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something she had been ruthlessly forced to acknowledge.
    She’d been prepared for things to be difficult with Olle, but she’d never anticipated that everything would become so nasty, bitter, and miserable. All the exhausting fights and his victim’s mind-set had almost put her over the edge during the past spring. It was a miracle that she had managed to get through it without smoking.
    At least they’d managed to find a good solution to the question of where to live. Olle had gotten himself a big apartment in downtown Roma, within walking distance of their house. They’d agreed to take turns having the children every other week, at least in the beginning. Later they would see how things went. The children would decide. At least Olle was reasonable enough to see to it that the children weren’t affected more than necessary.
    Emma raised her eyes from the crossword puzzle that she was staring at, the letters melting together into an incomprehensible blur. Sara and Filip were completely absorbed in their croquet game. They hadn’t had a single fight. That was an unexpected benefit of all that had happened: The children seemed calmer now, as if they had taken on more responsibility. There was no longer the same amount of space for them to mess around in when everything else was falling apart. Her guilty conscience again tapped her on the shoulder. The divorce was her fault. That’s what the whole family thought, including her parents, although no one would come right out and say so.
    She had explained things to the children as best she could, without trying to make excuses. But was that good enough? Would they ever understand?
    She looked at their smooth young faces. Sara, with the darker hair and intense brown eyes, was lively but meticulous. She was talking loudly to her little brother while he tried to concentrate on hitting the ball through the hoop. Filip had blonder hair and a fairer complexion; he was a prankster and the family rascal.
    She wondered if she would be able to love her unborn child as unconditionally as she loved them.

 
    Knutas’s office was on the second floor of police headquarters. It was spacious and bright, with sand-colored walls and light furniture made of birch. The one exception was his old, worn desk chair made of oak with a soft leather seat. He hadn’t been able to part with it when the building was remodeled the previous year and all the other old things had been replaced. Too many puzzle pieces had fallen into place while he sat in that chair for all those years. He felt that he wouldn’t be able to think as well in a new chair, even though it might be better for his back.
    He rocked gently back and forth as he pondered the case of the decapitated pony. Crimes against animals were extremely rare on Gotland. Of course, there were incidents of neglect—people who forgot to feed animals or clean out their cages or boxes—but this was something different. Possibly a madman who enjoyed hurting animals. Knutas had dealt with cases like that before, although not of this caliber. Maybe the horse was killed in a fit of rage. If so, who was the actual target of the anger?
    At the same time, the whole thing seemed the result of cold-blooded calculation. The crime had been committed at an hour when everyone was in bed asleep but it was still light enough outdoors. According to the farmer, the perp must have fed the other animals, to ensure that he’d be able to commit the deed without commotion. It gave him the opportunity to kill and butcher the horse in peace and quiet. The question was: Why had the killer taken the head away? It was hardly for the purpose of fishing for eel, the way Knutas had seen someone use a horse’s head in a movie long ago.
    He took out his pipe, filling it with great care. Then he sucked on the stem without lighting it. That was what he usually did whenever he needed to think. He seldom lit his pipe, and besides, smoking wasn’t permitted indoors. By turning his chair slightly he could see the overcrowded parking lot at the Forum supermarket. The tourist season had started in earnest after the Midsummer holiday. The island had fifty-eight thousand permanent residents, but during the summer months the population increased by another eight hundred thousand. In mid-August it all ended as suddenly as it had begun.
    He had asked Wittberg and Jacobsson to take a closer look at the horse owner’s background that afternoon. The techs, with Sohlman in charge,