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The evening couldn't have been more perfect. They had prepared themselves well. Each of them knew what to do. Everything had been meticulously conceived and planned, down to the smallest detail.

They were going to spend the night out there, at the remote site, near to the gods and under the protection of nature. Every tree trunk, boulder, and bush was blessed with a spirit that would keep them company during the ceremony. They had put up the tent and prepared the food, and within each of them a feeling of excitement was now growing, in anticipation of what was to come.

The crickets were chirping loudly in the thickets that lined the narrow path leading up to the ridge. It was a difficult hike. The slope was steep and not easily accessible. The group of people merged into one by virtue of what they were wearing: ankle-length cloaks with black sashes around their waists. The men's heads were covered with cowls and the women's with kerchiefs. They all walked with their heads bowed, perhaps to avoid stumbling over the tree roots on the ground, or perhaps to pray.

A ceaseless murmuring was mixed with the drumming done by a man leading the way. In one hand he held a flat drum made of animal hide, in the other a leather-covered wooden mallet that he used to strike the drum with an even beat.

When they reached the open clearing that was their destination, one of the men moved away from the group. From his tunic he pulled out an eighteen-inch signal horn made of bone. He raised it to his lips, pointed it toward the sea, and blew. The sound was monotonous and plaintive. A drinking horn was passed around the group. With closed eyes and solemn faces they each drank the wine from the horn, and when everyone had tasted it, they poured the last drops onto the ground. The man with the signal horn appeared to be the leader. He took up a position in front of the participants. He spoke a few words and then turned to face the east as the drumbeats sounded. He shouted into the bright night. With a strong and clear voice he invoked the deities. Then he faced, by turns, the south, the west, and the north as he spoke. Finally he turned toward the center of the circle, where an altar had been erected with idols painted in blood.

One by one the participants stepped forward to place flowers, fruit, and sacks of grain on the holy altar. Stones had been arranged in a circle around the entire site.

The people in the circle stomped their feet on the ground, and the murmuring started up again, growing louder until everyone was practically screaming. Several of the men lit a fire, which instantly flared up toward the sky.

The drummer struck the drum in time with the people's laments. Someone handed the leader an axe, which he swung in front of him as he uttered incantations. A cage was carried forward, and a well-fed white hen was held up before the participants, who stared at it, enraptured. The hen was placed on the ground in front of the leader, who raised the axe and cut off the bird's head with a precise blow. Blood spattered all around, the lament became even more ecstatic, and the stomping grew more intense.

At last the leader collapsed. The drumming ceased, and the voices stopped. Silence reigned.

One of the participants left the group without drawing attention to himself. No one noticed when he headed back the way they had come. He got into his car and drove off.

They were going to spend the weekend at the home of Emma's parents on the island of Fårö. Just Emma, Johan, and the baby, Elin. Emma's parents had dropped by the house in Roma to say hello before they set off on the long trip that they usually took each year. She had felt nothing but emptiness during their visit. She didn't sense any sincerity from them, just a superficial babbling about how adorable Elin was. Then they went off to the airport and their travels, which would take them to China this time. That was just as well.

Emma had promised to look after their house, and it would be lovely to have a change of scene. She was already feeling cooped up in the house in Roma. There was so much to remind her of her old life there, and yet there was nothing left of it. The walls breathed Olle and all the bitterness that had emerged over the past six months.

Emma was very fond of the house on Fårö. For the life of her she couldn't understand how her parents could go off traveling when everything was so marvelous right there at home.

The route to the ferry landing at Fårösund passed through a lush farming area. They took the small roads through Barlingbo and Ekeby up to Bäl and the larger village of Slite before they reached Fårösund, where they caught the car ferry over to Fårö. It took only a few minutes to cross the sound. Elin slept the whole way.

When they drove off the ferry on the opposite shore, Emma felt the same sense of contentment that she always felt. Fårö was more barren and windswept than Gotland, and the difference was instantly noticeable. They made the obligatory stop at the Konsum supermarket to buy fresh strawberries and last-minute groceries. They also stopped at the local bakery on the way to Skär to buy some of their amazing sugar buns. Then they drove the last part of the way toward Norsta Auren at the northernmost section of Fårö.

The white limestone house stood all by itself near a low stone wall, with the sea on the other side. Emma felt a slight churning in her stomach; she hadn't been out here in more than six months. The house felt chilly, as it always did when they first arrived. The stone floor was shiny; her parents had done a proper cleaning. She sat down in the armchair by the window to nurse Elin, who was now awake and crying. In the meantime, Johan unpacked the groceries. Through the window Emma could look out at the beach. It was narrow here, where it started, but it got wider the farther out you went. One big advantage was that the sand was packed down so hard that you could push a baby buggy along it.

"Maybe we could take a walk along the beach later," she called to Johan.

"Sure. That would be great. Would you like something to drink?"

"Yes, please. A glass of water."

The next minute he came into the living room, bringing her a big glass of water. Johan looked so happy and relaxed. He seemed glad to be with her and their child. That seemed to be all he wanted. Why couldn't she feel just as happy? Out in the kitchen Johan was humming as he put everything away. She should pull herself together and give him a chance. Elin's cheeks grew rosy as she suckled at her mother's breast.
For your sake,
thought Emma.
And for mine.

Due to the new situation, the investigative team was holding a meeting, even though it was Saturday.

Knutas was looking forward to hearing what conclusions Agneta Larsvik had reached. She had devoted the past two days to defining what she thought were the distinguishing characteristics of the perpetrator.

Everyone had just sat down when the door opened and Kihlgård came in. He looked happy, his hair was windblown, and he had two big paper sacks in his hands.

"Hi, everybody," he greeted them cheerfully. "I've been to a fantastic party at the Hamra pub, and when I was about to drive away this morning, they insisted on sending some goodies along with me for our coffee. Is there any fresh coffee?"

"No, but I'll put on a pot," Jacobsson offered.

"I'll help you," said Kihlgård, and they left the room together.

Knutas and Norrby exchanged glances. Kihlgård always had to be in the spotlight. On the other hand, he created an atmosphere of wellbeing, which Knutas appreciated since he wasn't very good at such things himself.

They waited patiently for the coffee to be ready. In the meantime, Thomas Wittberg came sauntering in with a whole liter of Coca-Cola in his hand. Judging by his expression, it had been a late night with plenty to drink for him as well. They chatted a bit about all the partying that had gone on in the city the night before. It had been unusually rowdy. The number of tourists increased every year, especially among the younger crowds who were attracted to Visby's pub life, since the island's summer weather was among the best in the whole country. Unfortunately the young people also brought with them drunkenness, drugs, and fights. Right now everyone gathered around the table had much more serious matters to talk about. As soon as the coffee and Kihlgård's cinnamon rolls appeared, they started going over the status of the investigation. Knutas began by telling everyone that the hotel project represented a link between Martina Flochten and Gunnar Ambjörnsson, just in case anyone had missed the discussions that had been going on in the hallways.

Then he turned to Jacobsson and Wittberg. "What have you come up with?"

"Not much." Wittberg tugged on his blond locks. "Karin and I spent all of yesterday talking to the demonstrators protesting the project and any politicians we could find. It wasn't easy. On a Friday in July hardly anyone stays at work past lunchtime. We asked about how the protests have been going, about possible threats, and so on. Of course, without mentioning the horse's head that was found at Ambjörnsson's house," Wittberg emphasized when he noticed the nervous expression on Knutas's face.

"In general the opposition seems quite weak and ineffectual," he went on. "There haven't been any threats. Of course, there have been a number of protests, and the authorities have received letters and such, but nothing that seems particularly serious. It seems very unlikely that we're going to find any sort of motive there. Don't you agree?"

He looked at Jacobsson, who nodded.

"Have you gone through the letters of complaint sent to the authorities?"

"Not yet."

"Do that as soon as possible," Knutas urged them. "Is there anything of archaeological interest out at Högklint?"

"Doesn't seem to be. The area has been partially excavated before. There doesn't seem to be any major find, although we still need to talk to more people."

Wittberg took a big gulp of Coke.

"I had an interesting conversation with Susanna Mellgren," said Jacobsson. "She called me this morning to tell me that the report about her husband's infidelities was true."

"Is that right?" said Knutas in surprise. "It was only yesterday that she denied the whole thing."

"I know, but now she claims that it's been going on for several years, with different women. On the other hand, she wasn't sure whether he'd been seeing Martina Flochten or not. She says that she can usually tell whenever he takes up with someone new. She claimed not to mind that he's unfaithful. To be honest, I had the impression that she stays in the marriage because it's the most practical thing to do at the moment, financially speaking. She's in the process of studying to be a massage therapist and wants to start her own business. I'm guessing that she's probably planning to divorce him as soon as she can stand on her own feet."

Knutas frowned. "We're going to have to talk to Mellgren about this again, since he said their marriage was so great," he muttered, making a note on a piece of paper.

Knutas then asked Larsvik to give them a report on how she viewed the perpetrator. She went to stand at the head of the table.

"First and foremost, I want to emphasize that these are preliminary thoughts; nothing can be confirmed for sure at such an early stage. Take what I say as a screening instrument, a working hypothesis, nothing more. Yet there is much to indicate that we're dealing with a perpetrator who is seriously mentally disturbed. He probably carried out these acts alone, which indicates that he possesses great physical strength. The perpetrator most likely had no personal relationship with Martina Flochten. I don't think that they even knew each other. The crime doesn't seem to have been directed at her. On the other hand, I think the way it was carried out indicates that he harbors a hatred toward other people and a contempt for women in particular. There is some sort of symbolism in this, although it's hard to say what it might mean after only one homicide. I think he wanted to humiliate his victim and inject as much powerlessness into the situation as possible. By doing that, he becomes the one with power, and that's something he enjoys. It's possible to imagine that as a child he was abused or in some other way mistreated by one or both of his parents. Now he wants revenge by placing his victim in the same position of powerlessness that he experienced as a child. It wouldn't surprise me if he has a complicated relationship with his mother."

"How the hell do we go looking for a bad mother-son relationship?" Kihlgård threw out his hands, almost knocking over Jacobsson's plastic coffee cup.

Agneta Larsvik smiled. "It might be a good thing to keep in the back of your mind during the interviews, for instance. In case anyone expresses scorn for women or has cut ties with his parents, especially his mother."

"You say that he wanted to put the victim in a position of powerlessness," said Jacobsson, "but why would he keep tormenting her after she was dead? At that point she would no longer be able to feel her powerlessness."

"Keep in mind that the important thing is the feelings of the murderer—it's not a matter of logical or rational thought processes. He's so engrossed in his own emotional state of possessing power, and he's enjoying it so much, that he can't think along logical lines. He reduces his victim to a thing, an object, something that helps him to enter into the state that he's trying to achieve. It's a way for him to ease his own anxiety, at least for the moment."

"Then what do you think about the ritualistic element—the fact that the murder was carried out like some sort of ceremony?" asked Wittberg.

"The one doesn't have to exclude the other. He could be a fanatic who devotes himself to some type of ritual voodoo arts as well."

"What does it mean that she was naked?" asked Knutas.

"Nudity makes us think that the murder has a sexual connotation, of course. Curiosity, perhaps. It might mean that he's sexually inexperienced. We might also ask ourselves what he did with her clothes, and whether there could be some type of fetishism involved."

"The same thing with the blood. What the hell does he want with the blood?"

"For him, collecting the spilled blood might be a way to hold on to the positive feelings the murder has given him. In the same way that a serial killer usually takes with him something belonging to the victim. A lock of hair, a piece of clothing, anything at all."

"A serial killer?" Jacobsson looked shocked.

"Yes, exactly." Larsvik had a serious expression on her face. "Of course it's important not to get locked into one idea, but I think we need to consider the possibility that this murderer may strike again."