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  "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.