves. My brother and his wife also work on the farm; we own it together. They live in the other direction, where you turned off the road. They have three kids, so it's a full house, and we take care of everything together. They're away right now, on vacation in Majorca, but they'll be back tomorrow, and I haven't called to tell them about the horrible thing that's happened. It would just upset them for no reason. It can just as well wait. But this whole thing is very unsettling, you know. I've never experienced anything like it before."

Knutas stared at Jorgen Larsson, who barely managed to take a breath before more words came pouring out of him. They had reached the gate, and the farmer pointed a thick finger toward the narrow grove of trees.

"The horse is lying over there, without a head. That's really the worst thing I've ever seen. The bastard must have had a hell of a time cutting it off. I don't know whether he sawed it off or hacked it off or what exactly he did."

"Where are the other horses?" barked Knutas to put an end to the farmer's unrelenting torrent.

"Oh, we took them inside. He might try to hurt them, too. You never know. Although we haven't seen any cuts on them. We let the sheep stay out," said Larsson apologetically. "They don't seem to be bothered by much."

Knutas had given up trying to ask the farmer any questions, so he said nothing. That could wait until later.

Larsson unhooked the latch and firmly shooed away the sheep that had crowded around his legs.

The detectives tried to keep up with his long strides through the pasture.

Over where the horse lay, a flock of crows was cawing above the cadaver.

In the midst of that bucolic summer scene of the horse pasture, the green-clad hillside, and the glittering bay lay a muscular pony with a plump belly and flowing tail, but his neck ended in a huge bloody wound.

"Who the hell would do something like this?" exploded Knutas.

For once the farmer was at a loss for words.

For TV reporter Johan Berg, the news situation looked anything but favorable on this Wednesday morning. There was absolutely nothing happening. He was sitting at his dust-covered desk in the small editorial office of Swedish TV in downtown Visby. He had paged through the morning newspapers and listened to the local radio station. He couldn't help feeling impressed with how the editors had managed to fill the papers and the broadcasts, in spite of the fact that they didn't contain even a shred of news. He had talked to Pia Lilja, the Gotland cameraperson with whom he was working during the summer, and told her that she could come in later. It was pointless for both of them to sit there twiddling their thumbs.

Listlessly he sifted through several days' worth of municipal documents and reports of proceedings, feebly hoping to find something. His boss, Max Grenfors, at the central editorial office back in Stockholm, had given him an assignment this morning that seemed fairly impossible. He was supposed to find a news story and do a report for the evening broadcast. "Preferably one we can lead off with. We haven't got much for the program, and we need something from you." Hadn't he heard this all before?

Johan had worked as a crime reporter for Swedish TV for twelve years in the Regional News division, which covered Stockholm, Uppsala, and the island county of Gotland. In addition, he was in charge of covering Gotland news, which could mean anything from runaway cows to a school that had burned down or the overcrowding of the hospital's emergency room. Previously the area's coverage had been handled from Stockholm, but Swedish TV had decided to reinstate the local editorial office on Gotland for a trial period this summer, and Johan had been assigned as reporter. For the past two months he'd been living on the island, and there was nowhere else he would rather be. Love had brought him here, and in spite of the numerous obstacles that still had to be overcome, he was determined that he and Emma Winarve, a teacher in Roma, would be together. They had met and fallen in love in connection with a murder case that he was covering a year ago. Emma was married and had two children when their relationship began. Now she was newly divorced and expecting their child at any moment. His baby and hers.

Johan still couldn't comprehend that he was going to be a father. It was too enormous a concept, too intangible. To his great disappointment, Emma wanted to wait to move in together, "to see how things go," as she said. Her other children, Sara and Filip, were still so young. They needed to have a chance to get used to the new situation, living half the time with their father and half with their mother. Now they were going to have a new brother or sister. Emma wanted to take things one day at a time, and Johan was forced to be patient. Just like so many times before. Occasionally it felt as if so far their whole relationship had consisted of him waiting for her.

In his heart he was sure that they were moving in the right direction, that one day they would finally be together. This was what he had believed all along, and he hadn't become any less convinced. Emma had chosen to carry his child to term; that was enough for him. At least for the time being.

As far as his work situation on Gotland was concerned, there was much that he liked, including the independence and his collaboration with Pia, which functioned well. It was great not to have an editor breathing down his neck, too, even though the pressure sometimes felt just as intense, even from a distance. Of course, he missed the big-time crime stories in Stockholm, as well as his apartment and his friends, but his life had taken new turns, which meant that Gotland was where he most wanted to be.

There were also numerous advantages to working as part of a small team in a local office. He had a lot of freedom, and he found great satisfaction in setting his own work schedules. He and Pia tried to do one story each day, and that was sufficient. They were on their own. As long as they delivered broadcastable and more or less relevant reports, the home office was satisfied.

Right now they were planning a series about the high cost of housing. Johan was fascinated by the fact that people would pay several million kronor for a small house in Visby inside the medieval wall, and the amount they had to cough up for an apartment could be as much as the price tags in the most fashionable sections of Stockholm. No matter how charming the old city of Visby was, there was a big difference in the choice of services, jobs, and entertainment, and Visby could only be reached by boat or plane. He wondered who the two thousand people were who lived inside the ring wall and could afford those incredible prices, at least by Gotland standards. The residents with normal salaries could only dream of living downtown, unless they had inherited a place.

Johan had been stationed on Gotland since May 1, and up until now he hadn't lacked for story ideas. Unemployment was a big problem on the island. During the past few years several large companies had cut back on the number of employees or had shut down completely. Some had moved their production to the mainland. The latest death blow came when the government decided to close P18, the old military base, as part of the big wave of cuts in the defense budget that had swept across Sweden.

Now, though, the team hadn't managed to squeeze out a single story for several days, and Johan was clearly feeling the pressure from Grenfors in Stockholm.

When the phone rang, he answered without much enthusiasm.

It was Pia, and there was an eager tone to her voice. He could hear that she was driving as she talked.

"Hey, a horse has been found in a pasture with its head cut off."

Pia had a habit of skipping any introductory greetings, which she viewed as unnecessary, especially when she was in a hurry and had something important to say.

"When?"

"This morning. Two little girls found it in a pasture out by Petesviken. Do you know where that is?"

"No clue."

"It's in southern Gotland, on the west coast-it's probably about thirty-five miles from the city."

"How did you hear about this?"

"I have a friend who lives there. She called me."

"Who owns the horse?"

"A completely ordinary farm family."

"We should drive out there right away. How soon can you get here?"

"I'm out in front now."

Johan hung up the phone and immediately called Detective Superintendent Knutas on his direct line. He got no answer, and the switchboard told him that the entire investigative team would be tied up all morning.

A decapitated horse sounded weird, but that was exactly what he needed. He grabbed a notebook and pen and locked the door to the office. He decided to wait to call Grenfors in Stockholm; he had nothing against keeping the editor on tenterhooks for a while.

He sat in the kitchen, thinking about how palpably a room could change, depending on who was in it and what was taking place. The gloom that had previously emanated from the walls, and the guilt and shame that had fallen from the ceiling onto his head, were now gone. In the past the walls had pressed in and threatened him whenever he sat at his place at the table, which was always the same. Whatever food was served gave him no pleasure; it merely swelled up inside his mouth until he had a hard time swallowing. A plateful of anxiety lay hidden under the gravy.

Things were different now that he could do whatever he pleased. He had made himself a hearty breakfast. The exertions of the morning demanded a solid meal.

On the plate in front of him were three thick slices of toasted white bread with pieces of Falun sausage and eggs dripping with fat. He topped them off with a generous squirt of ketchup, along with salt and pepper. The cat was meowing greedily and rubbing against his leg. He tossed her a piece of sausage.

The clock on the wall showed that it was nine forty-five. Through the dusty windowpane he could see the sun lighting up the yard outside. He ate the food with a good appetite and gulped down some of the cold milk. When he was done, he pushed away the plate and belched loudly. He leaned back in his chair and took a pinch of snuff.

His body was tired; his arms ached. It had been more difficult than he'd anticipated. For a moment he had even thought that he might not be able to do it. Finally, he had managed it. The finishing work had taken a good long time, but now it was done.

He stood up and picked up his plate. Carefully he rinsed off the scraps of food under the faucet and then washed the plate.

All of a sudden he felt very tired. He had to lie down and sleep. He let out the cat, who soundlessly slunk off. Then he went up the creaking stairs to the second floor and went into the far room, at the end of the house. The room had never been repaired after the fire. Patches of soot covered the walls, and even the burned bed was still there, like some sort of charred log in the corner. He thought he could even sense a faint whiff of smoke, but it was probably just his imagination. On the floor was an old mattress, and that was where he lay down. This room made him feel good. It gave him a sense of calm that he otherwise never felt, and he slept well.

Knutas never ceased to be amazed at how fast news traveled. Reporters from the local radio station, TV, and newspapers had all contacted him, wanting to know what had happened. On Gotland there was enormous news value in the fact that a horse had been decapitated. Experience had taught him that nothing stirred up the public as much as the abuse of animals.

The thought had barely appeared in his mind before the organization Friends of the Animals was on the line, and several other animal rights groups would undoubtedly be calling him soon. The police spokesman, Lars Norrby, was away on vacation, so Knutas had to handle the reporters on his own. He wrote up a brief press release and said that for a change he was going to be unreachable for the next few hours.

Back at the criminal investigation division after the morning excursion to Petesviken, Knutas bought a sandwich from the vending machine in the coffee room. There was no time for lunch. He had called in his closest colleagues for a meeting at one o'clock. Sohlman should be able to make it back from the investigation out at the crime scene to join them, thanks to the fact that there were now two crime techs in the police department.

They gathered in the bright, open conference room, which had a big table in the middle. Police headquarters had recently been remodeled, and new furniture, in a simple Scandinavian design, had been purchased. Knutas had felt more comfortable with their old worn furniture made of pine. At least the view was still the same; the panoramic windows looked out on the Forum supermarket parking lot, the ring wall, and the sea.

"The crime that has been committed is a particularly nasty one," Knutas began, and he told them about what they had seen out at Petesviken. "The pasture and the surrounding area have been blocked off," he went on. "There's a highway that runs past the pasture, and that's where we're looking for traces of any vehicles. If the person or persons who did this took the horse's head with them, they most likely had a car. The neighbors and other people who live in the area are being interviewed, so we'll have to see what turns up during the course of the day."

"How was the horse killed?" asked Jacobsson.

"Erik can tell us more about that." Knutas turned to the crime tech.

"Let's take a look at some pictures of the horse," said Sohlman. "I have to warn you, Karin, that some of them are very unpleasant." He directed this comment to Jacobsson, not only because she was the most sensitive of his colleagues when it came to blood, but also because she had a great affection for animals.

He clicked through the photos of the horribly abused body.

"As you can see here, the head was severed from the neck, or rather, hacked and chopped off. A veterinarian, Ake Tornsjo, has already taken a look at the horse. He's going to do a more thorough examination later, but he was able to tell us how he thinks it was done. According to him, the perpetrator-if it actually was the work of one individual-presumably first knocked the horse unconscious by giving him a strong blow to the forehead, most likely with a hammer, a sledgehammer, or an axe. When the horse lost consciousness, he used a large knife, like a butcher knife, to slice through the neck, and that's what killed the animal-meaning, the loss of blood. To sever the head from the vertebrae, he had to smash them apart. We've found crushed pieces of bone, and I would guess that it was done by using an axe. Marks on the ground indicate that the horse was still alive after the first blow. He lay there, kicking in his death throes. The grass had been thrashed about, and the ground was churned up. The area around the neck is ragged and rough, which indicates that the perpetrator had to go at it for a while-he seems to have known perfectly well what to do, even if he lacked a more detailed knowledge of a horse's anatomy."

"How nice. Then we can exclude all veterinarians," muttered Wittberg.

"There's one thing that I can't make sense of," Sohlman went on, unperturbed. "When the carotid artery was severed, the horse should have lost an incredible amount of blood. We can see that blood did run out of the neck and body, but there's only a small amount accumulated on the ground. Almost negligible. Even if the blood had seeped into the ground, there should still be more of it."

The others gave the tech a puzzled look.

"How would you explain that?" said Jacobsson.

"The only thing I can come up with is that the perpetrator must have collected the blood."

"Why would anybody want to do something like that?" objected Wittberg.

"I have no idea." Sohlman stroked his chin meditatively. "The owner last saw the horse at around eleven last night. The vet estimates that the animal had been dead for at least five or six hours by the time the girls found him. That means that the crime was most likely committed sometime before four in the morning. As far as the pasture is concerned, it's being searched by dogs, along with the immediate vicinity, in an attempt to find the head. So far no luck. We'll continue to widen the area of our search."

Jacobsson grimaced. "How disgusting. So the perpetrator took both the head and the blood along," she said. "What do we know about the horse?"

Knutas looked down at his notes.

"A pony, fifteen years old, castrated-so it was a gelding. A gentle, friendly animal, with no previous police record."

Wittberg snickered. Jacobsson was not amused.

"What about the owner?" she asked.

"His name is Jorgen Larsson. Married, the father of three. He took over the farm along with his brother ten years ago. It's their childhood home, and their parents still live in one of the separate wings of the house. The farm is quite large. They have about forty cows and a lot of calves. There don't seem to be any conflicts within the family. They've run their farm in peace and quiet all these years. Neither Jorgen Lars-son nor any other family member has a police record.

"The vet thinks that the crime was committed by someone who grew up on a farm or who has had previous contact with the slaughtering or butchering of animals," Sohlman went on. "He says that this isn't the sort of thing that can be done on the spur of the moment. It requires careful planning, nerve, and determination-as well as brute strength. You'd have to hit hard to make the horse lose consciousness, and you'd also have to know where to strike. The brain is located very high up on the forehead. According to Ake Tornsjo, the perpetrator must have done this sort of thing before."

Everyone seated around the table was listening with interest.

"Has the farmer or anyone in his family ever received any sort of threat?" asked Wittberg.

"No, not as far as we know."

"The question is whether this was directed at the farmer personally, or whether it's a madman who's attacking animals," said Jacobsson.

"Could this be some kind of boyish prank?" Wittberg tossed out the question.

"With a butcher knife and an axe and a means of transporting the head?" said Jacobsson. "Not on your life. On the other hand, I do wonder if there are any mental patients with a history of animal abuse who have been released."

"Actually, we've already managed to check up on that," said Knutas. "Do any of you recall Gustav Persson? The guy who used to roam around the pastures putting nails into horses' hooves? He would pound the nail in partway, and when the horse set his foot down to walk, the nail would go in farther and farther. Persson didn't just make do with one hoof, either. He would put nails in several so that in the end the horse couldn't stand upright. He eluded the police for several weeks until he was finally caught. By then he had injured a dozen animals. There's also Bingeby-Anna. She would kill any cat that she saw and hang them on the fence."

"But she's super tiny and thin," Jacobsson objected. "She'd never be able to carry out this sort of crime, at least not alone. I'm the size of an elephant compared to her. She can't weigh more than ninety pounds."

Knutas raised his eyebrows at the exaggeration. Jacobsson herself was small-boned and stood no more than about five foot three.

"I don't think this has anything to do with an impulsive act by some mental patient," Wittberg protested. "It was too well planned. To commit such a crime, during the lightest nights of the summer and with people and houses nearby, must have required meticulous planning, just as Erik said. I'm amazed that the perpetrator even dared, when there was such a big risk of being seen. The road to the pasture runs along all the farm buildings. It's practically like driving right through their yards. Anyone who woke up could have seen or heard the car."

"You're right," said Sohlman, "but we've discovered that it's possible to reach the pasture from another direction." He clicked through the pictures until he came to the ones showing maps of the area. "The road ends and splits in two when you reach Petesviken. Instead of turning right and driving past the farms, you go left. A short distance away there's a tractor path along the fields that circles the whole area and goes past the pasture on the other side. If the perpetrator chose that route, and I'm convinced that he did, then he would have avoided being seen from the farms. He could have driven out to the pasture and back in peace and quiet, with no risk of being discovered. From the farms in Petesviken you can't see if a car is driving along that path. We've checked. Right now we're examining the tire tracks out there, but it's difficult because the ground is so dry."

"Good," said Knutas. "We'll continue to interview the neighbors and anyone else in the area. Let's hope we find out something. The perp must have had a car. He had to transport an axe and a knife and possibly other tools as well, along with the horse's head."

"And he was probably covered with blood," Sohlman added.

"Maybe he took a dip and washed it off. The sea is so close, after all," Jacobsson suggested.

"Wouldn't that be kind of reckless?" Wittberg gave her a dubious look. "Would he really go for a swim, with a very strong risk of being discovered? Even though the crime was committed after eleven, on these light summer nights people go out for a dip at all hours. Especially since it's been so hot."

"On the other hand, the area is relatively isolated," Knutas interjected. "There can't be more than three or four families living on those farms and moving about, plus maybe a few people from the houses farther up the road. It's not an area that anyone would just happen to stroll through. Well, we're going to have to look more closely into the family background of the farmer. Either there's a particular reason why it was Larsson's horse that was killed, or else it was just by chance. We still have to investigate all possibilities."

"Do you think the guilty person is part of the family?" asked Jacobsson. "The wife taking revenge on the husband, or vice versa?"

"That seems rather far-fetched," said Knutas. "A person would have to be awfully sick to commit this type of crime. But we can't rule it out. We've been surprised before. We need to talk to the farmer again. He's unusually talkative, but we were there only a short time. I think someone needs to drive back out there. The girls who found the horse have to be interviewed as soon as possible."

"I can leave right now." Wittberg was already getting to his feet.

"I'll go with you," said Jacobsson. "If there isn't anything else you need me to do?"

"Go, both of you," said Knutas. "I'll stay here and deal with the press."

Martina Flochten rushed around the cramped room, grabbing up toiletries and a towel. She was going to take a quick shower and change her clothes. The students had the afternoon off from their excavating work, because an American archaeology professor was in Visby to give a lecture at the college. Martina was in a hurry for entirely different reasons, though, although her fellow students had no idea why.

They were going to take advantage of the situation. Her longing for him was burning and urgent.

She had suppressed all thought of the boyfriend she had back in the Netherlands. He kept calling her cell phone more and more often. The more she ignored her phone, the more persistent he became. One evening when she had left her phone behind in the room, he had called twenty-eight times. It was sick, and she found it embarrassing because her roommate, Eva, had been home that evening, lying in bed and trying to read. Martina planned to end the relationship when she got back home. She couldn't bring herself to do it over the phone. That would be too wretched.

Her father had also called. He was coming to Gotland the following week. He had business in Visby and was planning to kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Maybe he was worried about her. Martina was close to her father, although she thought he could be rather overprotective. Then again, she certainly had given him reason to worry on numerous occasions. Martina was ambitious and a good student. She did well in school, but in her free time she never hesitated to go out partying, and there was no shortage of parties among the various student crowds at the university in Rotterdam. She had even tried drugs, but only the less serious kind.

Martina's interest in archaeology was sparked when she saw a TV program about an excavation in Peru. She was impressed by the archaeologists' patient, systematic work, and by what the earth could tell them.

When she began studying the subject, she quickly become intrigued by the Viking Age. She read everything she could get her hands on about the Vikings and how they had lived. Their religion, with its belief in numerous gods, appealed to her. And she was fascinated not only by the Viking ships and their plundering expeditions out in the world but also by the extensive trade the Vikings had carried on, especially on Gotland.

This course had definitely whetted Martina's appetite, and she had already decided to do further studies in the subject at the college in Visby after finishing her archaeology degree.

By the time she was done with her shower, the others had gone out to the bus that was going to take them to the lecture. She went out and explained that she wasn't feeling well and wanted to stay home. Eva seemed disappointed. They had all planned to have a beer somewhere afterward, to take advantage of being in town.

After the bus drove off, Martina rushed back inside to get her purse, casting one last glance at herself in the mirror. She looked good. The Gotland sun had given her skin a lovely sheen, and her long hair was blonder than usual.

He wanted to meet at the harbor. Walking briskly and full of anticipation, she strode across the wooden bridge behind the youth hostel, heading down to the harbor area.

Petesviken was a good distance from Visby, on the southwest coast of Gotland. Johan and Pia quickly left the city behind. Pia, who was driving, nodded toward the sign for Hogklint as they passed the exit.

"That's a place we could do a story on, apropos the overheated real estate market. Sometimes I think all the hysteria of the eighties has come back. Have you heard about the luxury hotel they're going to build out there?"

"Of course. We've done lots of reports about it. I guess they're just waiting for the municipal council's decision in the fall before they get started."

"That's about right. They'll probably start building before the year's over. It's going to be a giant complex with hotel suites, condos, a gourmet restaurant, and a nightclub. Five star."

"I wonder if there's really a demand for something like that here."

"Of course there is. The mainland is swarming with people who have a romantic view of Gotland. People who vacationed here when they were younger and now want to come back with their families and experience the island in a more comfortable fashion. And there are plenty of people with money in Sweden."

"It'll create jobs, if nothing else. Although I can imagine there must be some opposition, too. Isn't Hogklint a nature preserve?"

"They're not going to build at the edge of the cliffs-they wouldn't be allowed to do that-but it's still unbelievable that the building plans are probably going to be approved. Naturally the biggest protests are from the people who live in the area. They have fierce discussions even when someone just wants to paint their door a different color. Otherwise it's mostly nature lovers who are opposed- people who work to protect the flora and fauna. Lots of different kinds of birds breed on the hillside at Hogklint in the springtime, and it also has one of the most beautiful views on the whole island. Plus I think a lot of people feel that this side of Visby has been exploited enough with Pippi Longstocking's Kneippbyn amusement park and everything."

"Isn't the owner a foreigner?" asked Johan.

"I think it's a joint venture, between the municipality and several foreign investors."

"Let's look into it some more when we have time. It's definitely worth a longer story."

Forty-five minutes later they reached Petesviken.

The pasture had been cordoned off and was being guarded by several uniformed police officers standing at the gate. None of them would answer any of Johan's questions about a decapitated horse. Instead, they referred him to Knutas.

Pia was already at work with her camera, which didn't surprise Johan. She never wasted any time. He had liked her from their very first meeting at the editorial office. She looked tough, with her straggly black hair cut short, the ring in her nose, and the heavy eyeliner highlighting her dark brown eyes. She had greeted him without any fuss and immediately offered some of her own ideas. That boded well for the rest of the summer. She had been born and bred in Visby, and she knew Gotland like the back of her hand. Through her large extended family she had relatives and friends scattered over many parts of the island. She had no less than six siblings, and all of them had stayed on Gotland and established their own families, so her network of contacts was enormous. In terms of quality, the shots that she took might not have been quite as top-notch as Johan was used to, but she took plenty of them, often from interesting angles. Over time she would undoubtedly be brilliant, as long as she kept her sense of commitment and strong drive. She was young, ambitious, and determined to get a permanent position with one of the big TV stations in Stockholm. She had been working less than a year, yet she'd already managed to get a long-term temporary job with Swedish TV, which was nothing to sneeze at. Right now she had disappeared around a bend in the road.

Johan had a real urge to crawl under the police tape farther away, but he knew that if he got caught, he would have burned his bridges with the police. And he definitely couldn't afford to do that. He was aware that his bosses back in Stockholm were considering reinstating the local news service on Gotland on a full-time basis, and the results of his summer assignment would weigh heavily in the balance. Johan wanted nothing more than to stay on the island.

He looked for Pia, but she seemed to have been swallowed up by the earth. Surprising, since the TV camera was so big and cumbersome- hardly something that you could carry around just anywhere. He started walking along the fence.

It was a big pasture, and he couldn't see where it ended. The wooded area was in the way. He surveyed the strip of trees and suddenly caught sight of Pia. She was inside the cordoned-off area and was busy getting a panoramic shot of the pasture. At first he was angry-he was going to pay the consequences if it was shown on TV-but the next second he changed his mind. She was just doing her job, getting good shots in the best way she knew how. That was exactly how he wanted a cameraperson to work. The danger of worrying about offending the police was that you could start being too considerate. Then the focus shifted from looking out for the best interests of the viewers to staying on good terms with the authorities. That was not at all where he wanted to end up. He was aware that he had to look out for himself. The irritation that had flared up inside him gave way to gratitude. Pia was a damn good camerawoman.

When she was finished, they stopped by the nearby farms. No one was willing to be interviewed. Johan suspected that they'd all been given instructions by the police. Just as they had decided to give up and were about to drive off, a boy about ten or eleven came walking along the road. Johan rolled down the window.

"Hi! My name is Johan, and this is Pia. We work for the TV station, and we've been here filming the pasture where the horse was killed. Did you hear anything about what happened?"

"Of course I did," said the boy. "I live right over there."

He nodded at the road behind them.

"Do you know the girls who found the horse?"

"A little. But they don't live here. They're just visiting their grandmother and grandfather."

"Do you know where their house is?"

"Yes, it's right nearby. I can show you."

The boy declined their offer to let him ride along in their car. He led the way down the road, and they drove behind at a snail's pace.

They quickly reached the home of the girls' grandparents.

A well-trimmed hedge surrounded the house, and outside sat the two girls on a big rock, dangling their legs.

Johan introduced himself and Pia, who was right behind him.

"We're not allowed to talk to reporters," said Agnes. "That's what Grandpa said."

"Why are you sitting out here?" asked Johan, ignoring her comment.

"No reason. We were thinking of picking some flowers for Mamma and Pappa. They'll be here tonight."

"How lovely for you," said Pia sympathetically. "After such an awful thing happened. I can't understand how anyone could do something like that to a horse. To such an innocent animal. And he was so adorable, a real sweetheart from what I heard."

"The world's sweetest horse, that's what he was. The world's most adorable pony…"

Agnes's voice faded away.

"What was his name?"

"Pontus," said the girls in unison.

"We're going to do our best to help out so that the police will catch the person who did this. I promise you," Pia went on. "Was it horrible when you found him?"

"It was disgusting," said Agnes. "The whole head was gone."

"I wish we'd never gone into that pasture," added Sofie.

"Now wait a minute-just think about it. You were the ones who went in, and it was actually a very good thing that you did, because otherwise it might have taken much longer before Pontus…Was that his name?"

The girls nodded.

"Otherwise it might have taken much longer before Pontus was found, and for the police it's really important to investigate these sorts of matters as quickly as possible."

Agnes looked at Pia in surprise.

"I guess that's right. We didn't think about it like that," she said, looking relieved. Sofie also looked happier.

Johan pondered for a few seconds the appropriateness of interviewing such young girls without first obtaining permission from their parents. He was always particularly cautious about interviewing children. This was a borderline case. He decided not to interfere. He would let Pia carry on with the conversation.

"Our job, mine and Johan's," said Pia in a soft voice, "is to make TV reports when something like this happens. We'd like to be able to give the viewers a story, but of course we would never force anyone to be on TV. Although it's best when we have eyewitnesses who can describe what happened, because that might prompt other people to come forward with tips for the police. We think that if people watching TV saw the two of you talking about how you found Pontus, they'd be more interested than if Johan just talks. They would care more, to be quite honest."

The girls were listening attentively.

"So we were wondering whether we could ask you a few questions about what happened this morning. I'll run the camera and Johan will ask the questions, and if you can't answer or you think it's too hard, we'll stop. You get to decide. Later we'll edit the interview, so it doesn't matter if there are mistakes. Okay?"

Sofie used her elbow to poke Agnes in the side and then whispered in her ear. "We're not allowed."

"No, but I don't care," said Agnes firmly as she jumped down from the rock. "It'll be fine."

When Pia and Johan drove off, they had an interview on film with the girls describing what they had seen. They had also revealed that the horse's head wasn't merely cut off-it had disappeared without a trace.

"It won't surprise me if we catch shit for this," Johan said to Pia as she drove.

"What do you mean?"

"The police are going to be mad. Not that I care, but I just thought I should warn you."

"I don't know what you're talking about." Pia cast an indignant glance at Johan. "We're doing our job. That's all. There's no need to exaggerate. This is about a dead horse, damn it. Not a person."

"True, but interviewing children is a sensitive issue."

"If we started questioning them right after their mother died, I would understand your reasoning." Pia's voice sounded even angrier.

"Don't misunderstand me," Johan objected. "I just think we need to be careful about interviewing minors. As journalists we have a huge responsibility."

"It's not our fault if people want to talk. We haven't forced anyone. Besides, we found out some new information, thanks to talking to those girls. The part about the horse's head being missing."

She rolled down the window to toss out her wad of snuff. Then she deliberately turned up the music. The discussion was clearly over. Pia was intelligent and bold, but maybe she needed to be a bit more humble, since she was new at the game. Johan sensed that-for good or bad-his colleague was going to be a cameraperson to reckon with in the future.

Emma Winarve was sitting in the hammock in the yard of her house in Roma, leaning against the pillows propped behind her back. She was trying to find as comfortable a position as possible. In her extremely pregnant condition, that wasn't so easy. She was hot and sweaty all the time, even though she stayed in the shade. The high pressure of the past week had taken its toll. Right now she felt huge and shapeless, even though she weighed much less than she had with her other children. So far she hadn't put on more than twenty-five pounds, which seemed to fit in with everything else. This time the pregnancy was different. Previously the children had been eagerly awaited, and there was never any doubt that she would carry them to term. The baby that was now growing in her womb could just as easily have ended up as a bloody lump, scraped out while there was still time. Now, of course, she was glad that hadn't happened. There were still two weeks left before the birth, if everything went as planned.

She and the baby had just enjoyed a fruit salad, consisting of melon, kiwi, pineapple, and star fruit. Tropical fruit never tasted better than when she was pregnant.

She watched Sara and Filip, who were busy playing croquet on the lawn. They had just finished first and second grade and had already been forced to endure their parents' divorce.

Sometimes the feelings of guilt were oppressive. At the same time, Emma didn't think she could have done anything differently. She usually consoled herself with the fact that at least they weren't alone. Almost half the children in their classes had parents who were divorced.

When she'd met Johan Berg during the previous summer, Emma had fallen passionately in love. Emma-who had never thought she could be unfaithful. At first she blamed it on the shock and the despair she had felt when her best friend, Helena, was murdered. She was the first victim of a serial killer, and Johan was one of the reporters who had interviewed Emma, in her role as friend of the victim.

That was when she began to have serious doubts about her marriage. The feelings that she developed for Johan were something she had never experienced before. Several times she tried to break things off and went back to her husband, Olle, who forgave her in spite of everything.

During one of the occasional relapses to which she later succumbed, when she met Johan in secret, she got pregnant. Her first thought was to get rid of the fetus. When she told Olle, he was even prepared to forget about her repeated infidelities, but the condition he laid down for saving their marriage was that she have an abortion. She made an appointment for the procedure and told Johan once and for all that it was over.

She and her family celebrated a quiet Christmas together. The children were overjoyed that everything was back to normal, and Emma received a much-longed-for puppy from Olle as a Christmas present.

Then Johan suddenly showed up at their home in Roma and turned everything upside down. When Emma saw the two men in her life together, the whole situation appeared in a new light that was blindingly clear. All of a sudden she understood why it had been so difficult to end her relationship with Johan. He was obviously the one that she loved. Her marriage to Olle was over, and it was too late to do anything about it.

Two days later she phoned Johan and told him that she was keeping the baby.

Now here she sat, newly divorced with two children living with her every other week, and a third child on the way. The fact that she had decided to have the baby didn't mean that she and Johan would automatically become a family, as he had apparently imagined. There was nothing Johan wanted more than to move into the house immediately and become a stepfather for Sara and Filip, but Emma needed time. She felt far from ready to throw herself into a new family configuration. How she was going to manage to take care of the baby all alone was something that she would deal with later.

She ran her hand over the lemon yellow cotton of her dress. Her breasts felt big and heavy, already set for their coming task. Her legs were partially numb. Her circulation had gone from bad to worse; this was at least something that she remembered from her previous pregnancies. It felt as if her blood were motionless inside her body. She was pale, her fingers and toes were cold, and the fact that she had become so sluggish and ungainly didn't make things any better. Emma was used to working out at least three times a week. She was an inveterate smoker, but she had stopped as soon as she learned that she was pregnant, just as she had done the other two times. She didn't have the slightest craving, but she sensed that she would start smoking again as soon as she stopped breast-feeding.

Her smoking went hand in hand with the level of problems in her life. To put it simply: The more problems she had, the more she smoked. She had to have some sort of solace when life was so hard. How she was supposed to handle the divorce was impossible to predict; that was something she had been ruthlessly forced to acknowledge.

She'd been prepared for things to be difficult with Olle, but she'd never anticipated that everything would become so nasty, bitter, and miserable. All the exhausting fights and his victim's mind-set had almost put her over the edge during the past spring. It was a miracle that she had managed to get through it without smoking.

At least they'd managed to find a good solution to the question of where to live. Olle had gotten himself a big apartment in downtown Roma, within walking distance of their house. They'd agreed to take turns having the children every other week, at least in the beginning. Later they would see how things went. The children would decide. At least Olle was reasonable enough to see to it that the children weren't affected more than necessary.

Emma raised her eyes from the crossword puzzle that she was staring at, the letters melting together into an incomprehensible blur. Sara and Filip were completely absorbed in their croquet game. They hadn't had a single fight. That was an unexpected benefit of all that had happened: The children seemed calmer now, as if they had taken on more responsibility. There was no longer the same amount of space for them to mess around in when everything else was falling apart. Her guilty conscience again tapped her on the shoulder. The divorce was her fault. That's what the whole family thought, including her parents, although no one would come right out and say so.

She had explained things to the children as best she could, without trying to make excuses. But was that good enough? Would they ever understand?

She looked at their smooth young faces. Sara, with the darker hair and intense brown eyes, was lively but meticulous. She was talking loudly to her little brother while he tried to concentrate on hitting the ball through the hoop. Filip had blonder hair and a fairer complexion; he was a prankster and the family rascal.

She wondered if she would be able to love her unborn child as unconditionally as she loved them.

Knutas's office was on the second floor of police headquarters. It was spacious and bright, with sand-colored walls and light furniture made of birch. The one exception was his old, worn desk chair made of oak with a soft leather seat. He hadn't been able to part with it when the building was remodeled the previous year and all the other old things had been replaced. Too many puzzle pieces had fallen into place while he sat in that chair for all those years. He felt that he wouldn't be able to think as well in a new chair, even though it might be better for his back.

He rocked gently back and forth as he pondered the case of the decapitated pony. Crimes against animals were extremely rare on Gotland. Of course, there were incidents of neglect-people who forgot to feed animals or clean out their cages or boxes-but this was something different. Possibly a madman who enjoyed hurting animals. Knutas had dealt with cases like that before, although not of this caliber. Maybe the horse was killed in a fit of rage. If so, who was the actual target of the anger?

At the same time, the whole thing seemed the result of cold-blooded calculation. The crime had been committed at an hour when everyone was in bed asleep but it was still light enough outdoors. According to the farmer, the perp must have fed the other animals, to ensure that he'd be able to commit the deed without commotion. It gave him the opportunity to kill and butcher the horse in peace and quiet. The question was: Why had the killer taken the head away? It was hardly for the purpose of fishing for eel, the way Knutas had seen someone use a horse's head in a movie long ago.

He took out his pipe, filling it with great care. Then he sucked on the stem without lighting it. That was what he usually did whenever he needed to think. He seldom lit his pipe, and besides, smoking wasn't permitted indoors. By turning his chair slightly he could see the overcrowded parking lot at the Forum supermarket. The tourist season had started in earnest after the Midsummer holiday. The island had fifty-eight thousand permanent residents, but during the summer months the population increased by another eight hundred thousand. In mid-August it all ended as suddenly as it had begun.

He had asked Wittberg and Jacobsson to take a closer look at the horse owner's background that afternoon. The techs, with Sohlman in charge, were out at the crime scene, and officers had started interviewing neighbors and anyone else who might have seen something.

Lina called. He could tell from her voice that she was stressed. She was going to be late. They were extremely busy at the maternity ward. Knutas told her that he was busy, too.

Knutas's Danish wife, Lina, was a midwife at Visby Hospital, and the Gotland women were giving birth like never before. A new baby boom seemed to have swept the island. Lina had worked late every single day for several weeks now, and it never seemed to let up. He and the twins had to manage as best they could. Not that it was a problem. For the most part the children did a great job all on their own. So far Petra and Nils had spent their summer vacation swimming and playing soccer. They had no objections to receiving money to buy pizza and hamburgers instead of eating their father's poorly cooked meals. The last straw came when he once again offered them what he proudly presented as "Pappa's special macaroni and cheese." It was a tasteless, mushy dish and, on top of everything else, it was burned around the edges.

For Knutas's part, the spring had been relatively uneventful. He hadn't felt well for a while after a high-profile murder case in the winter, when a girl had disappeared and was later found dead. The case had gotten under his skin, and he had become involved in a highly personal manner. In hindsight it was impossible to say how that might have affected his judgment, but he was afraid that it had failed him. If so, he had contributed to the girl's death. The guilt he felt was hard to bear.

For a while he thought he was sinking into a depression of the very worst kind. Insomnia was the clearest sign-and the fact that he often felt dejected and listless wasn't like him. Suddenly he had also acquired a temper that made Lina's loud outbursts seem like mouse squeaks in comparison. He lost his temper at the slightest things, and when his family members reacted to his unprovoked anger, he felt offended and wronged. Like a damn martyr. It ended with Lina dragging him to see a psychologist. For the first time in his life Knutas had accepted professional help for his personal problems. His expectations were low, but he'd been surprised. The therapist was there to help him, and she gave him her undivided attention, listening without offering advice or criticism. She took in what he said, then asked a few questions here and there, which led him onto new avenues of thought. Through the therapy he had gained new insights about himself and his relationship to those around him, and the feelings of guilt gradually decreased. It was actually only recently that he'd started feeling better.

His thoughts were interrupted when the phone rang again. The switchboard wanted to know if he was willing to meet with the team from Swedish TV. With a sigh Knutas agreed. He had an ambivalent relationship with Johan Berg. The reporter's persistence could infuriate Knutas, although he had to admit that Berg was good at his job. Berg often managed to dig up information on his own, plus he had a confounded talent for getting people, including the superintendent, to reveal more than they'd originally intended to say.

Johan seemed stressed when he appeared in the hallway. He probably was in a rush to do his broadcast. His black hair was plastered to his forehead, and his cotton shirt was rumpled and stained. It occurred to Knutas that the reporter had probably already been out to Petesviken and had just come back from there. If only he hadn't found anyone who had agreed to an interview. Knutas didn't want to say anything; he had no right to interfere with the work of journalists. Their job was to find out as much as possible, while his was to make sure that information didn't leak out. He prepared himself for some difficult questions, noticing how his jaw tightened before the interview even began.

Johan had brought with him that new camerawoman, who looked like a punk with her black hair sticking out in all directions. She also had a ring in her nose.

Pia refused to make do with standing in the hallway. She directed them out to a balcony that had been built when police headquarters was remodeled. She wanted Knutas to talk about that horrible crime against the idyllic backdrop of the summer greenery, the ring wall, and the sea. Typical TV people-the only thing they thought about was their camera shots.

Johan started off with the usual questions about what had happened. Then came something unexpected-or maybe not totally unexpected.

"Have you found the head?"

Knutas clenched his teeth and didn't answer. The fact that the head was missing was something the police had decided to keep secret. Those who knew about it had been given strict instructions not to divulge anything about the matter.

"I wonder if you've found the head," Johan repeated stubbornly.

"I have nothing to say on that topic," said Knutas, annoyed.

"I've been told by a reliable source that it's missing," said Johan. "So you might as well confirm it, don't you think?"

Knutas's face turned bright red with anger. He realized that the police no longer had anything to gain by denying the fact.

"No, we haven't found the head," he admitted, giving a sigh of resignation.

"Do you have any theory about what happened to it?"

"No."

"Does that mean that the perpetrator took it with him?"

"Probably."

"Why would he do that?"

"Impossible to say at the moment."

"What do you think the person or persons who did this will use the head for?"

"It's all speculation, and speculation is something that we police don't waste much time on. Right now it's a matter of trying to catch the guilty party."

"What's your personal reaction to the crime?"

"I think it's terrible that someone would do such a thing to an animal. It goes without saying that the police are taking the matter very seriously, and we're going to devote all possible resources to finding out who's to blame. We're appealing to the public to call the police with information if they saw or heard anything that might be connected with the crime."

Knutas ended the interview.

He was hot and annoyed. Even though he knew it was fruitless, he tried to get Johan to leave out the information about the missing head. Not surprisingly, the journalist refused to budge. He thought the information was of such general interest that it had to be made public.

By the time Pia and Johan got back to the office, they had to hurry to put together the story in time to make the evening news. They sat down to work in the only editing room. Johan called Grenfors, who thought it was okay that they had interviewed the girls. They were old enough, and he was of the same opinion as Pia-it was just a horse, after all. On the other hand, Grenfors wasn't known for being the most cautious of news editors.

"I just hope that no one else finds out the part about the missing head," murmured Pia as she focused on pushing buttons. They had half an hour left before it was time for the first spot from Regional News, and they had promised the editor to deliver at least a minute and a half. At five fifty they were ready, and they sent the digital story by computer to the home office in Stockholm.

After the broadcast, Grenfors called. "Well done," he said appreciatively. "Great that you got the girls. They were damn good, and I don't think they've been interviewed by anyone else."

"No, as far as I know, we were the only ones they talked to."

"How did you get them to talk, by the way?"

"The credit goes to Pia," said Johan. "She was the one who persuaded them."

"Is that right?" Grenfors sounded surprised. "Give her my best and tell her that she did a damn fine job. What are you doing tomorrow to follow up?"

In his mind Johan pictured the editor as he sat there, tilting his chair back at his desk in the Regional News offices in the TV building in Stockholm's Gardet district. He was a tall, trim man of fifty, with dyed hair and a blatant sense of vanity.

Johan thought that things had been getting worse lately. Grenfors had grown more and more nervous. His anxiety about not getting usable stories delivered on time manifested itself in different ways: constant phone calls to ask how the work was proceeding and long discussions about how the report should be done. The editor often made his own calls to individuals who had been booked for an interview, just to double-check that it was actually going to take place.

Of course, Grenfors had always had a tendency to meddle too much, but not to this extent. Johan wondered whether it had to do with the increased stress and shrinking profits at the editorial office. Cutbacks were frequent at the news divisions. Resources were constantly being reduced, while fewer and fewer people were being asked to do more stories, at the price of stressed-out colleagues and reduced quality.

That was one of the big advantages of working on Gotland-not having to take the brunt of the editor's constant anxiety. Right now Johan could at least keep it at a distance.