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  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.

  THURSDAY, JULY 1

  Exactly as Knutas had expected, there was strong reaction to the news about the decapitated horse.

  Ever since he had arrived at work at seven thirty that morning, the phone had been ringing off the hook. In the wake of the reports in the media came reactions from municipal politicians, horse lovers, animal rights activists, vegans, and the general public. Everyone wanted the police to hurry up and catch the scumbag who had committed such a crime.

  As Knutas entered the room there was a rustling of morning newspapers from everyone who had gathered for the next meeting of the investigative team.

  Lars Norrby was back from his two-week vacation to the Canary Islands. He had arrived home late last night, and he was deeply engrossed in the morning paper. The police spokesman was tall and dark, and now he also had an attractive suntan. He had worked at Visby police headquarters just as long as Knutas had, and he served as the superintendent's deputy. Norrby was phlegmatic but scrupulous and reliable. He was not a man of surprises; Knutas always knew where he stood with him.

  The meeting started off with a discussion of what the local media had publicized.

  "I can't understand how the girls wound up on TV," said Jacobs-son. "We expressly told them not to give anyone an interview."

  "That Johan Berg from Regional News is an asshole to manipulate children that way," raged Wittberg. "A damned idiot."

  "We can't stop anyone, whether they're children or adults, from talking to the press if they want to," said Knutas. "At the same time, it may not be such a bad thing. The fact that the girls spoke out will hopefully lead to some sort of tip, and that's what we need. So far they've been few and far between. Even worse is the fact that everyone now knows that the horse's head is missing. That's going to stir up a lot of speculation."

  Sohlman looked tired. He had probably worked late into the night.

  "We've examined the tire tracks more closely and were able to distinguish sets from two different vehicles. One of them was easy to identify; it's from the farmer's car. We've compared the tread on the tires to the tracks, and they're a perfect match. As for the other set of tracks, it's more difficult. The tires have big tread and are worn almost bald. They're probably from a small truck, maybe a pickup, but they might also belong to a van."

  "Any other evidence?" asked Jacobsson.

  "We've picked up a lot of things: plastic bags, Popsicle sticks, cigarette butts, a few bottles. Nothing especially interesting."

  "We should go visit other horse owners in the area and find out if they've seen anything fishy," she suggested. "Sometimes you have to ask people directly."

  "Although I don't know how much energy we should invest in this matter," said Knutas. "It is just a horse, after all."

  "What do you mean 'just'? It's a disgusting case of animal abuse," said Jacobsson indignantly. "Should we forget about the whole thing simply because no human being was harmed?"

  "Anyone who could do that to an animal might definitely be a danger to people as well," added Wittberg.

  "If nothing else, the TV news really managed to stir people up after the story last night. The public is demanding that we do everything in
our power to find the person who killed the horse. The phone has been ringing nonstop. I think we may need to spend as much time calming down all the outraged people as we do on the actual investigation. But no matter what, we do need to discuss the part about the decapitation. What sort of person do you think would do something like that?" Knutas let his gaze move from one colleague to the next.

  "I think it seems as if someone is out for personal revenge against the farmer. Or maybe against the wife. Or why not the eldest son?" Norrby rubbed his hand meditatively over his clean-shaven chin. "It's definitely a warning, no doubt about it. Some bizarre sort of vendetta."

  "Or maybe the whole thing has to do with what we can't find in the pasture, meaning the horse's head," Knutas countered. "What's the perp going to use it for? Maybe we should start over from that angle instead. He can't very well be thinking of making it into a trophy and hanging it up over the fireplace like a moose head. Someone who doesn't have a thing to do with the Larsson family might have reason to be afraid."

  "The whole thing is starting to sound like The Godfather, " said Jacobsson. "Don't you remember the man who woke up to find the horse's head in his bed?"

  Everyone around the table grimaced.

  "Maybe a Gotland Mafia has secretly taken root down there in the south of the island," snickered Norrby. "Just like in Sicily."

  "Oh, sure, there are lots of similarities between Gotland and Sicily," added Knutas with a wry smile. "We have plenty of sheep. And sheep heads."

  FRIDAY, JULY 2

  The prop plane landed at the Bromma domestic airport outside Stockholm just after 3:00 p.m. The man with the dark blue sports bag stood up the minute the plane stopped moving. He wore tinted glasses and a cap pulled down over his forehead. He'd been lucky enough to have two seats to himself, so there was no risk that someone might try to converse with him. The flight attendant must have sensed his antipathy because she came by only once to make him a discreet offer of coffee; after that she left him in peace. As his cab headed toward Stockholm, he let out a quiet sigh of anticipation. He was looking forward to the meeting.