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Martina Flochten case, it felt as if they still hadn’t made much progress. He was going to talk to Gunnar Ambjörnsson as soon as he arrived home from his trip on the following day. Knutas decided to put aside any consideration of possible connections and just concentrate on Staffan Mellgren. If his wife wasn’t the killer , then maybe his relationship with Martina didn’t have anything to do with the murders. The police might have gotten too fixated on that particular lead. He decided to completely ignore Mellgren’s love affairs as he reconsidered the case.
    What else was there in Mellgren’s life that might make someone want to kill him? He needed to find out more about the man. He tried calling Mellgren’s wife at various phone numbers but didn’t manage to get hold of her. She probably wanted to be left in peace after all the upheaval. He would try to phone her again later. Instead he tried calling the college, but no one was there to answer on a Saturday. Knutas leafed through his notes about the excavation leader and found the phone number for Aron Bjarke. Maybe he knew something more. He’d been well aware of Mellgren’s love life, after all, and he seemed quite candid and talkative.
    It turned out that Bjarke was at home. He lived downtown on Skogränd, inside the city walls, and they agreed to meet there.
    “I’ll put on some coffee. We can sit outside in the garden,” said Bjarke, as if he were planning a social event.
    Knutas decided to walk. A fresh breeze was blowing, so it wasn’t unbearably hot. He left his jacket at home. He walked through the South Gate and continued along Adelsgatan. It was only a few minutes past ten, and most of the shops had just opened. For the time being the town was deserted. He crossed Stora Torget, where the stall owners were setting out their wares, getting ready for the day’s transactions. The contrast with the nearby ruins of St. Karin’s Church from the thirteenth century was quite striking.
    Aron Bjarke’s house was small. Shims had been installed to make the door align properly. The windows were so low that it was only a few inches from the windowsill to the street, where roses had been planted outside the house. The archaeology teacher was apparently a gardener.
    Bjarke opened the door after the first knock; there was no doorbell. Knutas had to stoop as he stepped inside in order not to bump his head. The ceiling was low and the interior quite drab.
    On his way out to the garden in back of the house, Knutas cast an inquisitive glance at the kitchen. It was bright and old-fashioned, with white wooden cabinets, a small drop-leaf table, and blue-and-white-checked curtains. Various knickknacks were lined up on the windowsill. The living room had the same low ceiling, with rustic beams. All the pieces of furniture were antiques.
    “What a nice place,” commented Knutas. “Are you interested in antiques?”
    “Not especially, as a matter of fact. I inherited most of them.”
    They sat down in the small garden. A coffee tray was already on the table, and Bjarke poured without asking Knutas whether he’d like to have any. He had put some little chocolate macaroons on a plate, to serve with the coffee.
    “I’m actually here to talk about Staffan Mellgren,” Knutas began.
    “Is that right? It’s certainly terrible, what happened, completely incomprehensible. It’s frightening that a student and then a teacher have been murdered. It makes you wonder if you’re going to be next. Everyone is probably thinking the same thing. There’s a great sense of uneasiness among the teachers and the students at the college.”
    “I can understand that,” said Knutas curtly.
    All week long, frightened and angry people had been calling the police—college students’ parents who felt their children’s lives were in danger, the Business Association, which was worried that the tourists would be scared off, and what seemed like everyone affiliated with the college, all on the verge of collapse when they called to demand that the police find the murderer immediately. Of course it was understandable, but the police had better things to do than function as a crisis call center. He sighed at the thought and met Bjarke’s eye.
    “How well did you know him?”
    “Quite well, you might say. We worked together for years. For the past five years at the college, and before that at Hemse Folk High School, which was previously in charge of the archaeological