they’re so small, only about four feet high at the shoulder-perfect for children, especially because of their temperament. They’re gentle horses, good workers with lots of stamina. They’re also great for harness racing. My brother has horses here. I usually go with him when it’s time for the competition. We meet early in the morning, a group of about thirty, and we help to round up the ponies. It’s a marvelous experience,” said Jacobsson, with a look of nostalgia in her eyes.
They continued chatting as they drove. Kihlgard offered to share his gummy cars, although most of them ended up in his own mouth. Jacobsson appreciated Kihlgard’s expertise as well as his good humor. She was also fascinated by his eating habits, which were quite interesting, to say the least. He seemed to be eating all the time, no matter what the hour. He usually had something in his mouth, and if he didn’t, he was either on his way to or from a meal. In spite of this, he wasn’t overweight. Maybe just a little stocky.
Knutas really had nothing against Kihlgard, but the man was starting to irritate him. He was so outgoing and congenial that he had quickly become very popular among the employees at police headquarters. That was fine, of course, but he did take a lot of liberties. Kihlgard had an opinion about everything, and he kept trying to meddle in the way Knutas was managing the investigation. Knutas had noticed how his colleague kept trying to insert little criticisms and slip in his own views. Even though he would refuse to acknowledge it, Kihlgard displayed something of a big-brother attitude. The police in Stockholm probably thought at heart that it was a step down to be an officer on Gotland. Did anything ever happen over there? It was true that most of the crimes on the island consisted of break-ins and drunken brawls that couldn’t compare with all the aggravated and complicated crimes that were committed in Stockholm. Anyone who worked in the National Criminal Police was, of course, a better and more skilled officer. There was a certain conceitedness about Kihlgard that shone through, in spite of the fact that he was supposedly such buddies with everyone. Under normal circumstances, Knutas didn’t think of himself as high- powered, but now he was starting to sense a battle for territory, and he wasn’t happy about it. He had decided to rise above it all and take a positive attitude toward his older colleague, though that wasn’t always easy. Especially since the guy was so stubborn about chomping on something at all times. And why did he get into the backseat with Karin? He was such a big man that he should be sitting up front. The two of them seemed to be having a great time back there. What were they whispering about? Knutas felt his irritation growing. His thoughts were interrupted when Kihlgard stuck out the candy bag with three pitiful gummy cars left in the bottom.
“Would you like one?”
The road wound its way through the interior of the island. Farm houses whizzed past, along with pastures filled with white cows and black sheep. In a farmyard three men were running around chasing a huge pig that had apparently gotten out. They drove through Hemse, then Alva, and finally Grotlingbo in the center of Sundret before they took the road heading for the sea and Grotlingbo Point.
They discussed what approach to take when they arrived.
What did they know about Jan Hagman? Very little, actually. He had taken early retirement, and he was a widower as of a few months ago. He had two grown children. And he was interested in young girls, or at least he had been.
“Did he have anything going on with other students?” asked Jacobsson.
“Not that we know of, but of course he might have,” said Kihlgard.
Four big wind power stations dominated the bare landscape at Grotlingbo Point. Low stone fences lined the road that led straight out to the sea. The special type of Gotland sheep that stayed out in the pastures all year round, with their thick coats and curving horns, were grazing among the scruffy juniper bushes, the windblown dwarf pines, and the huge boulders that were scattered about. Hagman’s farm was almost at the very end of the point, with a view across Gansviken. It was easy to find among the few houses that stood out there. Since Jacobsson had been there before, she gave directions.
They arrived unannounced.
The name HAGMAN was on the homemade mailbox. They parked in the yard and got out. The farm consisted of a run-down, white-painted wooden house with gray trim and corner posts. It had undoubtedly been a fine house at one time, but now the paint was peeling.
A short distance away stood a large barn that looked as if it might collapse at any minute. So that’s where his wife hanged herself, thought Knutas.
As they approached the house, he glimpsed a movement behind the curtains in one of the second-floor windows. They climbed the steps to the partially rotting porch and knocked. There was no doorbell. Three times they had to knock before the door opened.
A man who was much too young to be Jan Hagman stood in the doorway. He gave them an inquiring look. “Yes?”
Knutas introduced himself. “We’re looking for Jan Hagman,” he said.
The man’s friendly expression gave way to alarm. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing serious,” Knutas said in a soothing tone. “We just want to ask him a few questions.”
“Does it have to with Mamma? I’m Jens Hagman. Jan’s son.”
“No. This is about something else entirely,” Knutas assured him.
“I see. Well, Jan is out chopping wood. Wait a second.” He turned around and pulled out a pair of wooden clogs that he slipped on his feet. “Come with me. He’s out back.”
As they rounded the side of the house, they could hear the rhythmic blows of an axe. The man they were looking for stood bending over a chopping block, seeming to be intently focused. He raised the axe and brought it down. The blade sliced through the wood, which split in half and fell to the ground. The man’s thick hair fell over his face as he worked. He was wearing shorts and a cotton shirt. His legs were hairy and already very tan. The muscles in his arms bulged when he brought the blade down. Big patches of sweat spread across his shirt.
“Jan! The police are here. They want to talk to you,” yelled the son.
Knutas frowned, thinking that it was strange for the son to persist in calling his father Jan.
Jan Hagman lowered the axe, then set it aside. “What do you want? The police have already been here once before,” he said, sounding surly.
“This isn’t about your wife’s death. It’s about something else,” said the superintendent. “Could we go inside and sit down?”
The tall man gave them a guarded look without saying a word.
“Let’s do that,” said the son. “I can make some coffee.”
They went inside the house. Knutas and Jacobsson sat down on the sofa while Kihlgard sank into an armchair.
They sat in silence, looking around. It was a gloomy room in a gloomy house. A dark brown wall-to-wall carpet lay on the floor. The walls were covered with dark green wallpaper. Paintings clustered thickly on three of them, mostly scenes of animals in a winter landscape: deer in the snow, ptarmigans in the snow, elk and hares in the snow. None of the officers was any sort of art connoisseur, but they could all see that these paintings were hardly of the same caliber as a work by Bruno Liljefors, for example. The fourth wall was devoted to guns of various types. To Karin Jacobsson’s horror, she noticed a stuffed green parakeet sitting on a perch on top of what looked like a handmade lace doily on the side table.
The house had a silent, oppressive atmosphere, as if the walls were sighing. Heavy curtains with intricate tie-backs blocked most of the light from the windows. The furniture was dark and ungainly and had seen better days.
Just as Knutas was wondering how he was going to get himself out of the sagging old sofa without asking for a hand up, Jan Hagman appeared in the room. He had changed into a clean shirt but had the same surly expression on his face. He sat down in an armchair next to one of the windows.
Knutas cleared his throat. “We’re not here with regard to the tragic death of your wife. Ahem… And of course we’re sorry for your loss,” said Knutas, coughing again.
Now Hagman was giving him a hostile stare.
“This has to do with a different matter,” the superintendent went on. “I assume that you’ve heard about the two women who were murdered here on Gotland. The police are working their way back in time, to investigate the backgrounds of the women. It has come to light that you had a relationship with one of them, Helena Hillerstrom, in the early eighties when you were working at Save School. Is that true?”
The oppressive atmosphere in the room became even more intense. Hagman’s expression didn’t change.
