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Birger Smittenberg didn't think there was sufficient reason to arrest Susanna Mellgren. Especially not after it became clear from interviewing guests at the pub in Ljugarn that she had been seen there during the entire time when her husband was being murdered. So she had an alibi. Knutas had never really believed that she would turn out to be the murderer. As a woman she didn't have the physical strength to hoist up the victims as had been done in both cases. It was impossible for her to be the perpetrator—unless she hadn't committed the murders alone.

This meant that the investigation was back to square one. The decision was expected, but Knutas still felt disappointed. It would have been too good to be true if the case could have been solved so easily. Especially since then he could have taken his longed-for summer vacation. Now nothing was going to come of it. The hot summer was disappearing outside the window as he sat in his dusty office and racked his brain.

Maybe it was time to turn everything upside down, to change perspective and point of view, to look at things from a different angle.

The fact that Martina Flochten and Staffan Mellgren were having an affair was undeniable. Susanna Mellgren had previously acknowledged that she realized her husband was once again being unfaithful. Over the years, she had learned all too well to see the signs. On the other hand, she still claimed that she didn't know who the woman was, and Knutas believed her. When it came to the footprints in the chicken house, she explained them by saying that she kept an old pair of wooden clogs out in the barn, but now they were gone. Presumably the perpetrator had put them on to mislead the police.

If it wasn't Mellgren's infidelities that had motivated the murders, then what had? And why the strange way in which they were carried out?

The question was whether the killing was now over. One factor indicated that the perpetrator planned yet another murder, and that was the horse's head at Gunnar Ambjörnsson's house. Ambjörnsson was still out of the country, but he was expected home on Sunday. Knutas decided to call him up to warn him. He found the number and was surprised to see how many digits there were. Ambjörnsson had said that it might be hard to reach him. He had left his cell number. He couldn't provide the name of a hotel because he would be traveling the whole time. Knutas didn't get through; he got only a strange tone when he punched in the number. After several more attempts he gave up. He'd try again later.

That evening he and Lina made love for the first time in ages. Even though their love life usually blossomed during the summer, his sex drive had been virtually nonexistent lately. He'd been unusually tired, and when Lina asked him what was wrong, he had blamed the investigation for wearing him out. Deep inside, though, he was suffering from a feeling of anxiety that he couldn't get rid of. He had tried to contact his therapist without success, so he would have to wait until his appointment in August. From day to day he functioned more or less normally, but he didn't feel his usual sense of joy. He was thinking and moving like a sleepwalker. It was like being in a dream when you're running but your legs feel heavy and sluggish and you never get anywhere. He had the same feeling in his daily life. He had no energy for anything except what was absolutely necessary. Lina had also pointed out that he had gotten quieter and duller, as she put it. She sometimes asked him why he couldn't be happier. Knutas had no good answer to the question.

It was Friday night, and Johan and Pia were finished with their evening report. Johan was eager to leave the editorial office. He was going over to Emma's house, and she had asked whether he'd like to stay overnight. As if she even had to ask.

She was going to cook dinner for him since he wouldn't be able to get away until around seven. Sara and Filip were staying with their father, and Johan thought that was just as well. They didn't need to do everything at once.

In the car on his way to Roma, he imagined how it would be to live in that house and drive home like this after work every day.

Home to Emma and the children. He was surprised at how wonderful he thought that would feel. To be part of a family. For someone like him who had lived all these years alone, it was a new feeling. Of course, he'd had some long-term relationships when he had practically lived with a girlfriend for certain periods of time, but it was never the real thing. He'd never shared a home with anyone else. And with the baby it was an even bigger deal. Something entirely different.

The idea of sharing his daily life with Emma in a real way appealed to him more than he ever could have imagined. He heard the clinking sound as the wine bottles in their state liquor store bags rolled back and forth. His stomach was growling. His mouth watered as he thought about the food that would be waiting for him on the table when he arrived. He had been longing so much to spend more time with Emma. To sleep with her and wake up together.

He automatically pressed harder on the gas pedal. Hopefully Elin would be awake so that he could hold her for a while before she went to sleep for the night.

Full of anticipation, he rang the doorbell, hiding behind his back the flowers he had bought.

When the door opened, he felt as if he'd been punched in the face. Emma was not the one standing there; it was her ex-husband. In his arms he held a howling and coughing Filip, whose face was purple with exertion.

"Hi. Come in."

"Hi."

Johan stepped into the hallway, feeling like an idiot.

"Congratulations, by the way. She's beautiful." Olle tipped his head toward the back of the house.

For a moment Johan wasn't sure whether he meant Emma or Elin. "Thanks."

Emma appeared in the doorway. She gave Johan a quick hug and handed the baby to him. He still felt as if he were standing there with his mouth open, a little like a fish gasping for air. He didn't understand a thing.

"Things are kind of a mess. Filip has a terrible attack of the croup, and we have to take him to the ER. I can't take Elin along. One of us has to drive and the other has to hold Filip when he has a coughing fit. You'll have to take care of Elin and Sara. But I've used the breast pump, so there's milk that you can heat up in the microwave. Sara hasn't had any dinner, either. I'll call you from the ER. Bye."

Before Johan had time to react, Emma, Olle, and Filip had disappeared down the gravel path. He stood there at a loss, staring after them as the car roared off.

Consequently, the night turned out a lot different than he had expected. Instead of enjoying a dinner with a bottle of good wine and having a romantic evening with Emma, he was left alone with the children for the first time.
There's no problem with Elin, but what the hell am I going to talk about with an eight-year-old?
he thought a bit desperately as his stomach churned with hunger. He put Elin in the baby buggy, which stood in the hallway, and she promptly started to howl.

"Just for a little while, sweetie," he assured her as he felt the first signs of a headache. In the fridge he found a plastic bag with something he guessed was marinated chicken breasts, but he had no idea what to do with them. There wasn't much else. The same thing with the freezer. What were they going to eat? They had to have food. He took out a little plastic package containing breast milk and put it in the microwave to thaw it out. He called Sara but got no response, so he picked up Elin and started walking through the house to look for her. Johan had met Sara and Filip several times for brief periods, but Emma had always been present. Right now he felt awkward and unprepared, and the fact that Elin was bawling nonstop didn't make the situation or his headache any better. To top it all off, the puppy kept leaping around his feet. Johan was terrified that he might trip over the dog and drop Elin on the floor. At the moment his brain had stopped functioning. He couldn't for the life of him remember the name of the dog.

Finally he found Sara under the table in the living room.

She didn't notice that he had found her, and for several seconds he didn't know what to do. Then he leaned down so that he was almost lying under the table with Elin in his arms. The dog was so delighted that he could hardly restrain his joy. He eagerly licked Johan and Elin all over. Elin started howling again.

"Hi," Johan said to Sara, who made a big show of covering her ears.

What a great start. After a long workday, he didn't have even a drop of energy to deal with a screaming baby, a hysterical puppy, and a recalcitrant eight-year-old—and all on an empty stomach. He was the type of person who couldn't wait too long to eat. If he did, his blood sugar would drop drastically, and he would be in a terrible mood.

But he now realized that he would have to put himself and his own needs last. He tried asking Sara whether there was a pizzeria in Roma. She just kept her hands pressed over her ears. Then he put the screaming Elin on Sara's lap and let go. Instinctively she took down her hands to hold the baby.

"Hi there. I'm hungry," said Johan. "I was thinking of ordering a pizza. Would you like some?"

She didn't answer.

"You're so good at holding Elin," he said. "Do you like having a little sister?"

She gave him a suspicious look but didn't say a word.

Johan started to stand up.

"Well, I'm going to call and order one, at any rate. I want one of those luscious calzones with a big Coke. What do you like? Capricciosa, with ham and mushrooms?"

"No," replied Sara. "Hawaii, the one with pineapple."

"So that's what I'll order for you. Could you hold Elin while I make the call?"

"Okay."

Sara was looking a little happier.

"Then we can take the baby buggy and go get the pizzas," said Johan. "Do you think you could push the buggy?"

"Sure, I can do that."

"Good. Then we'll take the dog along so he can have his walk."

"Her walk. It's a girl dog. Her name is Ester."

"What a cute name," lied Johan. "I can take Elin now. I'll just change her diapers and give her a little milk before we go. Could you set the table in the meantime? I don't know where you keep your plates and things like that. I'm just here as a visitor. Should we watch TV while we eat?"

"Okay." Sara's face lit up. "Mamma never lets us do that," she said. "Pappa doesn't, either."

"Well, I think we can make an exception today," said Johan. "Now that it's just you and me and Elin."

"And Ester."

"Right. And Ester. Has she had her dinner yet?"

"Yes, Mamma fed her before she left."

"That's good. At least one of us has a full stomach."

Except for a faint murmuring from the TV, the house was quiet when Emma came through the door two hours later. At first she was alarmed, but the feeling passed when she peeked into the living room. Johan was sitting on the wide sectional sofa, leaning back and snoring with his mouth open. In his arms sprawled Sara and Ester, sound asleep. Elin was asleep in the crib, which Johan had rolled into place right next to him.

Knutas had promised to go out to the country on Saturday, but by lunchtime he could already tell that he didn't have the peace of mind to drive off and just do nothing. So far the lead with the hotel project hadn't panned out. Both Jacobsson and Wittberg were going to spend the weekend doing some more digging; they had volunteered to work. Knutas realized that he needed to do the same. He called Lina to explain. Her parents were visiting from Denmark, so they still had a full house. She assured him that they would manage fine without him.

He put on another pot of coffee and petted the cat while he waited for the coffee to finish brewing. He eyed the yellowing lawn with displeasure, thinking that he needed to water it that evening. In terms of the Martina Flochten case, it felt as if they still hadn't made much progress. He was going to talk to Gunnar Ambjörnsson as soon as he arrived home from his trip on the following day. Knutas decided to put aside any consideration of possible connections and just concentrate on Staffan Mellgren. If his wife wasn't the killer, then maybe his relationship with Martina didn't have anything to do with the murders. The police might have gotten too fixated on that particular lead. He decided to completely ignore Mellgren's love affairs as he reconsidered the case.

What else was there in Mellgren's life that might make someone want to kill him? He needed to find out more about the man. He tried calling Mellgren's wife at various phone numbers but didn't manage to get hold of her. She probably wanted to be left in peace after all the upheaval. He would try to phone her again later. Instead he tried calling the college, but no one was there to answer on a Saturday. Knutas leafed through his notes about the excavation leader and found the phone number for Aron Bjarke. Maybe he knew something more. He'd been well aware of Mellgren's love life, after all, and he seemed quite candid and talkative.

It turned out that Bjarke was at home. He lived downtown on Skogränd, inside the city walls, and they agreed to meet there.

"I'll put on some coffee. We can sit outside in the garden," said Bjarke, as if he were planning a social event.

Knutas decided to walk. A fresh breeze was blowing, so it wasn't unbearably hot. He left his jacket at home. He walked through the South Gate and continued along Adelsgatan. It was only a few minutes past ten, and most of the shops had just opened. For the time being the town was deserted. He crossed Stora Torget, where the stall owners were setting out their wares, getting ready for the day's transactions. The contrast with the nearby ruins of St. Karin's Church from the thirteenth century was quite striking.

Aron Bjarke's house was small. Shims had been installed to make the door align properly. The windows were so low that it was only a few inches from the windowsill to the street, where roses had been planted outside the house. The archaeology teacher was apparently a gardener.

Bjarke opened the door after the first knock; there was no doorbell. Knutas had to stoop as he stepped inside in order not to bump his head. The ceiling was low and the interior quite drab.

On his way out to the garden in back of the house, Knutas cast
an inquisitive glance at the kitchen. It was bright and old-fashioned, with
white wooden cabinets, a small drop-leaf table, and blue-and-white -checked
curtains. Various knickknacks were lined up on the windowsill. The living
room had the same low ceiling, with rustic beams. All the pieces of furniture
were antiques.

"What a nice place," commented Knutas. "Are you interested in antiques?"

"Not especially, as a matter of fact. I inherited most of them."

They sat down in the small garden. A coffee tray was already on the table, and Bjarke poured without asking Knutas whether he'd like to have any. He had put some little chocolate macaroons on a plate, to serve with the coffee.

"I'm actually here to talk about Staffan Mellgren," Knutas began.

"Is that right? It's certainly terrible, what happened, completely incomprehensible. It's frightening that a student and then a teacher have been murdered. It makes you wonder if you're going to be next. Everyone is probably thinking the same thing. There's a great sense of uneasiness among the teachers and the students at the college."

"I can understand that," said Knutas curtly.

All week long, frightened and angry people had been calling the police—college students' parents who felt their children's lives were in danger, the Business Association, which was worried that the tourists would be scared off, and what seemed like everyone affiliated with the college, all on the verge of collapse when they called to demand that the police find the murderer immediately. Of course it was understandable, but the police had better things to do than function as a crisis call center. He sighed at the thought and met Bjarke's eye.

"How well did you know him?"

"Quite well, you might say. We worked together for years. For the past five years at the college, and before that at Hemse Folk High School, which was previously in charge of the archaeological excavations."

"Did you also meet socially?"

"No. He had his family, after all. Four children and everything. We lived very different lives."

Bjarke smiled and stuffed a macaroon in his mouth.

Knutas studied the middle-aged man sitting on the other side of the table. He was casually dressed in shorts and a polo shirt. Friendly, bordering on ingratiating. Knutas had a feeling that Bjarke, in spite of his amiable and open demeanor, was very lonely. He found himself wondering about the man sitting across from him, even though it was Staffan Mellgren he wanted to ask about.

"Good coffee," he said to break the silence that had settled in. "You told us before about Mellgren's love life, and you seemed very well informed. Was it common knowledge that he was romantically involved with his students?"

"Unfortunately, I'd have to say that there were quite a few people who knew about it, at least among the students that attended Mellgren's classes. These are college students, of course, so we're talking about adults. I know that the head of the college thought it was inappropriate, but there wasn't much she could do. It was also a sensitive issue. Mellgren was very talented and respected, both as a teacher and an archaeologist."

"Didn't anyone ever complain?"

"I think people chose to turn a blind eye. He was married, and he and Susanna kept having one child after another. I don't think his colleagues really knew how to handle the whole situation."

"How about you?"

"Staffan and I knew each other professionally, but we didn't discuss our personal lives. I never told him what I thought about his behavior. Maybe that was stupid, now that we're sitting here with the facts in hand."

"What do you mean?"

"I think we can assume that his murder has to do with his infidelities. At least that's what my colleagues are saying at the college."

"Do you know of anyone he used to socialize with when he wasn't working?"

"Not really. I don't think he spent much time with any of his work colleagues. Maybe he realized that people were aware of what he was doing and he felt ashamed. I have no idea whether he and Susanna had other friends."

Knutas left Bjarke's home