B0031RSBSM EBOK

then going to drive home. No one answered their home phone, even though the workday should have ended long ago.
    “Could he be the murderer?” Jacobsson’s voice sounded doubtful as they got into the car to drive out to the excavation site.
    “I have a hard time believing that, but we’ve been surprised before,” said Knutas tensely as he zigzagged between cars on the road. In July there was a lot of traffic on the coastal road between Klintehamn and Visby.
    Martin Kihlgård, who was sitting in the backseat, leaned forward to offer his two colleagues a bag of onion chips. The car reeked of them. Knutas made a point of declining the offer, then rolled down the window as Jacobsson cheerfully accepted.
    “I have a hard time imagining Mellgren as the murderer,” muttered Kihlgård as he chewed. “It would be rather stupid to take the life of one of his own students, especially if he was having an affair with her. On top of that, it seems very unlikely that he would use his own pole to stick a horse’s head on. And where the hell did he get the first horse’s head from, since it wasn’t from the same horse? Are there still no reports about any missing horses?”
    “Not a single one,” replied Knutas curtly. “And no one is saying that Mellgren is the murderer.”
    “I’d rather bet my money on the wife,” Kihlgård went on, unperturbed. “She had both the opportunity and the motive. The guy is notoriously unfaithful, and he could very well have had an affair with Martina Flochten. We know that she was meeting someone in secret, and maybe that proved to be the last drop. Good Lord, the girl was only twenty-one, after all. Afterward, Susanna Mellgren tries staging the whole business with the horse’s head in order to warn her husband, to threaten him. If she wanted to kill him, surely she would have done it at once. This is much more sophisticated. She wants him to realize that it’s serious this time. If he doesn’t stop his adulterous affairs, then he’s going to meet the same fate.”
    Obviously satisfied with his explanation, Kihlgård leaned back and stuck his whole hand in the bag of chips.
    “So you think that her intention is to frighten her husband out of his wits to such a degree that he won’t look at another woman from now on?” Jacobsson sounded dubious.
    “It wouldn’t be the first time in the history of the world, at any rate. As I see it, she’s the only one with an obvious motive.”
    “I must admit that I have a hard time seeing why anyone would want to kill Martina Flochten. A jealousy scenario could explain the matter,” Knutas agreed. “But why would the wife use such a complicated method?”
    “That may be a red herring,” said Kihlgård. “Trying to make the whole thing seem mystical and ritualistic even though that has nothing at all to do with it.”
    They turned off at Fröjel Church and drove all the way down to the excavation site. They bumped along on the last part of the road. It looked disconcertingly quiet and deserted. The carts were all properly locked, and everything seemed to be closed up for the night. Several pits were covered with plastic.
    “All right, then,” said Kihlgård. “He’s not here, at any rate.”
    Knutas felt his irritation rising.
We need to get hold of him
, he thought,
and quickly
.
    “We’ll drive over to the college. He might be there.”
    He had a horrible premonition that they needed to hurry.

 
    It was seven in the evening when Staffan Mellgren left Kallbadhuset to drive home. The band had stopped playing, and the young people were on their way out to join the action in Visby’s pubs. He had deliberately chosen to keep a low profile, since he recognized several students from the college. They had greeted him with a nod. That was one thing he detested about living on Gotland—the fact that he could never be anonymous anywhere.
    Even though he’d had two strong beers, he got behind the wheel. He drove out of the city as people walked past on their way to the restaurants and evening entertainments. The tourist season was at its peak, Visby was pulsing with life, and it was disappointing to have to leave it all behind and drive home to little Lärbro.
    His cell phone was still on the passenger seat, and he saw that he’d received quite a few messages, but he didn’t feel like checking to see who they were from. It was probably Susanna, and he didn’t have the energy to deal with her nervous carping right now.
    The hens