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 cafés filled the sidewalks, where customers were enjoying a caffe latte or a glass of wine. The water glittered down by Strandvägen. 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 Pressbyrån 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
"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 cafés filled the sidewalks, where customers were enjoying a caffe latte or a glass of wine. The water glittered down by Strandvägen. 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 Pressbyrån 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
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