THURSDAY, JULY 1
Exactly as Knutas had expected, there was strong reaction to the news about the decapitated horse.
Ever since he had arrived at work at seven thirty that morning, the phone had been ringing off the hook. In the wake of the reports in the media came reactions from municipal politicians, horse lovers, animal rights activists, vegans, and the general public. Everyone wanted the police to hurry up and catch the scumbag who had committed such a crime.
As Knutas entered the room there was a rustling of morning newspapers from everyone who had gathered for the next meeting of the investigative team.
Lars Norrby was back from his two-week vacation to the Canary Islands. He had arrived home late last night, and he was deeply engrossed in the morning paper. The police spokesman was tall and dark, and now he also had an attractive suntan. He had worked at Visby police headquarters just as long as Knutas had, and he served as the superintendent's deputy. Norrby was phlegmatic but scrupulous and reliable. He was not a man of surprises; Knutas always knew where he stood with him.
The meeting started off with a discussion of what the local media had publicized.
'I can't understand how the girls wound up on TV,' said Jacobs-son. 'We expressly told them not to give anyone an interview.'
'That Johan Berg from Regional News is an asshole to manipulate children that way,' raged Wittberg. 'A damned idiot.'
'We can't stop anyone, whether they're children or adults, from talking to the press if they want to,' said Knutas. 'At the same time, it may not be such a bad thing. The fact that the girls spoke out will hopefully lead to some sort of tip, and that's what we need. So far they've been few and far between. Even worse is the fact that everyone now knows that the horse's head is missing. That's going to stir up a lot of speculation.'
Sohlman looked tired. He had probably worked late into the night.
'We've examined the tire tracks more closely and were able to distinguish sets from two different vehicles. One of them was easy to identify; it's from the farmer's car. We've compared the tread on the tires to the tracks, and they're a perfect match. As for the other set of tracks, it's more difficult. The tires have big tread and are worn almost bald. They're probably from a small truck, maybe a pickup, but they might also belong to a van.'
'Any other evidence?' asked Jacobsson.
'We've picked up a lot of things: plastic bags, Popsicle sticks, cigarette butts, a few bottles. Nothing especially interesting.'
'We should go visit other horse owners in the area and find out if they've seen anything fishy,' she suggested. 'Sometimes you have to ask people directly.'
'Although I don't know how much energy we should invest in this matter,' said Knutas. 'It is just a horse, after all.'
'What do you mean 'just'? It's a disgusting case of animal abuse,' said Jacobsson indignantly. 'Should we forget about the whole thing simply because no human being was harmed?'
'Anyone who could do that to an animal might definitely be a danger to people as well,' added Wittberg.
'If nothing else, the TV news really managed to stir people up after the story last night. The public is demanding that we do everything in our power to find the person who killed the horse. The phone has been ringing nonstop. I think we may need to spend as much time calming down all the outraged people as we do on the actual investigation. But no matter what, we do need to discuss the part about the decapitation. What sort of person do you think would do something like that?' Knutas let his gaze move from one colleague to the next.
'I think it seems as if someone is out for personal revenge against the farmer. Or maybe against the wife. Or why not the eldest son?' Norrby rubbed his hand meditatively over his clean-shaven chin. 'It's definitely a warning, no doubt about it. Some bizarre sort of vendetta.'
'Or maybe the whole thing has to do with what we can't find in the pasture, meaning the horse's head,' Knutas countered. 'What's the perp going to use it for? Maybe we should start over from that angle instead. He can't very well be thinking of making it into a trophy and hanging it up over the fireplace like a moose head. Someone who doesn't have a thing to do with the Larsson family might have reason to be afraid.'
'The whole thing is starting to sound like The Godfather, ' said Jacobsson. 'Don't you remember the man who woke up to find the horse's head in his bed?'
Everyone around the table grimaced.
'Maybe a Gotland Mafia has secretly taken root down there in the south of the island,' snickered Norrby. 'Just like in Sicily.'
'Oh, sure, there are lots of similarities between Gotland and Sicily,' added Knutas with a wry smile. 'We have plenty of sheep. And sheep heads.'
FRIDAY, JULY 2
The prop plane landed at the Bromma domestic airport outside Stockholm just after 3:00 p.m. The man with the dark blue sports bag stood up the minute the plane stopped moving. He wore tinted glasses and a cap pulled down over his forehead. He'd been lucky enough to have two seats to himself, so there was no risk that someone might try to converse with him. The flight attendant must have sensed his antipathy because she came by only once to make him a discreet offer of coffee; after that she left him in peace. As his cab headed toward Stockholm, he let out a quiet sigh of anticipation. He was looking forward to the meeting.
He asked the driver to stop several blocks from his destination. There could be nothing that would trace him to the address. It was the height of the summer, and Stockholm was trembling with heat. Outdoor cafes filled the sidewalks, where customers were enjoying a caffe latte or a glass of wine. The water glittered down by Strandvagen. At the wharf old sailboats were moored side by side with luxury yachts and passenger ferries, which during the peak hours would transport Stockholmers and tourists out to the archipelago.
He had never felt comfortable in the capital, but on a day like today, even he could almost understand why some people loved Stockholm. Everybody in the part of the city where he now found himself was well dressed, and almost everyone he saw was wearing sunglasses. He smiled in amusement-how typical for city dwellers. As if the slightest encounter with nature made them want to protect or equip themselves in some way.
In the city he was a stranger, an outsider. It was hard to comprehend that these well-dressed people who walked with such purpose along the street all around him were actually his fellow countrymen. Here everyone knew where they were going.
The quick pace made him nervous. Everything had to move so fast, so very fast. When he stopped to buy a can of snuff at the Pressbyran kiosk and searched for change, he could feel the impatience of the clerk behind the cash register as the line behind him grew longer.
The building was one of the city's most exclusive addresses, and the trees that lined the street lent it an imposing frame. He had memorized the code, and the massive oak door slid open with an ease that surprised him. The stairwell inside was empty and silent. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, and on the floor lay a thick red carpet that continued up the entire staircase. The ceiling height was impressive. The austere grandeur and permeating silence made him uncertain. He stood there for a moment, staring at the names on the elegant sign on the wall: von Rosen, Gyllenstierna, Bauer busch.
Suddenly he felt like a timid little boy. He had the same sense of submissiveness and lack of self-esteem that he'd had when he was growing up. He didn't belong here; he was a house cat among ermines; he wasn't good enough or distinguished enough to be in this luxurious marble foyer among the refined people who lived behind these dark-varnished doors. For a moment he stood there, struggling with himself. He couldn't just turn around and leave, not after he'd come so far. He had to pull himself together, muster his courage. He'd done that before. He sat down on the bottom step, put his head in his hands, and shut his eyes tight. He needed to concentrate, although at
