"Good morning," Knutas greeted his colleagues. He then reported on the horrifying scene they had found at the home of the municipal politician Gunnar Ambjornsson the night before.
When Knutas told them that the horse's head that had been stuck on a pole did not belong to the decapitated horse in Petesviken, everyone was utterly silent.
"What was that you just said?" The words were hesitantly spoken by Martin Kihlgard.
"It's not the same head. The horse's head in Ambjornsson's shed belonged to a standardbred trotter; the horse in Petesviken was a Gotland pony."
"So that means that somewhere on Gotland there's another decapitated horse."
"Exactly," said Knutas. "We interviewed Ambjornsson last night, and he says he has no idea what this is all about. He hasn't had any quarrel with anyone, as far as he knows. But I think we still have to assume that this is a threat. What do you think?"
"Politicians are always being threatened in one way or another," said Wittberg with a snort. "It's obvious that Ambjornsson has reason to be frightened. Methods like this are straight out of the Mafia. It makes me think of drug deals."
"Do you really think the noble Ambjornsson would be fooling around with drugs? That's going a little too far." Jacobsson looked at her colleague in disbelief.
"I agree." Norrby shook his head. "The Italian Mafia in Visby? You've been watching too many action films, Thomas. This is real life-and on Gotland."
"The crime is a sophisticated one. That much we can agree on," interjected Sohlman. "Allow me to go over the technical details. The perpetrator shoved the pole up through the horse's neck, under the mandible, and in that way he could affix the head without using rope or anything like that. The pole was placed so that it would fall forward into Ambjornsson's arms when he opened the shed door. The man suffers from a weak heart; it's incredible that he didn't have a heart attack. The head remained attached, even when the pole fell to the ground, which indicates that the perp knew what he was doing. We called in Ake Tornsjo, the veterinarian, who examined the head last night. According to him, the horse was probably killed in the same way as the one we found decapitated in Petesviken, but he won't be sure until he examines the rest of the body. Unfortunately, we have no idea where to find it. At any rate, this head had been frozen and then thawed before it was fastened to the pole. We know this because it's swollen up, and the flesh is looser than it would normally be. It's impossible to say how long the perp may have preserved the head in a freezer-in principle it could have been for any amount of time. We've found a good deal of evidence on Ambjornsson's property: footprints, a cigarette butt that doesn't belong to him, and a button that he doesn't recognize. The grass has been trampled in several places, which indicates that the perp first had a look around, presumably to find a suitable place to position the horse's head. By the way, the head has been taken to the veterinarian's office for closer examination."
"How did the perp get into the yard? Don't most people in Klinten keep their places locked up?" asked Wittberg.
"He picked the lock in the gate facing the street. It was easily done. Ambjornsson didn't even notice any damage to it when he opened the gate." Sohlman pushed his chair back from the table. "If there are no more questions, I'd like to get back there."
"Go ahead," said Knutas.
With a nod to his colleagues, Sohlman hurried out the door.
"The fact that the head belongs to a different horse and not to the one we found out in Petesviken is perplexing, to say the least. We haven't received any reports of a decapitated horse or one that's missing," Knutas went on. "As for Ambjornsson, he was born in 1942, he's not married, and he doesn't have any children. But he does have a big family, a hell of a lot of siblings and nieces and nephews scattered all over the island. His parents passed away a few years ago. He's not a controversial figure and has never been mixed up in any major political trouble, as far as I can recall, but, of course, that's something we need to look into. At the moment he's staying with his girlfriend in Stanga. The thing is that he was actually planning a trip abroad, which couldn't come at a better time, if we're supposed to interpret the horse's head as some sort of threat. The day after tomorrow, on Sunday, he's going to Morocco for three weeks."
"With his girlfriend?" asked Kihlgard.
"No, he's traveling alone. Apparently that's what he usually does."
"What does Gunnar Ambjornsson have in common with Martina Flochten? That's the first question that we need to answer," said Jacobsson. "First Martina was killed, and the murder clearly has ritualistic elements. Then, barely a week later, a horse's head is found stuck on a pole at Gunnar Ambjornsson's house. That seems extremely odd."
"It would be very strange if there was no connection between these two events," Wittberg agreed. "But the nastiest part about the whole thing is that the head doesn't belong to the horse in Petesviken. Someone is going around decapitating horses and deep-freezing the heads. Someone who might also be a ritual murderer." He nodded toward the window. "Who is he going to strike next?"
Silence settled over the room. The summer greenery outside the window didn't seem as idyllic as it had before.
"All right," said Knutas, as if to break the uncomfortable mood. "We have a statement from the teacher Aron Bjarke that Staffan Mellgren was romantically interested in Martina. The teacher claims that Mellgren is a real womanizer and that he's constantly getting involved with various young students, even though he's a married man. He even went so far as to describe Mellgren as a sex addict."
"It's just odd that no one else mentioned any infidelities," said Wittberg.
"Yes, especially since they seem to have been so frequent. Is there anyone else who might confirm this information?" asked Kihlgard.
"Not so far. Although you never know. Maybe the other teachers want to protect him. It's a sensitive situation right now, with the murder and all."
"What about the students in the course?"
"Several of them have said that they suspected Martina was secretly meeting someone, but none of them can say who it might be. We haven't talked to the rest of the students at the college. Everyone attending classes right now is a summer student, and they wouldn't know Mellgren."
"What does Mellgren say?"
"He flatly denies it, of course."
"And his wife?"
"The same thing. According to her, they have no marital problems."
Knutas gave his colleagues a solemn look. "Whatever you do, don't let anything get out about the incident at Ambjornsson's place," he said emphatically. "The day after tomorrow he's going abroad, which will hopefully give us an opportunity to work in peace and quiet. We also took great pains to be discreet when we were out there yesterday. We've got to keep that up. From now on, all questions regarding the investigation should be referred to either Lars or myself."
After the meeting Knutas went to his office and closed the door. He took out his pipe and began filling it. He needed to be alone to collect his thoughts. The calm that had reigned at the beginning of the summer had now been replaced with a chaos of sensational events, and at the moment he couldn't imagine how everything fit together. The mere fact that somewhere on Gotland there was another decapitated horse was distressing. Why hadn't anyone reported it?
He felt a strong need to light his pipe this time. He went to stand at the window, opened it wide, and struck a match, even though smoking was prohibited indoors. The only exception was in the interview rooms.
Knutas thought about Ambjornsson: a friendly and unobtrusive politician who lived a quiet life and kept to himself. When it came right down to it, what did he really know about the man? He'd been a politician in the area for thirty years. Knutas had no clue what his private life was like.
Was the threat work-related or personal? They needed to find out quickly what political business Ambjornsson had on his desk. Maybe that's where the answer would be found.
Knutas puffed on his pipe and slowly let the smoke seep out the corner of his mo
uth. From somewhere an idea gradually emerged, and all of a sudden it was crystal clear. There was a connection between Martina Flochten and Gunnar Ambjornsson. It was the prestigious hotel project being planned right outside Visby. Martina's father, Patrick Flochten, was one of the architects and financiers of the biggest and most exclusive hotel complex ever to be built on Gotland. The very hotel complex that the building commission had approved just before summer started. Gunnar Ambjornsson was chairman of the commission. Of course, the city councillors would have to reach a decision, and then the matter would be taken up by the county board, but the fact that the building commission had given the green light was the first step in implementing the plans.
Knutas searched his memory. There had been some protests against the project, although he'd gotten the impression that most Gotland residents took a positive view of it. He thought there was a political consensus in favor of the hotel. Which groups might be opposed? Undoubtedly neighbors who lived at Hogklint, conservationists, and ethnogeographers-but surely none of them would be prepared to commit murder over it. Knutas didn't know if there was anything of archaeological interest at the site. All the groups that had any involvement in the project would have to be checked. Maybe there were political opponents that he didn't know about. He was going to see to it that the matter was investigated at once.
The evening couldn't have been more perfect. They had prepared themselves well. Each of them knew what to do. Everything had been meticulously conceived and planned, down to the smallest detail.
They were going to spend the night out there, at the remote site, near to the gods and under the protection of nature. Every tree trunk, boulder, and bush was blessed with a spirit that would keep them company during the ceremony. They had put up the tent and prepared the food, and within each of them a feeling of excitement was now growing, in anticipation of what was to come.
The crickets were chirping loudly in the thickets that lined the narrow path leading up to the ridge. It was a difficult hike. The slope was steep and not easily accessible. The group of people merged into one by virtue of what they were wearing: ankle-length cloaks with black sashes around their waists. The men's heads were covered with cowls and the women's with kerchiefs. They all walked with their heads bowed, perhaps to avoid stumbling over the tree roots on the ground, or perhaps to pray.
A ceaseless murmuring was mixed with the drumming done by a man leading the way. In one hand he held a flat drum made of animal hide, in the other a leather-covered wooden mallet that he used to strike the drum with an even beat.
When they reached the open clearing that was their destination, one of the men moved away from the group. From his tunic he pulled out an eighteen-inch signal horn made of bone. He raised it to his lips, pointed it toward the sea, and blew. The sound was monotonous and plaintive. A drinking horn was passed around the group. With closed eyes and solemn faces they each drank the wine from the horn, and when everyone had tasted it, they poured the last drops onto the ground. The man with the signal horn appeared to be the leader. He took up a position in front of the participants. He spoke a few words and then turned to face the east as the drumbeats sounded. He shouted into the bright night. With a strong and clear voice he invoked the deities. Then he faced, by turns, the south, the west, and the north as he spoke. Finally he turned toward the center of the circle, where an altar had been erected with idols painted in blood.
One by one the participants stepped forward to place flowers, fruit, and sacks of grain on the holy altar. Stones had been arranged in a circle around the entire site.
The people in the circle stomped their feet on the ground, and the murmuring started up again, growing louder until everyone was practically screaming. Several of the men lit a fire, which instantly flared up toward the sky.
The drummer struck the drum in time with the people's laments. Someone handed the leader an axe, which he swung in front of him as he uttered incantations. A cage was carried forward, and a well-fed white hen was held up before the participants, who stared at it, enraptured. The hen was placed on the ground in front of the leader, who raised the axe and cut off the bird's head with a precise blow. Blood spattered all around, the lament became even more ecstatic, and the stomping grew more intense.
At last the leader collapsed. The drumming ceased, and the voices stopped. Silence reigned.
One of the participants left the group without drawing attention to himself. No one noticed when he headed back the way they had come. He got into his car and drove off.
SATURDAY, JULY 10
They were going to spend the weekend at the home of Emma's parents on the island of Faro. Just Emma, Johan, and the baby, Elin. Emma's parents had dropped by the house in Roma to say hello before they set off on the long trip that they usually took each year. She had felt nothing but emptiness during their visit. She didn't sense any sincerity from them, just a superficial babbling about how adorable Elin was. Then they went off to the airport and their travels, which would take them to China this time. That was just as well.
Emma had promised to look after their house, and it would be lovely to have a change of scene. She was already feeling cooped up in the house in Roma. There was so much to remind her of her old life there, and yet there was nothing left of it. The walls breathed Olle and all the bitterness that had emerged over the past six months.
Emma was very fond of the house on Faro. For the life of her she couldn't understand how her parents could go off traveling when everything was so marvelous right there at home.
The route to the ferry landing at Farosund passed through a lush farming area. They took the small roads through Barlingbo and Ekeby up to Bal and the larger village of Slite before they reached Farosund, where they caught the car ferry over to Faro. It took only a few minutes to cross the sound. Elin slept the whole way.
When they drove off the ferry on the opposite shore, Emma felt the same sense of contentment that she always felt. Faro was more barren and windswept than Gotland, and the difference was instantly noticeable. They made the obligatory stop at the Konsum supermarket to buy fresh strawberries and last-minute groceries. They also stopped at the local bakery on the way to Skar to buy some of their amazing sugar buns. Then they drove the last part of the way toward Norsta Auren at the northernmost section of Faro.
The white limestone house stood all by itself near a low stone wall, with the sea on the other side. Emma felt a slight churning in her stomach; she hadn't been out here in more than six months. The house felt chilly, as it always did when they first arrived. The stone floor was shiny; her parents had done a proper cleaning. She sat down in the armchair by the window to nurse Elin, who was now awake and crying. In the meantime, Johan unpacked the groceries. Through the window Emma could look out at the beach. It was narrow here, where it started, but it got wider the farther out you went. One big advantage was that the sand was packed down so hard that you could push a baby buggy along it.
"Maybe we could take a walk along the beach later," she called to Johan.
"Sure. That would be great. Would you like something to drink?"
"Yes, please. A glass of water."
The next minute he came into the living room, bringing her a big glass of water. Johan looked so happy and relaxed. He seemed glad to be with her and their child. That seemed to be all he wanted. Why couldn't she feel just as happy? Out in the kitchen Johan was humming as he put everything away. She should pull herself together and give him a chance. Elin's cheeks grew rosy as she suckled at her mother's breast. For your sake, thought Emma. And for mine.
Due to the new situation, the investigative team was holding a meeting, even though it was Saturday.
Knutas was looking forward to hearing what conclusions Agneta Larsvik had reached. She had devoted the past two days to defining what she thought were the distinguishing characteristics of the perpetrator.
Everyone had just sat down when the door opened and Kihlgard came in. He looked happy, his hair was windblo
wn, and he had two big paper sacks in his hands.
"Hi, everybody," he greeted them cheerfully. "I've been to a fantastic party at the Hamra pub, and when I was about to drive away this morning, they insisted on sending some goodies along with me for our coffee. Is there any fresh coffee?"
"No, but I'll put on a pot," Jacobsson offered.
"I'll help you," said Kihlgard, and they left the room together.
Knutas and Norrby exchanged glances. Kihlgard always had to be in the spotlight. On the other hand, he created an atmosphere of wellbeing, which Knutas appreciated since he wasn't very good at such things himself.
They waited patiently for the coffee to be ready. In the meantime, Thomas Wittberg came sauntering in with a whole liter of Coca-Cola in his hand. Judging by his expression, it had been a late night with plenty to drink for him as well. They chatted a bit about all the partying that had gone on in the city the night before. It had been unusually rowdy. The number of tourists increased every year, especially among the younger crowds who were attracted to Visby's pub life, since the island's summer weather was among the best in the whole country. Unfortunately the young people also brought with them drunkenness, drugs, and fights. Right now everyone gathered around the table had much more serious matters to talk about. As soon as the coffee and Kihlgard's cinnamon rolls appeared, they started going over the status of the investigation. Knutas began by telling everyone that the hotel project represented a link between Martina Flochten and Gunnar Ambjornsson, just in case anyone had missed the discussions that had been going on in the hallways.
Then he turned to Jacobsson and Wittberg. "What have you come up with?"
"Not much." Wittberg tugged on his blond locks. "Karin and I spent all of yesterday talking to the demonstrators protesting the project and any politicians we could find. It wasn't easy. On a Friday in July hardly anyone stays at work past lunchtime. We asked about how the protests have been going, about possible threats, and so on. Of course, without mentioning the horse's head that was found at Ambjornsson's house," Wittberg emphasized when he noticed the nervous expression on Knutas's face.
Unknown ak-3 Page 15
