A sudden feeling of melancholy came over him, and he sat down on the bench outside the potter's studio and buried his head in his hands. He would feed the chickens in a minute; he just needed to gather his forces first. They had turned half of the barn into a chicken coop. Whatever good that would do. When they were newly in love and had moved out of Visby to live in the country, they both thought it seemed romantic to have chickens. Since then the years had passed and the romance had disappeared, but the chickens were still here.
He had a feeling that life was slipping away from him as he stood on the sidelines and watched. The days came and went, and nothing changed. He and his wife kept up their usual bickering, their sex life was largely nonexistent, and one routine followed another in a never-ending stream.
It had been a good long time since they'd had a real fight. Neither of them seemed to have enough commitment even to argue. Nothing but surliness and a steadily growing distance. Not that he wanted any closeness with her. Not anymore.
He stood up and sauntered across the yard toward the chicken coop. It was a lovely, quiet night. The scent of jasmine from the bushes in front of the house mixed with the smell of chicken manure.
The chickens were strutting around the yard, pecking here and there, and clucking softly. They were unusually quiet this evening.
Suddenly he caught sight of something sticking out above the open barn door. He was too far away to make out what it was, but something was definitely there, he was sure of that. He kept catching a glimpse of it from behind the maple tree's swaying branches that stretched over the building on this side.
He hesitated without knowing why and then stopped abruptly. He glanced around uncertainly but couldn't see anyone. All of a sudden an ominous feeling had settled over the yard.
When he got close enough, he was seized with horror. At first glance he had a hard time taking in what he saw. Slowly it became clearer, and the thoughts swirling around in his head gradually formed a coherent image.
The sight of the bloody horse's head shocked him at first, but it didn't take long before he understood exactly what the whole thing was about.
SUNDAY, JULY 25
The summer heat made people slow their pace, and Knutas was forced to change shirts several times a day. His thoughts flowed like sluggish syrup, often straying far away. The chances of the investigative team finding a solution to this unusual case seemed more remote than ever.
Lina and the kids had gone out to the country, but he couldn't stand the idea of sitting there twiddling his thumbs.
It hadn't rained a single day since early June, but that didn't make him any less irritable. He was in a wretched mood, and when the phone rang he barked an angry hello.
"Hello, my name is Susanna Mellgren," said the voice on the line.
"Yes?"
"My husband, Staffan Mellgren, is in charge of the excavation in Fröjel," the woman explained.
"Oh, right," Knutas hurried to say. He hadn't immediately made the connection.
"He didn't want me to call, but I felt that I had to."
"Yes?"
"The thing is that yesterday evening we found a very odd thing outside our chicken coop."
"Is that right?"
"It was a horse's head stuck on a pole."
Knutas snapped to attention.
"Someone put it there during the evening. Staffan found it when he came home from work."
"What did it look like?"
"It was stuck on a really heavy wooden broomstick. Actually I don't know what kind of pole it was, but on the very end someone had wedged a severed horse's head. It was from a real horse."
"Where was this pole?"
"We have an old barn that is partially used as a chicken coop. It was standing outside the door, leaning against the wall—in full view."
"When did this happen?"
"Last night."
"And you didn't call until now?"
Knutas looked at his watch. It was two fifteen in the afternoon.
"I'm sorry, but Staffan didn't want to tell anyone. He said it would just upset the children for no reason. He didn't want to make a big deal about the matter. In fact, it doesn't seem to have bothered him at all. As if it wasn't important. But I happen to think that it's awfully disgusting, so I felt that I had to contact the police, regardless of what he said."
"It's good that you called. Is the horse's head still in the same place?"
"No. Staffan drove a short distance away and threw it into a ditch. He didn't want the children to see it. They don't even know that anything happened."
"Do you know where?"
"Yes, I actually went out there to have a look. I covered it with some grass and branches so no animals would destroy any evidence."
"We need to drive out there and look at it, of course. Right away."
"Okay. Staffan left this morning and said that he was going to be gone all day. He refused to tell me where he was going. I'd prefer it if he doesn't find out that I called you."
"I'm afraid that's probably impossible," said Knutas. "We're in the midst of investigating an earlier crime against a horse, as well as the case of the young woman who was murdered—the one who was a student in your husband's course. There seem to be too many points of connection for us not to link these cases together. I hope you'll understand."
"I guess so," said Susanna Mellgren, sounding resigned. "But what does Staffan have to do with all this?"
Knutas didn't answer the question.
Knutas, Erik Sohlman, and Karin Jacobsson all rode in the same car up to Lärbro.
The farm was located a mile or two outside town. It consisted of a farmhouse, a smaller wooden building that appeared to be some kind of workshop, and a barn. About two dozen hens were strutting around, pecking at the yellowed summer grass.
Susanna Mellgren opened the door at the first ring of the doorbell. A big woman with short black hair, she was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Knutas thought her beautiful with those dark eyes and that olive complexion. She can't be a hundred percent Swedish, he had time to think before she held out her hand and greeted him.
"Could you show us where you found the pole with the horse's head?" he asked.
"Sure, it's this way."
She led the way over to the barn. The hens clucked and flocked around her.
"It was right there, next to the door to the chicken coop," she said, pointing at the wall.
"You haven't seen any strangers around here lately?"
"No, and neither has Staffan. I asked the children, a bit cautiously, of course, because they actually have no idea about what happened, but they don't seem to have seen anything unusual, either. Whoever put the horse's head there must have done it sometime between eight and nine o'clock last night. Just before eight I called the kids inside— they'd been out playing—and at that time I didn't see anyone. Then Staffan came home right after nine o'clock."
"Good," said Knutas, offering her encouragement as he took notes. "The narrower the time frame, the easier it will be for us. There's one thing that I want to say right from the start. Don't tell anyone about this. It's important that not a word gets out. Especially for the sake of the children."
"Of course," said Susanna Mellgren hesitantly. "Although my mother..."
"That doesn't matter, as long as she keeps it to herself. So where is the horse's head?"
"It's kind of a long walk," she said.
"We'd better drive. We're going to take the head with us," said Sohlman.
"Really?" She looked doubtful, and a new anxiety appeared in her eyes.
"Of course. It has to be properly examined. When we compare samples from the head with the decapitated horse's body, it may help us to solve the case, if things go our way," Sohlman explained pedantically.
"Before we drive over there, I'd just like to have a look inside your house. Would that be all right?" asked Knutas.
"Yes, of course."
Susanna Mellgren showed them in. The house h
ad an old-fashioned feel to it with oiled wood floors, unpainted furniture, and a mostly white decor, which created a bright and cozy impression. The wide window ledges were filled with earthenware pots and wooden and ceramic sculptures of various sizes. Clothes, balls, and toys were strewn everywhere. In the kitchen sat an elderly woman reading from a book of fairy tales to a child sitting on her lap. The woman glanced up and greeted them with a friendly nod when the three detectives appeared in the doorway.
"This is my mother," Susanna explained. "She's here to help me with the kids today."
They took two cars. Jacobsson drove with Susanna Mellgren in the first one, while Sohlman and Knutas followed in the second.
After half a mile on the paved road that took them even farther away from Lärbro, they turned onto a bumpy tractor path. Susanna stopped the car next to a field and a cluster of trees. There was a ditch next to the path. She climbed down in the ditch and started removing grass and branches.
Knutas and Sohlman immediately joined her to help. Jacobsson chose to stand on the side of the road to watch. She had a hard time coping with the sight of dead bodies, whether animals or people. She had foolishly believed that she would eventually get over it, but instead it had gotten even more difficult over the years. The more bodies she saw, the more unbearable it became.
When the head was uncovered, they climbed out of the ditch and stood on the road to look at it.
"There's no doubt about it. Or what do you think?" said Knutas.
"It's obvious that it's a pony, and it definitely looks like it belongs to the horse's body out at Petesviken," said Sohlman.
"It's extremely well preserved," murmured Jacobsson through the handkerchief she held pressed to her mouth. "And it doesn't smell much, does it?"
"No, it's been frozen, just like the horse's head at Ambjörnsson's house."
MONDAY, JULY 26
On Sunday evening Knutas had tried numerous times to contact Mellgren, but without success. He didn't answer his cell phone, and when Knutas talked to Susanna Mellgren late that night, she still hadn't heard from her husband.
The whole thing was bewildering, to put it mildly. Mellgren had been subjected to the same terrifying experience as Gunnar Ambjörnsson. Yet according to his wife he hadn't seemed particularly upset.
Knutas hadn't bothered with breakfast at home. He was eager to get to work, so instead he got a cup of coffee and bought a sandwich from the vending machine. The only one left was cheese on a rye roll with a few shriveled bits of red pepper. It had been there all weekend, of course.
The phone rang in his office just as he was trying to get the roll out of its tight packaging. As he reached for the receiver, half of his coffee spilled on the floor. He swore, hoping that none of it had splashed onto his pants.
It was Staffan Mellgren.
"I'm sorry that I haven't gotten in touch earlier, but I've been really busy and I forgot my cell phone at home," he apologized.
"Why on earth didn't you tell us about the horse's head?"
"I panicked. I didn't know what to do."
"Do you know anyone who might wish you harm?"
"I don't think so."
"Have you been mixed up in some sort of trouble, or have you made any enemies lately?"
"No."
Mellgren was now claiming that he had panicked. That didn't fit with his wife's version of the story. There was no doubt that the man was holding something back.
"So you have no idea why that horse's head ended up on your property?"
"That's right."
"Can you tell me the real reason why you didn't call the police when you found the horse's head?"
"Good Lord, you heard what I just said," roared Mellgren. "I was so shocked that I didn't know what to do. Then I thought about the fact that one of my students was murdered, and I wondered if there might be some connection."
"What sort of connection, do you think?"
"How the hell should I know?"
"Under no circumstances can this incident with the horse's head get out to the public. Have you told anyone about it?"
"Of course not."
"Then keep it to yourself, for God's sake. Otherwise you're going to have reporters behind every bush."
"Susanna and I have already talked about that, and the children don't know anything. The only ones who do are her parents, and they won't talk."
"Good. Now to another matter—and I want you to give me an honest answer, once and for all. Did you in fact have a relationship with Martina?"
Mellgren gave a loud sigh. "I've already told you. There was nothing going on between us."
"You've already lied to my face before, when you claimed that everything was just fine between you and your wife," said Knutas impatiently. "She's told us about your infidelities, you see. The fact that you're always going after new women. You seem to have, and pardon my bluntness, a mediocre marriage, to put it mildly. Why should I believe you now?"
Knutas never got an answer. Mellgren had already hung up the phone.
Knutas started off the meeting of the investigative team by telling everyone about the horse's head out at Mellgren's place.
"What is going on here?" growled Kihlgård agitatedly, making the bread crumbs fly. His mouth was full of Gotland rye bread, fresh out of the oven.
"Yes, things do seem to be getting worse and worse," said Knutas with a sigh. "Mellgren found the horse's head stuck on a pole outside his chicken coop on Saturday night. We didn't find out about it until yesterday afternoon when his wife called. He clearly didn't want to tell anyone about the incident."
"Why not?" asked Kihlgård.
"He told me that he panicked and didn't know what to do. At the same time, Susanna Mellgren claims that he seemed entirely unaffected by finding the head. They have completely opposite stories. Something definitely doesn't add up. But I think we should leave that part alone for the time being. The more important thing that I want to discuss is: What does it mean that the same bizarre thing has happened to Mellgren as to Gunnar Ambjörnsson?"
"It must be a similar kind of threat, just like it was with Ambjörnsson," Norrby stated dryly.
"Although Ambjörnsson hasn't received any subsequent threats," interjected Wittberg.
"That's not so strange," said Jacobsson, rolling her eyes. "He's been out of the country ever since."
"He'll be home in a week," snapped Knutas. "So the safety of these two individuals could be at risk. We need to consider giving them some protection."
"Do we have resources for that?" Jacobsson raised her eyebrows.
"Not really."
"But should we actually regard Mellgren as under some sort of threat?" Wittberg objected. "Maybe he's mixed up in this whole thing himself. Why didn't he report the incident at once? And why wasn't he more upset? I, for one, have my suspicions."
"Absolutely," Jacobsson agreed. "Mellgren must have some skeletons in his closet. Pardon the pun."
"He's had a lot of adulterous affairs. Could it be a vengeful lover?" Kihlgård had a look of conspiratorial delight on his face.
"Someone who was also involved with Ambjörnsson?" Jacobsson protested. "An amorous woman who in the heat of passion kills horses and decapitates them, and then puts the heads on poles at the homes of her former lovers? That doesn't sound terribly plausible, does it?" She gave her colleague a friendly poke in the side.
"Never underestimate the power of love," Kihlgård admonished her in a bombastic voice, shaking his finger like some sort of doomsday preacher.
"Let's stop joking around," Knutas interrupted them, sounding annoyed. "This isn't a game. We need to find out more about Mellgren. Who is he really? What sort of things does he do in his spare time? Is he politically active? What links can we find to Ambjörnsson?"
"Yes, that's worth looking into. Maybe they've run into each other in connection with various types of construction. Archaeologists are often brought in on building projects," Kihlgård suggested.
"Here on
Gotland that's true with nearly every building," said Jacobsson. "The island is literally overflowing with ancient relics."
"There's something else we should think about, just as Wittberg mentioned. Why did Mellgren seem so unaffected when he discovered the horse's head? At least according to his wife," said Knutas. "Yet he told me that he was panic-stricken, and that was why he didn't contact the police immediately."
"Extremely odd." Kihlgård tugged at a lock of his hair. "The guy is obviously lying."
"He must be a real cold-blooded type," Jacobsson added. "First his wife goes through the shock of seeing a horse's head stuck on a pole near their home. Then what does her husband do? He takes off and leaves her all alone, alarmed and frightened, and with four children. Not only that—he refuses to tell her where he's gone!"
"He doesn't give a shit about her. That much is clear," said Wittberg.
"We've actually already come to that conclusion," said Knutas. "But why was he in such a hurry?"
In his hand he carried an invisible mirror in which he saw his parents. Sometimes their faces disappeared, and he couldn't manage to conjure them up again, no matter how hard he tried. He had been interrupted.
In the early evening, as he stood there painting with even strokes the rough surface of the facade and the air breathed peace and tranquility, the man had appeared from around the corner of the house.
Not that it came as any surprise. The visitor was expected. The meeting could have ended in disaster, but he had managed to restrain his anger. They had talked, and he was indignant that the intruder had succeeded in his intention of upsetting him.
When the man left, he felt shaken, and it had taken a good amount of time to recover his sense of equilibrium. That made him even stronger in his conviction, and in his mind he was able to anticipate enjoying the sweetness of retaliation.
He sat down on the mound that he'd created only a few weeks earlier—yet another holy place that offered him inner peace.
The earth hid its secrets; truth pounded beneath the surface, wanting to get out. It would soon be time. The labyrinth in which he had wandered all his life was about to come unraveled. The angles and corners, the detours and dead ends, the obscure recesses, everything was crawling out into the light, becoming clearer and simpler and filling him with hope for a much better life.
Anders Knutas 03 - The Inner Circle aka Unknown Page 18
