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He drove the red pickup along the dirt road, sending up clouds of dust. It was very early, about 2:00 a.m. The first rays of the sun were just making their way above the horizon. The whole countryside was asleep, including the cows, who lay close together with their eyes shut in the pastures he drove past. The only movement was a rabbit or two bounding across the fields. He smoked as he listened to the all-night radio station. It had been a long time since he had felt so content.

The narrow dirt road was wide enough for only one car at a time. Here and there it widened so that it was possible to pass cars coming from the opposite direction; the passing zones were marked by blue road signs with a big white
M
. Not that it was really necessary. No cars ever came from the other direction on this road. Their farm lay at the very end; it was impossible to go any farther. When he was a boy it was not something he thought much about. He probably just assumed that everyone lived more or less the same way. It was the reality that he knew, what he had grown accustomed to.

Every time his childhood home appeared from around the last bend in the road, a touch of that old panicky feeling would arise, as if on command. He felt a pressure in his chest, his muscles tightened, and his breathing grew strained. But the symptoms quickly subsided. He was surprised that it never got any better. After all these years, his body still seemed to react on its own, without any coaxing from him.

The farm consisted of a house that had once been quite magnificent, made of wood and painted yellow; the paint was now peeling off. On one side stood a low, dilapidated barn and on the other a small hay-barn. The remains of a manure heap in the back recalled the time when they'd had animals on the farm. The surrounding pastures were now empty; the last of the livestock had been sold after the death of his parents a year ago.

He parked behind the hay-barn—a precaution that wasn't really necessary, but it was an old habit. He opened the tailgate, took out the sack, and walked briskly across the yard. The barn door creaked, and the air inside smelled musty. Thick layers of cobwebs hung from the ceiling, along with sticky ribbons covered with the black dots of long-dead flies.

The old freezer stood in its customary place, even though it hadn't been used in a long time. Several days earlier he had plugged it in to make sure that it still worked.

Cold air struck him as he opened the lid. The sack fit inside easily. Quickly he closed the lid and then carefully wiped off the exterior of the freezer with soap and a wet rag. It had probably never been this clean before. Then he picked up the bundle of clothes and the rag and put them in a plastic bag.

Behind the barn he dug a deep hole in the ground and stuffed the bag into it. Carefully he filled up the hole, placing some straw and branches on top. Nothing aboveground gave away his hiding place.

All that was left was the truck. He brought out a hose and spent over an hour cleaning it up, both inside and out. Finally he took off the phony license plate and replaced it with the real one. No one could claim that he wasn't thorough.

Then he went inside to make breakfast.

A fresh mist slowly floated over the meadows still damp from the night, weaving its way between the grass and stalks of grain. It caressed the clumps of reeds where a couple of swans were meticulously grooming their white plumage. Several terns were squawking over the bay, and rowboats rocked serenely at their moorings a short distance out in the water. The rotting gray fishing boats at the shore were no longer in use.

It was an uncommonly beautiful morning—one of those summer mornings that would be summoned up as a memory when winter drew its silent dark coat over the island of Gotland.

Twelve-year-old Agnes was awake earlier than usual. It wasn't even eight thirty when she woke her little sister, Sofie. In her sleep-muddled state she was easily persuaded to go for a dip before breakfast. Their grandmother was sitting on the steps, having her coffee and reading the paper. She waved to them as the girls pedaled off with their towels in the bike baskets. The dirt road ran parallel to the beach, a few hundred yards higher up. They had to bike about half a mile before they could turn off to reach the section that was good for swimming.

Agnes stayed ahead of her sister, even though they could have ridden side by side. The traffic on this road was practically nonexistent, even at the height of the summer. Agnes always wanted to be slightly ahead. She had plucked a blade of grass from the roadside and was sucking on it; she liked the taste of the fresh sap.

The dirt road first wound its way through the woods, and then the landscape opened before them. Fields and pastures stretched out side by side down toward the water, which was visible almost the whole time. Several farms were located along the road, with horses, cows, and sheep grazing. At the last whitewashed farm building on the road, they biked past a large pasture before they turned off to go down to the beach. The horses—three Gotland ponies and a Norwegian fjording— were outside day and night at this time of year, along with the shaggy Gotland sheep. The rams were splendid with their twisting horns like pretzels on each side of their head. Sometimes the farmer allowed the girls to ride the ponies. He had a daughter who was a few years older, and if she felt like it she would let them come along for a ride. Agnes and Sofie visited their grandmother and grandfather often. They spent large parts of their summer vacation here in Petesviken in southwestern Gotland while their parents stayed home in Visby to work.

"Wait a minute. Let's say hi to the horses," Agnes suggested as she stopped at the fence.

She clicked her tongue and whistled, which had an immediate effect. The animals stopped grazing, raised their heads, and came trotting over to the girls.

The biggest ram started bleating. Then another and another, until they all joined in. The animals crowded around the gate, hoping for a treat. The girls patted all of them as best they could. They didn't dare venture inside the fence when they were alone.

"Where's Pontus?"

Agnes surveyed the pasture. There were only three horses. Their favorite pony, a black-and-white dappled gelding, was missing.

"Maybe he's over in the trees."

Sofie pointed to the narrow grove of trees that stretched like a dark green ribbon down the middle of the pasture.

The girls shouted and then waited a few minutes, but the pony didn't appear.

"Forget about it," said Sofie. "Let's go swimming."

"How strange that he doesn't come." Agnes frowned, looking worried. He was always so affectionate. Her eyes swept over the hillside, past the water trough, the salt licks, and the trees farther down the slope.

"Oh well, never mind about him. He's probably lying down somewhere asleep." Sofie poked her sister in the side. "You're the one who wanted to go swimming. Come on." She got on her bike.

"There's something wrong. We should at least be able to see where Pontus is."

"They've probably taken him inside. Maybe Veronica is planning to go out riding."

"But what if he's lying down somewhere and he's sick and can't get up! He could have broken his leg or something. We have to go and see."

"Don't be silly. We'll say hi to him on our way back."

Even though the ponies were gentle and small in size, Sofie had respect for them and wasn't eager to go into the pasture. The fjording was big and powerful and didn't seem trustworthy; he had kicked her once. The sheep were also a little scary with those big horns of theirs.

Agnes paid no attention to her sister's protests. She opened the gate and went into the pasture.

"Well, I, at least, have no intention of forgetting about Pontus," she snapped angrily.

Sofie groaned loudly, to show her disapproval. Reluctantly she hopped off her bike and followed.

"You'll have to go first," she muttered.

Agnes clapped her hands and yelled to shoo off the animals, and they bounded off in all directions. Sofie kept close to her big sister and looked around uneasily. The tall grass tickled and scratched at their legs. They didn't say a word to each other. The pony was nowhere in sight.

When they reached the grove of trees without having found anything unusual, Agnes climbed up on the fence on the other side of the pasture to get a better view.

"Look," she cried, pointing.

Farther off, at the edge of the trees, she could see Pontus lying on his side. He seemed to be asleep. Overhead a flock of crows cawed and screeched.

"There he is. He's sleeping like a log!"

Eagerly she ran toward the horse.

"Then it's all right. There's nothing wrong. We don't need to go any farther, do we?" Sofie objected.

Their view was partially blocked. The horse didn't move a muscle.

The only sound was the noisy screeching of the crows. Agnes, leading the way, had time to think that it was odd to see so many crows. When she got closer she stopped so abruptly that her sister ran right into her.

Pontus was lying there on the grass, and his coat gleamed in the sun. The sight would have reassured them if it weren't for one thing. The place where his head was supposed to be was now empty. His neck had been severed. All they saw was a big bloody hole and the flies that were swarming in a black cloud around the fleshy opening.

Behind her Agnes heard a thud as her sister fell headlong to the ground.

Detective Superintendent Anders Knutas discovered to his dismay that patches of sweat had already started to appear under his armpits by the time he parked his run-down Mercedes at police headquarters. It was one of those rare days in the year when it became painfully obvious that the old car had no air-conditioning. Now his wife, Lina, would once again have grist for the mill when she lobbied for purchasing a new car.

Under normal circumstances it would never occur to him to drive to work. His house was located just outside the South Gate, only half a mile from his office. Knutas had worked in the Visby police department for twenty-five years, and he could easily count the days when he had not walked to work. Sometimes he would stop at the Solberga Pool and go inside to swim a mile or more. This summer was no exception. In August he would celebrate his fiftieth birthday, and over the past few years he had noticed the difference the minute he stopped exercising. He'd been more or less thin all his life, and that wasn't something he wanted to change. It just required a little more effort nowadays. Swimming kept him in shape and helped him to think. The more complicated the case he was working on, the more often he paid a visit to the swimming pool. He hadn't been there in quite a while. He wasn't sure whether that was good or bad.

On this last day in June his family was planning to drive up to their summer house in Lickershamn to mow and water the grass. Knutas was intending to leave work early and pick up his wife at the hospital when she was done with her shift at the maternity ward. Contrary to all expectations, their twins, Petra and Nils, who would soon turn thirteen, had agreed to come along, even if they weren't thrilled about it. Lately they usually preferred to spend their time with friends.

Cool air struck Knutas as he stepped through the front door. Silence reigned in the hallway of the criminal investigation division. Summer vacations had started, and it was noticeable.

Knutas's closest colleague, Detective Inspector Karin Jacobsson, was sitting in her office talking on the phone when he walked past. Knutas and Jacobsson had worked together for fifteen years, and they knew each other well on a professional level. When it came to their private lives, Jacobsson was much more reticent.

She was thirty-eight and single, or at least Knutas had never heard her talk about any boyfriend. She lived alone with her white cockatoo in an apartment in Visby, and she devoted most of her free time to playing soccer. Right now she was sitting there waving her arms around and speaking in a loud and furious voice. She was petite, with dark hair. She had warm, lively brown eyes and a big gap between her front teeth. Her mood could change dramatically, and she didn't make much of an effort to rein in her hot temper. She was a splash of color and a bundle of energy, and her sweeping gestures were in sharp contrast to the less than uplifting backdrop of closed blinds and gray-painted bookshelves.

Knutas sank down on the chair in his office and started going through the mail from the past few days that was still untouched. Among the anonymous official letters he found a colorful postcard from Greece. The picture showed a typical Greek meal: grilled chicken on a spit with a bowl of tsatziki and a bottle of wine on a round café table. In the background was a glimpse of sunset, and light was glinting off one of the two wineglasses on the blue-painted tabletop.

The message said: "Not exactly the same thing as grilled lamb's head with mashed turnips—what do you say, Knutie? On Naxos for two weeks, taking it easy. Hope you're well, and maybe we'll have a chance to meet again soon. Martin."

Knutas couldn't help smiling. How typical for Martin Kihlgård to send a postcard with a picture of food on it. The inspector from the National Criminal Police was the biggest glutton Knutas had ever met. He was always eating. They had worked together several times on various homicide cases when Knutas had asked for reinforcements from the NCP.

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. The next
moment the door was opened by his colleague Thomas Wittberg, who was more
than twenty years his junior. Wittberg refused to cut his thick blond hair,
in spite of constant kidding from everyone at work. The tight white T-shirt
accentuated his suntanned torso, which was subjected to regular sessions in
the gym at police headquarters. Wittberg had real charm, and he knew how to
use it on vacationing women as soon as the season got started. The young detective
liked to joke that his goal was to meet women from every region of Sweden,
from Samiland in the north to Skåne in the south. Knutas didn't doubt
for a moment that his colleague would succeed. As far as he knew, Wittberg
had never had a relationship that had lasted more than a few weeks. Every
summer different women would call him at work, and some would even show up
unannounced to see him.

On the job he had also made good use of his popularity with the ladies. It had helped the police to make progress in quite a few investigations. Thomas Wittberg had quickly been promoted from a cop on the beat to the violent crimes division and then to police detective, and for the past two years he had been a regular member of Knutas's core group. Right now his intense blue eyes testified to the fact that something special had happened.

"You've got to hear this," he said as he dropped onto Knutas's visitor's chair holding a sheet of paper in his hand. Knutas noticed that it was covered with Wittberg's illegible notes.

"A decapitated horse was found in a pasture outside Petesviken. Two little girls discovered it this morning."

"Good Lord."

"Around nine o'clock the girls were biking to the beach for a morning swim when they noticed that one of the horses was missing. They found it lying farther off in the pasture with its head cut off."

"Are you sure they didn't just imagine the whole thing?"

"Their grandfather and the owner of the farm went back with them to have a look. They just called in the report."

"What sort of horse is it? And who owns it?"

"An ordinary pony. The owner is a farmer named Jörgen Larsson. He has four horses that his family keeps for riding. The other three were in the pasture."

"And they weren't harmed in any way?"

"Apparently not."

Knutas shook his head. "That sounds very strange."

"There's one more thing," said Wittberg.

"What's that?"

"The head wasn't simply cut off. It's missing. The farmer has searched everywhere for it, but he couldn't find it. It's not anywhere near the body, at any rate."

"You mean that the perp took the head away?"

"So it seems."

"Did you talk to the farmer yourself?"

"No, I got the information from a patrolman."

"I hope he doesn't go rummaging around in the pasture, disturbing all the evidence," Knutas muttered as he reached for his jacket. "Let's get going."