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from the front door and the parking area but hidden by the surrounding juniper bushes. The killer had presumably been so bold as to park right there . When Martina was dead it would have been a simple matter to carry her to his car. The bushes would have hidden him from view. After that he most likely drove straight out to Vivesholm. It would have been about 2:00 or 3:00 A.M. At that hour all the summer guests would have been sound asleep in their houses.
    The perpetrator must have parked his car near the fence, far enough away that it wouldn’t be seen from the gate or the summer houses. Then he lifted out the body and carried it into the grove of trees.
    He had probably prepared the site earlier. Hoisting up a corpse was heavy work. It was unlikely that a woman could have done it, unless she’d had help. Of course, there could have been two or more perpetrators.
    Why had the killer chosen to hoist up the body, thereby making it visible and easier to discover? For one thing, it decreased any lead he may have had. For another, executing the maneuver itself entailed a risk of discovery. Was it as the forensic psychiatrist had thought: that this was a way for the perpetrator to call attention to himself? Knutas had his doubts.
    Then there was the matter of the abdominal wound. If it didn’t have anything to do with Larsvik’s assumption about sexual curiosity, what did it mean? Was the killer trying to desecrate his victim? Was it the assault itself that gave him some sort of satisfaction?
    Otherwise, as Knutas saw it, there was only one other reason: to drain the body of a great deal of blood, just as had been done with the horse. The blood would then be used for some specific purpose.
    The question was: What?

 
    Gunnar Ambjörnsson, Social Democrat and local politician, lived alone. He had done so all his adult life, and that was how he preferred it. To be his own master, to avoid always having to negotiate with others about one thing or another, to compromise, to give and take. He’d done enough of that while he was growing up with four siblings in a cramped row house on Irisdalsgatan in Visby. He’d always had to share a bedroom. The sofa in front of the TV in the living room was always occupied. The chairs around the dining room table were always crowded together. He never had even a corner to himself. The only place he could find any peace was in the bathroom, but never for very long.
    When he moved away from home, he first went to Göteborg to study at the university. There he lived in a student dorm with a shared shower and kitchen, so there wasn’t much private space there, either. When he finished his degree, he immediately got a job with the county of Gotland, and he’d been on the island ever since. He found an apartment on Stenkumlaväg—centrally located but not in the middle of downtown. A two-room place with a kitchen and a view of the street. On the fourth floor of the building. He would never forget the feeling when he entered his apartment for the first time. Empty, newly remodeled, and fresh. He remembered how he ran his finger over the shiny tiles in the bathroom, sniffed at the new paint in the kitchen, and admired the pristine moldings in the living room. He was delighted by the solitude and by how orderly it all was.
    Gradually he worked his way up to better apartments, and for the past twenty years he had lived in his own small house with a garden surrounded by a wall—in Klinten itself, the picturesque residential area across from the cathedral, which was the most attractive area in all of Visby. In the past it been the poorest neighborhood, with a gallows hill so that the condemned could be seen from all over the city and serve as a deterrent. The view was magnificent, with the entire medieval city spread out below with its narrow lanes, its ruins, and the ring wall. On the other side of town was the sea, forming a blue backdrop.
    Gunnar Ambjörnsson had never married, nor did he have any children, and at the age of sixty-two he realized that he never would. He’d had women in his life, but the relationships had never resulted in living with any of them. A few had tried to get him to do so, but each time he had backed out at the last minute. Of course he had been interested, and even in love, but he didn’t think it was worth giving up his solitude.
    For the past few years he’d had a steady relationship with a woman from Stånga. Berit was a teacher, and she was very busy with