steel contraption of some kind was keeping the horse on the path and regulating its pace.
“It’s called a horsewalker,” said Jacobsson when she saw Knutas’s look of puzzlement. “Horses that aren’t going to be taken out riding can still get exercise. They may have an injury or be suffering from a cold or something else that means they shouldn’t be ridden as hard as usual. Ingenious, isn’t it?”
She led the way into the stable.
The horses had just been given their lunch feed, and the only sound was a pleasant munching along with an occasional stomping. Everything seemed very orderly. The floor was scrubbed clean, and the green-painted stalls were properly closed with locks. Halters hung on hooks outside each door. Shelves were filled with neat rows of supplies: bottles of liniment and baby oil, scissors, rolls of tape, hoof scrapers. Shin guards were stacked in baskets, along with rolls of binding tape, brushes, and other grooming tools. A barrel of sawdust stood in one corner. A black kitten lay on top of a feed box, sound asleep. In one window a radio was playing music at low volume.
They had made an appointment to meet with Sven Ekholm, who was both the trainer and the owner of the stable, but he was nowhere in sight. A stable girl appeared and took them over to a closed door that led to a coffee room.
Ekholm was sitting with his legs propped up on a round coffee table, talking on the phone. He motioned for them to sit down. Daylight was doing its best to penetrate through the dusty windowpanes. Spots of dried coffee marred the red plastic tablecloth. The table was covered with papers, stacks of racing newspapers, vitamin bottles, mugs, glasses, filthy riding shoes, rubber boots, and some threering binders. The ceiling was coated with spiderwebs. In one corner there was a kitchenette with a couple of hot plates, a dirty microwave, and a dusty coffeemaker. The walls were covered with finish-line photos of various horses, and a pile of dried roses lay on top of a cabinet. It wasn’t hard to see what took priority in the world of these people.
Ekholm took his feet off the table and finished his phone conversation.
“Hello, and welcome. Would you like some coffee?”
They both said yes. Ekholm was a handsome man in his forties. He was muscular and moved with grace. His dark hair was tousled. He was wearing black pants and a gray turtleneck sweater. With some difficulty he managed to find clean cups, and after a moment they each had a cup of coffee; a plastic box of gingersnaps sat in front of them on the table.
“Can you tell us about Fanny Jansson?” Jacobsson began. “We understand that she spends a great deal of her free time here at the stable.”
Sven Ekholm leaned back in his chair.
“She’s a smart girl who works hard. Not very talkative, but she has a good way with the horses.”
“How often is she here?” asked Knutas.
“How often is she here at the stable, you mean?” asked the trainer and then went on without waiting for a reply. “Probably four or five times a week, I would guess.”
“When was she last here?”
“Yes, when was she last here?” Ekholm repeated. “I think the last time I saw her was a week ago, maybe on Thursday or Friday.”
“How did she seem?”
“How did she seem?” Ekholm rubbed his chin. “I was busy driving, so I just said a quick hello. It might be better if you talked to the others in the stable-they spend more time with her than I do.”
“Is Fanny paid for her work here?”
“Is she paid? No, that’s how it is with stable girls, you know. They come here because they think it’s fun to be around horses. To groom them and take care of them. That’s how girls are at that age.”
Sven Ekholm took a quick sip of coffee.
“How long has Fanny been coming to the stable?”
“How long has she been coming here? Hmm, maybe a year or so.”
“Does she have a particularly good relationship with any of the employees?” asked Knutas, who was starting to get annoyed by the man’s tendency to repeat every question.
“Any of the employees that she has a particularly good relationship with? Well, yes, that would be Janne. They seem to get along well. Otherwise she’s quite shy, as I said.”
“And how often are you here?” asked Jacobsson.
“Hm, what should I say? Twenty-five hours a day,” he said with a grin. “Well, practically every day. I’ve been trying to take at least one day off every other weekend. I do have a wife and kids, too-I can’t just live at the stable.”
“How well do you know Fanny?”
“Not very well. She doesn’t exactly welcome contact. I always have so much to do that I can’t just sit around chatting with all the young girls who come here.”
Why didn’t Ekholm repeat the questions when Jacobsson asked them? Knutas found it enormously annoying.
“Where do you live?” Jacobsson went on.
“Right nearby. We’ve taken over my father’s farm. Well, my father still lives there, in the guesthouse.”
“Does your wife work at the stable, too?”
“Yes, she does. We have six full-time employees, and she’s one of them.”
“How is the work divided up?”
“We all help each other, training the horses and taking care of them, and lending a hand around the stable. It’s a full-time job all year-round, even when the racing season is over.”
“We’d like to talk to everyone. Can you arrange that?”
“Sure, no problem. Right now it’s just me and Jan, I’m afraid. But later in the day, or tomorrow.”
Knutas realized that he would have to ask one more question, just to see if the trainer had decided to stop repeating them.
“How many others work at the stable? Girls who work for free after school, and so on?”
“Girls who work for free after school, and so on? Well, we have quite a few of them. We used to have more, but it doesn’t seem to be as popular as it once was. Or else maybe they have too much homework lately,” said the trainer, giving Knutas a smile.
As they left the coffee room, Jacobsson noticed that her colleague’s expression was as dark as a thundercloud.
The interview with the stable hand, Jan Olsson, went better.
The man was slightly older than the trainer, maybe forty-five, Knutas guessed. He was darker than most Swedes. Brown eyes that were almost black, distinct eyebrows that grew together, and a stubble that looked to be several days old. Wiry and muscular from years of working with horses. Not an ounce of fat on his body-that was evident from the shirt and dirty pants that he had on. He was not wearing a wedding ring. Knutas wondered if he lived with anyone but decided to wait to ask that question. Instead, he asked him to tell them once again what happened when Fanny left the stable. Olsson gave the same account as had been recorded in the previous report.
“Try to recall any details you can,” said Knutas. “Anything that might seem insignificant could actually be important.”
Jan Olsson ran his hand over the stubble on his face. He made a very frank and sympathetic impression.
“No, I really can’t think of anything. She takes care of the horses and doesn’t usually talk much. When she came back from her ride, she was happier than I’ve seen her in a long time. Her eyes were actually shining. After grooming Calypso and taking care of the harness, she said good-bye and left on her bike.”
“What do you think might have happened to her?”
“I don’t think she committed suicide, at any rate. She was much too happy and upbeat when she left here. I have a hard time imagining her going off to kill herself.”
“How well do you know her?”
“Quite well, I think. She seems to like being here, but I understand that she doesn’t have an easy home life. She’s always in a hurry to rush home because she has to take the dog out. As I understand it, her mother is rather difficult, but I’ve never met her.”
“Has Fanny ever talked about any friends or anyone she hung out with?”
“She doesn’t seem to have any friends, since she spends all her time over here. Those of us who work in the
