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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 Fröjel 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 Jörgen 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.

"Jörgen 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 Jörgen 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.

In his heart he was sure that they were moving in the right direction, that one day they would finally be together. This was what he had believed all along, and he hadn't become any less convinced. Emma had chosen to carry his child to term; that was enough for him. At least for the time being.

As far as his work situation on Gotland was concerned, there was much that he liked, including the independence and his collaboration with Pia, which functioned well. It was great not to have an editor breathing down his neck, too, even though the pressure sometimes felt just as intense, even from a distance. Of course, he missed the big-time crime stories in Stockholm, as well as his apartment and his friends, but his life had taken new turns, which meant that Gotland was where he most wanted to be.

There were also numerous advantages to working as part of a small team in a local office. He had a lot of freedom, and he found great satisfaction in setting his own work schedules. He and Pia tried to do one story each day, and that was sufficient. They were on their own. As long as they delivered broadcastable and more or less relevant reports, the home office was satisfied.

Right now they were planning a series about the high cost of housing. Johan was fascinated by the fact that people would pay several million kronor for a small house in Visby inside the medieval wall, and the amount they had to cough up for an apartment could be as much as the price tags in the most fashionable sections of Stockholm. No matter how charming the old city of Visby was, there was a big difference in the choice of services, jobs, and entertainment, and Visby could only be reached by boat or plane. He wondered who the two thousand people were who lived inside the ring wall and could afford those incredible prices, at least by Gotland standards. The residents with normal salaries could only dream of living downtown, unless they had inherited a place.

Johan had been stationed on Gotland since May 1, and up until now he hadn't lacked for story ideas. Unemployment was a big problem on the island. During the past few years several large companies had cut back on the number of employees or had shut down completely. Some had moved their production to the mainland. The latest death blow came when the government decided to close P18, the old military base, as part of the big wave of cuts in the defense budget that had swept across Sweden.

Now, though, the team hadn't managed to squeeze out a single story for several days, and Johan was clearly feeling the pressure from Grenfors in Stockholm.

When the phone rang, he answered without much enthusiasm.

It was Pia, and there was an eager tone to her voice. He could hear that she was driving as she talked.

"Hey, a horse has been found in a pasture with its head cut off."

Pia had a habit of skipping any introductory greetings, which she viewed as unnecessary, especially when she was in a hurry and had something important to say.

"When?"

"This morning. Two little girls found it in a pasture out by Petesviken. Do you know where that is?"

"No clue."

"It's in southern Gotland, on the west coast—it's probably about thirty-five miles from the city."

"How did you hear about this?"

"I have a friend who lives there. She called me."

"Who owns the horse?"

"A completely ordinary farm family."

"We should drive out there right away. How soon can you get here?"

"I'm out in front now."

Johan hung up the phone and immediately called Detective Superintendent Knutas on his direct line. He got no answer, and the switchboard told him that the entire investigative team would be tied up all morning.

A decapitated horse sounded weird, but that was exactly what he needed. He grabbed a notebook and pen and locked the door to the office. He decided to wait to call Grenfors in Stockholm; he had nothing against keeping the editor on tenterhooks for a while.

He sat in the kitchen, thinking about how palpably a room could change, depending on who was in it and what was taking place. The gloom that had previously emanated from the walls, and the guilt and shame that had fallen from the ceiling onto his head, were now gone. In the past the walls had pressed in and threatened him whenever he sat at his place at the table, which was always the same. Whatever food was served gave him no pleasure; it merely swelled up inside his mouth until he had a hard time swallowing. A plateful of anxiety lay hidden under the gravy.

Things were different now that he could do whatever he pleased. He had made himself a hearty breakfast. The exertions of the morning demanded a solid meal.

On the plate in front of him were three thick slices of toasted white bread with pieces of Falun sausage and eggs dripping with fat. He topped them off with a generous squirt of ketchup, along with salt and pepper. The cat was meowing greedily and rubbing against his leg. He tossed her a piece of sausage.

The clock on the wall showed that it was nine forty-five. Through the dusty windowpane he could see the sun lighting up the yard outside. He ate the food with a good appetite and gulped down some of the cold milk. When he was done, he pushed away the plate and belched loudly. He leaned back in his chair and took a pinch of snuff.

His body was tired; his arms ached. It had been more difficult than he'd anticipated. For a moment he had even thought that he might not be able to do it. Finally, he had managed it. The finishing work had taken a good long time, but now it was done.

He stood up and picked up his plate. Carefully he rinsed off the scraps of food under the faucet and then washed the plate.

All of a sudden he felt very tired. He had to lie down and sleep. He let out the cat, who soundlessly slunk off. Then he went up the creaking stairs to the second floor and went into the far room, at the end of the house. The room had never been repaired after the fire. Patches of soot covered the walls, and even the burned bed was still there, like some sort of charred log in the corner. He thought he could even sense a faint whiff of smoke, but it was probably just his imagination. On the floor was an old mattress, and that was where he lay down. This room made him feel good. It gave him a sense of calm that he otherwise never felt, and he slept well.