The police hadn't wanted to put out any sort of bulletin because then the incident would become public knowledge. A horse's head stuck on a pole, right on the doorstep of a highly placed politician, would without a doubt cause a stir among both the island residents and the tourists. In the worst-case scenario, it might mean the death knell for the hotel project. The foreign investors might back out, and that wasn't something Gotland could afford. Knutas had met with the police commissioner, the county governor, and the municipal executive board, and they earnestly agreed that the incident had to be kept quiet.
The fact that the media hadn't gotten wind of the matter was just as unexpected as it was fortunate. Maybe it was because the crime had occurred in the middle of the vacation season. Many of the local reporters, who had an extensive network of contacts, were away, and their places had been taken by substitutes. Knutas was extremely impressed that everyone involved had actually kept their promise not to say a word.
On the other hand, he was not nearly as pleased with the work of the police. When it came to the tragic and brutal death of Martina Flochten, they were still fumbling around blindly. They had interviewed the few people she had known on Gotland, including the hotel owner Jacob Dahlen. Unfortunately he could offer no help. He claimed that he hadn't even seen Martina this summer.
Nor had their colleagues from the National Criminal Police contributed anything particularly useful. Agneta Larsvik had gone back to Stockholm for the weekend, and even though Kihlgard was a capable detective, his contribution to the police investigation had so far been limited, to put it mildly. On the other hand, the one thing that he had managed to do was to cheer up Karin Jacobsson. She seemed much happier ever since he had arrived on Gotland. Sometimes Knutas even imagined that something was going on between those two, but he was probably just succumbing to his usual touchiness when it came to Karin.
Johan and Pia had done their series of reports on the overheated housing market in Visby, which had been well received by the Regional News editors in Stockholm. At the height of the summer it was hard to come up with good stories that didn't have to do with tourism, pub life, or the quality of the bathing beaches.
Grenfors had left for vacation, and he had been replaced in Stockholm by a reporter who was used to stepping in as editor whenever she was needed. For the most part she let Johan work in peace. He was only able to get a few scattered days off, since he was the summer replacement on Gotland. There was no question of any lengthy vacation time until September. He had cautiously suggested to Emma that it might be fun for them to take a trip somewhere. She seemed doubtful. Elin might be too young to fly.
Sometimes Johan felt genuinely sick of Emma. She could never make up her mind that they were a couple and allow him to move in. Not that he intended to settle for living in the same house where she and Olle had built a life together, but surely it would be all right temporarily. For the sake of Sara and Filip he would put up with the situation. He was ready. He was starting to get annoyed by Emma's constant harping about how complicated her life was. He was fed up. What about him? He had sacrificed everything for her sake. Left his job, his apartment, his friends, and his whole life back in Stockholm in order to move to an island where he hardly knew a soul. He never complained, but it was as if she had no room for him here.
At first he thought it was understandable. Emma had been well along in her pregnancy, and then came the birth with everything that followed. At some point, though, she had to be prepared to go on with her life-and to allow him in. They had argued last night when he brought up the subject, and they hadn't spoken to each other since. Right now what he wanted most was to go out and drink himself senseless.
His thoughts were interrupted by Pia coming into the office.
"Hi."
She put down the camera, the tripod, and the carrying case.
"Where have you been?" Johan asked her.
"Out getting some great summer shots that I think we can use for the closing scenes. That kind of thing is always fun, and I didn't have anything else to do. You haven't exactly come up with any brilliant ideas."
She gave him a teasing smile and sat down at her computer to upload the video.
Johan watched her as she worked. Pia was nice, really nice. Somehow he hadn't noticed that before. It's true that her appearance was a little too punk for his taste, but she was both gentle and feminine, yet at the same time she knew what she wanted. Johan appreciated that. She always had an opinion about things going on in the community. She got involved. When was the last time that he and Emma had discussed anything going on in society? Was she at all interested in what was happening in the world around her? The thought had never occurred to him before. He tried to recall when they'd had a political discussion or talked about some current world problem. The thought gave him pause. Falling in love had overshadowed so much that he wasn't even certain where she stood politically.
"You're sure quiet." Pia turned her head to look at him. "What's up?"
He pulled himself together. He'd gotten lost in his brooding and was probably sitting there staring at her like an idiot without being aware of what he was doing.
"Er, nothing." He shrugged his shoulders. The new thoughts both annoyed and saddened him.
"You look like you could use some cheering up. How about going out for a beer?"
"Great."
They left the editorial office and went out into the Mediterranean heat of the summer evening. It was a little past seven o'clock, and all the restaurants and bars were starting to fill up with sunburned tourists ready to party. They went to a bar on Stora Torget and chose seats outdoors.
"So what's really going on with you?" asked Pia when they each had a big, ice-cold pilsner.
"I'm okay. I'm fine. It's just that so much has happened lately that I don't know whether I'm coming or going."
"Becoming a father is a big deal, of course." Pia sipped at her beer. "So why aren't you with Emma and Elin tonight?"
"Emma has her other children, Sara and Filip, staying with her. They've been on vacation with their father, so she hasn't seen them in a while. That's why she wanted to spend time alone with them."
"Well, that's understandable."
"Yes, although sometimes I think that all I ever do is worry about getting in the way of her and her other family."
"Jeez, that really must get old," said Pia sympathetically. "As if it's not hard enough trying to keep a so-called normal relationship going." She rolled her eyes.
"So what about you?" asked Johan out of curiosity. Pia had never said anything about a partner, and he hadn't thought to ask. "Are you dating anyone?"
"I wouldn't exactly call it that. You might say that I screw this guy off and on, when it suits me."
"Are we talking about buddy sex?"
"No, I like him a lot, but it's never going to amount to anything, if you know what I mean. We just seem to be treading water. We aren't getting anywhere."
"Rather like me and Emma."
"But good Lord, the two of you just had a baby!"
"Sure. But in a strange way, it seems like that hasn't made much of a difference in our relationship. No matter how odd that sounds. For example, Emma has a thousand arguments for why she doesn't want us to move in together."
"You have to give her time. I'm sure you can see that. She had to split apart her whole family, and she has two other children to take into consideration. Plus the problem of working out everything with her ex. It's not so strange that she can't rush into anything. Elin is only a few weeks old, right?"
"Yes, I can see that," said Johan, disappointed that Pia wasn't taking his side. He could have used a little support right now. He emptied his glass and stood up. "Would you like another?" he asked.
"Sure."
There was a big crowd at the bar, and the volume of the music had been turned up full blast. Johan was enjoying being out on the town. Visby pulsed with life in the summer, and if he hadn't been with Emma, he would have probably
gone out every single evening. While he waited to order, he surveyed the bar.
Suddenly he caught sight of someone he thought he recognized. The man was standing with his back to Johan, talking to a cute blonde who couldn't have been more than twenty-five. She was laughing at him as she sipped at her glass, which seemed to contain a sparkling wine or possibly champagne. When the man clinked glasses with his young companion, he turned enough for Johan to see his profile.
It was Staffan Mellgren.
SATURDAY, JULY 24
The next day Staffan Mellgren stayed out at the excavation site for a long time. He had made a late night of it. He was hungover and tired, but he preferred to be at work instead of having to explain to Susanna why he had spent the night in town. Even though he suspected that she knew what he was up to and didn't care in the least whether he saw other women, she still seemed to enjoy pretending just the opposite. She played the role of the gullible and wronged wife, just for the pleasure of seeing him suffer.
In the car on his way home he called her, and, after the obligatory argument, she accepted his explanation that he'd had to work overtime. Sounding hurt, she reminded him that this was the third time in the past week he'd missed dinner. He played along, explaining that there was a lot of work to do during the excavation part of the courses. In fact, that happened to be true. Especially this time, since the excavation work had been delayed by Martina's death and the shock and despondency it had prompted among the students. Some had chosen to leave, but most of them were still there, and he was grateful for that. Three weeks had passed since the murder, and they were still being constantly reminded of it. The fact that the killer hadn't been caught didn't exactly improve the situation. Mellgren tried to explain all this to his wife, but she would have none of it. Instead she accused him of neglecting his family. He couldn't even count how many times he'd heard all this before. He regretted calling her, and he tried to placate her by offering to feed the chickens when he got home.
They lived in Larbro, about twenty miles north of Visby, so it was a bit of a drive. He turned up the volume on the stereo as loud as it would go, enjoying the music. It helped him to unwind.
He wondered when the love between them had disappeared. He couldn't remember when he'd last seen any warmth in his wife's eyes. He was living in a loveless, phony marriage. The laughter had gotten stuck in his throat long ago. Maybe a divorce was unavoidable, but he was too much of a coward to take the first step.
The children kept him in the marriage. They were still so young; the oldest was only ten. He had neither the energy nor the desire to get out of the marriage right now. It would have to wait. In the meantime he would do whatever he could to make it bearable.
When he drove into the yard, everything was quiet. The kids were probably asleep by now. He might as well go out to the chicken coop right away.
Their farm had a view of the pastures and fields. He looked at the whitewashed limestone house, the blue-painted trim around the windows with their curtains and potted plants, and the porch with its ornate gingerbread carvings. On one side was the studio where his wife made her pots; she even had her own kiln. How he used to admire her work. When was the last time they had talked about her pottery?
The dilapidated barn that they had planned to paint this summer looked the same as always. So far nothing had come of their plans. Why bother to paint it? Why should they fix up anything? No reason.
A sudden feeling of melancholy came over him, and he sat down on the bench outside the potter's studio and buried his head in his hands. He would feed the chickens in a minute; he just needed to gather his forces first. They had turned half of the barn into a chicken coop. Whatever good that would do. When they were newly in love and had moved out of Visby to live in the country, they both thought it seemed romantic to have chickens. Since then the years had passed and the romance had disappeared, but the chickens were still here.
He had a feeling that life was slipping away from him as he stood on the sidelines and watched. The days came and went, and nothing changed. He and his wife kept up their usual bickering, their sex life was largely nonexistent, and one routine followed another in a never-ending stream.
It had been a good long time since they'd had a real fight. Neither of them seemed to have enough commitment even to argue. Nothing but surliness and a steadily growing distance. Not that he wanted any closeness with her. Not anymore.
He stood up and sauntered across the yard toward the chicken coop. It was a lovely, quiet night. The scent of jasmine from the bushes in front of the house mixed with the smell of chicken manure.
The chickens were strutting around the yard, pecking here and there, and clucking softly. They were unusually quiet this evening.
Suddenly he caught sight of something sticking out above the open barn door. He was too far away to make out what it was, but something was definitely there, he was sure of that. He kept catching a glimpse of it from behind the maple tree's swaying branches that stretched over the building on this side.
He hesitated without knowing why and then stopped abruptly. He glanced around uncertainly but couldn't see anyone. All of a sudden an ominous feeling had settled over the yard.
When he got close enough, he was seized with horror. At first glance he had a hard time taking in what he saw. Slowly it became clearer, and the thoughts swirling around in his head gradually formed a coherent image.
The sight of the bloody horse's head shocked him at first, but it didn't take long before he understood exactly what the whole thing was about.
SUNDAY, JULY 25
The summer heat made people slow their pace, and Knutas was forced to change shirts several times a day. His thoughts flowed like sluggish syrup, often straying far away. The chances of the investigative team finding a solution to this unusual case seemed more remote than ever.
Lina and the kids had gone out to the country, but he couldn't stand the idea of sitting there twiddling his thumbs.
It hadn't rained a single day since early June, but that didn't make him any less irritable. He was in a wretched mood, and when the phone rang he barked an angry hello.
"Hello, my name is Susanna Mellgren," said the voice on the line.
"Yes?"
"My husband, Staffan Mellgren, is in charge of the excavation in Frojel," the woman explained.
"Oh, right," Knutas hurried to say. He hadn't immediately made the connection.
"He didn't want me to call, but I felt that I had to."
"Yes?"
"The thing is that yesterday evening we found a very odd thing outside our chicken coop."
"Is that right?"
"It was a horse's head stuck on a pole."
Knutas snapped to attention.
"Someone put it there during the evening. Staffan found it when he came home from work."
"What did it look like?"
"It was stuck on a really heavy wooden broomstick. Actually I don't know what kind of pole it was, but on the very end someone had wedged a severed horse's head. It was from a real horse."
"Where was this pole?"
"We have an old barn that is partially used as a chicken coop. It was standing outside the door, leaning against the wall-in full view."
"When did this happen?"
"Last night."
"And you didn't call until now?"
Knutas looked at his watch. It was two fifteen in the afternoon.
"I'm sorry, but Staffan didn't want to tell anyone. He said it would just upset the children for no reason. He didn't want to make a big deal about the matter. In fact, it doesn't seem to have bothered him at all. As if it wasn't important. But I happen to think that it's awfully disgusting, so I felt that I had to contact the police, regardless of what he said."
"It's good that you called. Is the horse's head still in the same place?"
"No. Staffan drove a short distance away and threw it into a ditch. He didn't want the children to see it. They don't even know that anything happened
."
"Do you know where?"
"Yes, I actually went out there to have a look. I covered it with some grass and branches so no animals would destroy any evidence."
"We need to drive out there and look at it, of course. Right away."
"Okay. Staffan left this morning and said that he was going to be gone all day. He refused to tell me where he was going. I'd prefer it if he doesn't find out that I called you."
"I'm afraid that's probably impossible," said Knutas. "We're in the midst of investigating an earlier crime against a horse, as well as the case of the young woman who was murdered-the one who was a student in your husband's course. There seem to be too many points of connection for us not to link these cases together. I hope you'll understand."
"I guess so," said Susanna Mellgren, sounding resigned. "But what does Staffan have to do with all this?"
Knutas didn't answer the question.
Knutas, Erik Sohlman, and Karin Jacobsson all rode in the same car up to Larbro.
The farm was located a mile or two outside town. It consisted of a farmhouse, a smaller wooden building that appeared to be some kind of workshop, and a barn. About two dozen hens were strutting around, pecking at the yellowed summer grass.
Susanna Mellgren opened the door at the first ring of the doorbell. A big woman with short black hair, she was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Knutas thought her beautiful with those dark eyes and that olive complexion. She can't be a hundred percent Swedish, he had time to think before she held out her hand and greeted him.
"Could you show us where you found the pole with the horse's head?" he asked.
"Sure, it's this way."
She led the way over to the barn. The hens clucked and flocked around her.
"It was right there, next to the door to the chicken coop," she said, pointing at the wall.
"You haven't seen any strangers around here lately?"
"No, and neither has Staffan. I asked the children, a bit cautiously, of course, because they actually have no idea about what happened, but they don't seem to have seen anything unusual, either. Whoever put the horse's head there must have done it sometime between eight and nine o'clock last night. Just before eight I called the kids inside- they'd been out playing-and at that time I didn't see anyone. Then Staffan came home right after nine o'clock."
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