He stopped off at the college to pick up some papers from his office. The green park of Almedalen, which was down by the water, was filled with sunbathers, dogs, baby buggies, and teenagers listening to music. Crowds of youths were on their way to After Beach, near Kallbadhuset, where they had brought in sand from beaches all over Gotland to create a fine-grained sand beach in the middle of town where the shore was otherwise rocky. After Beach was very popular. After listening to a band and drinking a beer, they could move on to the next pub only a stone's throw away. Mellgren almost felt like going over there himself.
Inside the college he found the place deserted and the reception area locked. He picked up the papers and was on his way back to the car when a group of teenagers walked past. They were talking and laughing, and he thought that one of the girls, a cute little blonde, gave him an especially big smile. He stopped to watch them as they went into Kallbadhuset. At the same moment he heard the live band inside start playing. That was enough to make him decide. He hurried back to his office, grabbed a towel and a bar of soap from his closet, and went down to the locker room to take a quick shower. Upstairs again, he splashed on a little aftershave and changed into clean clothes. This was not the first time that he had chosen not to go straight home.
Back out on the street he was in high spirits as he strolled over to Kallbadhuset. It was true that he was over forty, but he looked young for his age. He was tall, slim, and fit. His hair was just as abundant and thick as when he was twenty. Staffan Mellgren was looking forward to the evening.
It was with a growing feeling of uneasiness in his chest that Knutas had listened to the forensic psychologist's opinion that both Gunnar Ambjornsson and Staffan Mellgren were in danger. Ambjornsson was expected back on Gotland in a week. As long as he stayed in Morocco he was probably safe. Mellgren, on the other hand, needed immediate protection. Knutas had made numerous calls to the cell phones of the investigative team, but without getting any response.
According to Susanna Mellgren, who was staying with her parents in Ljugarn, her husband was working in Frojel, as usual. He was then going to drive home. No one answered their home phone, even though the workday should have ended long ago.
'Could he be the murderer?' Jacobsson's voice sounded doubtful as they got into the car to drive out to the excavation site.
'I have a hard time believing that, but we've been surprised before,' said Knutas tensely as he zigzagged between cars on the road. In July there was a lot of traffic on the coastal road between Klintehamn and Visby.
Martin Kihlgard, who was sitting in the backseat, leaned forward to offer his two colleagues a bag of onion chips. The car reeked of them. Knutas made a point of declining the offer, then rolled down the window as Jacobsson cheerfully accepted.
'I have a hard time imagining Mellgren as the murderer,' muttered Kihlgard as he chewed. 'It would be rather stupid to take the life of one of his own students, especially if he was having an affair with her. On top of that, it seems very unlikely that he would use his own pole to stick a horse's head on. And where the hell did he get the first horse's head from, since it wasn't from the same horse? Are there still no reports about any missing horses?'
'Not a single one,' replied Knutas curtly. 'And no one is saying that Mellgren is the murderer.'
'I'd rather bet my money on the wife,' Kihlgard went on, unperturbed. 'She had both the opportunity and the motive. The guy is notoriously unfaithful, and he could very well have had an affair with Martina Flochten. We know that she was meeting someone in secret, and maybe that proved to be the last drop. Good Lord, the girl was only twenty-one, after all. Afterward, Susanna Mellgren tries staging the whole business with the horse's head in order to warn her husband, to threaten him. If she wanted to kill him, surely she would have done it at once. This is much more sophisticated. She wants him to realize that it's serious this time. If he doesn't stop his adulterous affairs, then he's going to meet the same fate.'
Obviously satisfied with his explanation, Kihlgard leaned back and stuck his whole hand in the bag of chips.
'So you think that her intention is to frighten her husband out of his wits to such a degree that he won't look at another woman from now on?' Jacobsson sounded dubious.
'It wouldn't be the first time in the history of the world, at any rate. As I see it, she's the only one with an obvious motive.'
'I must admit that I have a hard time seeing why anyone would want to kill Martina Flochten. A jealousy scenario could explain the matter,' Knutas agreed. 'But why would the wife use such a complicated method?'
'That may be a red herring,' said Kihlgard. 'Trying to make the whole thing seem mystical and ritualistic even though that has nothing at all to do with it.'
They turned off at Frojel Church and drove all the way down to the excavation site. They bumped along on the last part of the road. It looked disconcertingly quiet and deserted. The carts were all properly locked, and everything seemed to be closed up for the night. Several pits were covered with plastic.
'All right, then,' said Kihlgard. 'He's not here, at any rate.'
Knutas felt his irritation rising. We need to get hold of him, he thought, and quickly.
'We'll drive over to the college. He might be there.'
He had a horrible premonition that they needed to hurry.
It was seven in the evening when Staffan Mellgren left Kallbadhuset to drive home. The band had stopped playing, and the young people were on their way out to join the action in Visby's pubs. He had deliberately chosen to keep a low profile, since he recognized several students from the college. They had greeted him with a nod. That was one thing he detested about living on Gotland-the fact that he could never be anonymous anywhere.
Even though he'd had two strong beers, he got behind the wheel. He drove out of the city as people walked past on their way to the restaurants and evening entertainments. The tourist season was at its peak, Visby was pulsing with life, and it was disappointing to have to leave it all behind and drive home to little Larbro.
His cell phone was still on the passenger seat, and he saw that he'd received quite a few messages, but he didn't feel like checking to see who they were from. It was probably Susanna, and he didn't have the energy to deal with her nervous carping right now.
The hens were clucking loudly in the yard when he arrived. Of course, they needed food, too; he'd forgotten to feed them in the morning.
In the refrigerator he found several old tomatoes that looked anything but fresh. They were good enough for the chickens. On a shelf Susanna had set a plastic ice cream container filled with eggshells, scraps of food, and stale bread.
He picked up the container and went out to the old barn that was used only as a junkyard and as a garage in the wintertime. At the far end of the barn was the chicken coop. When he opened the door, he was careful where he set his feet so as not to trample to death any of the tiny golden chicks that were peeping around his legs. What a life. He put down the ice cream container with the food scraps and filled a bowl with chicken feed.
Suddenly he heard the door to the barn slam shut. Cautiously he stood up from his squatting position and set down the feed sack. The hens kept up their clucking, making it impossible for him to hear anything. He slipped over to the doorway and peered into the barn.
He let his eyes scan the bare walls, covered with flyspecks and cobwebs. The windows were so filthy that the twilight hardly came through at all. The old stalls, which were lined up with walls separating them, hadn't been used in a long time. The door must have slammed shut by itself, he thought. He was just about to go back when he noticed that something was different. The old bathtub, which for years had been upside down among the other rubbish, had been moved and was now right side up.
Puzzled, he moved closer and saw to his surprise that it was filled to the brim with water, but he never managed to wonder who had been there or what the tub was going to be used for.
The college was locked, and they had to phone the security guard to come over and let them in. The place was completely deserted; not a soul around on this hot evening in July. They took the stairs up to the floor where Mellgren had his office. The door was locked. The security guard searched through his big bunch of keys to find the right one.
Mellgren's office was just as deserted as the rest of the rooms they had walked through. The faint scent of aftershave still hovered in his office.
'It's the kind Mellgren usually wears,' said Jacobsson. 'I recognize the fragrance.'
Knutas quickly searched the desk but found nothing of interest. A wet towel was draped over the chair.
'He must have been here recently,' said Knutas, 'and he took a shower. Why didn't he go home to do
