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by the time the girls found him. That means that the crime was most likely committed sometime before four in the morning. As far as the pasture is concerned, it’s being searched by dogs, along with the immediate vicinity, in an attempt to find the head. So far no luck. We’ll continue to widen the area of our search.”
    Jacobsson grimaced. “How disgusting. So the perpetrator took both the head and the blood along,” she said. “What do we know about the horse?”
    Knutas looked down at his notes.
    “A pony, fifteen years old, castrated—so it was a gelding. A gentle, friendly animal, with no previous police record.”
    Wittberg snickered. Jacobsson was not amused.
    “What about the owner?” she asked.
    “His name is Jörgen Larsson. Married, the father of three. He took over the farm along with his brother ten years ago. It’s their childhood home, and their parents still live in one of the separate wings of the house. The farm is quite large. They have about forty cows and a lot of calves. There don’t seem to be any conflicts within the family. They’ve run their farm in peace and quiet all these years. Neither Jörgen Larsson nor any other family member has a police record.
    “The vet thinks that the crime was committed by someone who grew up on a farm or who has had previous contact with the slaughtering or butchering of animals,” Sohlman went on. “He says that this isn’t the sort of thing that can be done on the spur of the moment. It requires careful planning, nerve, and determination—as well as brute strength. You’d have to hit hard to make the horse lose consciousness, and you’d also have to know where to strike. The brain is located very high up on the forehead. According to Åke Tornsjö, the perpetrator must have done this sort of thing before.”
    Everyone seated around the table was listening with interest.
    “Has the farmer or anyone in his family ever received any sort of threat?” asked Wittberg.
    “No, not as far as we know.”
    “The question is whether this was directed at the farmer personally, or whether it’s a madman who’s attacking animals,” said Jacobsson.
    “Could this be some kind of boyish prank?” Wittberg tossed out the question.
    “With a butcher knife and an axe and a means of transporting the head?” said Jacobsson. “Not on your life. On the other hand, I do wonder if there are any mental patients with a history of animal abuse who have been released.”
    “Actually, we’ve already managed to check up on that,” said Knutas. “Do any of you recall Gustav Persson? The guy who used to roam around the pastures putting nails into horses’ hooves? He would pound the nail in partway, and when the horse set his foot down to walk, the nail would go in farther and farther. Persson didn’t just make do with one hoof, either. He would put nails in several so that in the end the horse couldn’t stand upright. He eluded the police for several weeks until he was finally caught. By then he had injured a dozen animals. There’s also Bingeby-Anna. She would kill any cat that she saw and hang them on the fence.”
    “But she’s super tiny and thin,” Jacobsson objected. “She’d never be able to carry out this sort of crime, at least not alone. I’m the size of an elephant compared to her. She can’t weigh more than ninety pounds.”
    Knutas raised his eyebrows at the exaggeration. Jacobsson herself was small-boned and stood no more than about five foot three.
    “I don’t think this has anything to do with an impulsive act by some mental patient,” Wittberg protested. “It was too well planned. To commit such a crime, during the lightest nights of the summer and with people and houses nearby, must have required meticulous planning, just as Erik said. I’m amazed that the perpetrator even dared, when there was such a big risk of being seen. The road to the pasture runs along all the farm buildings. It’s practically like driving right through their yards. Anyone who woke up could have seen or heard the car.”
    “You’re right,” said Sohlman, “but we’ve discovered that it’s possible to reach the pasture from another direction.” He clicked through the pictures until he came to the ones showing maps of the area. “The road ends and splits in two when you reach Petesviken. Instead of turning right and driving past the farms, you go left. A short distance away there’s a tractor path along the fields that circles the whole area