B0031RSBSM EBOK

visitor’s chair holding a sheet of paper in his hand. Knutas noticed that it was covered with Wittberg’s illegible notes.
    “A decapitated horse was found in a pasture outside Petesviken. Two little girls discovered it this morning.”
    “Good Lord.”
    “Around nine o’clock the girls were biking to the beach for a morning swim when they noticed that one of the horses was missing. They found it lying farther off in the pasture with its head cut off.”
    “Are you sure they didn’t just imagine the whole thing?”
    “Their grandfather and the owner of the farm went back with them to have a look. They just called in the report.”
    “What sort of horse is it? And who owns it?”
    “An ordinary pony. The owner is a farmer named Jörgen Larsson. He has four horses that his family keeps for riding. The other three were in the pasture.”
    “And they weren’t harmed in any way?”
    “Apparently not.”
    Knutas shook his head. “That sounds very strange.”
    “There’s one more thing,” said Wittberg.
    “What’s that?”
    “The head wasn’t simply cut off. It’s missing. The farmer has searched everywhere for it, but he couldn’t find it. It’s not anywhere near the body, at any rate.”
    “You mean that the perp took the head away?”
    “So it seems.”
    “Did you talk to the farmer yourself?”
    “No, I got the information from a patrolman.”
    “I hope he doesn’t go rummaging around in the pasture, disturbing all the evidence,” Knutas muttered as he reached for his jacket. “Let’s get going.”

 
    Several minutes later Knutas, Wittberg, and the crime-scene tech Erik Sohlman were sitting in a police car heading south. Sohlman was one of the officers that Knutas valued most, along with Jacobsson. Both of his favorite colleagues shared a temperamental nature and an interest in soccer, but unlike Jacobsson, Sohlman was married and had two small children.
    “What a strange thing,” said the technician. He brushed his curly red hair back from his forehead. “I wonder whether it’s some mentally ill person who likes to hurt animals, or whether there’s something else behind it.”
    Knutas muttered something inaudible in reply.
    “Do you remember that trotting horse that bolted during a race at Skrubbs and ran off the track?” Wittberg leaned forward from where he was sitting in the backseat. “The driver fell out of the sulky and the horse took off. I seem to recall that we searched for a week.”
    “Oh, right. The one that was later found dead in the woods in Follingbo,” Knutas interjected. “The sulky had gotten stuck between two trees, and the horse died of dehydration.”
    “My God,” said Sohlman with a shudder. “That was not a pretty sight.”
    They continued in silence along the coast road, past Klintehamn and Fröjel and the little village of Sproge with its lovely white church. Then they turned off on a dirt road, a long straightaway heading toward the sea with short pine and spruce trees on both sides. They soon reached Petesviken. Several farms stood in a row, with a view of the sea. In the pastures livestock was grazing. It looked as harmonious and peaceful as could be.
    At Jörgen Larsson’s property a truck was parked on the gravel in front of the house, along with a newer-model Opel. Several cages for rabbits had been set up on the lawn, and the officers were met by a beagle happily wagging his tail. A man wearing blue overalls and a cap came out on the front porch just as their car turned into the yard. The man took off his cap in the old-fashioned way of greeting as he said hello to the three officers.
    “Jörgen Larsson. We might as well go right out there. This sure is a nasty business. I can’t believe it happened. My daughter is very upset. It was her pony, and you know how it is with young girls and their horses. Pontus was everything to the poor girl. She just keeps crying and crying. I can’t understand how anyone could do something like that. It’s completely incomprehensible.”
    The words came pouring out, nonstop and all in one breath, and none of the officers had time to respond before the farmer started heading across the yard toward the pasture.
    “Both my wife and the kids are really upset. It’s a real mess. I think they’re all in shock.”
    “Of course,” said Knutas. “I understand.”
    “And Pontus … well, he was something special, you know,” Larsson went on. “The kids could ride him whenever they liked, and they