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incredible prices, at least by Gotland standards. The residents with normal salaries could only dream of living downtown, unless they had inherited a place.
    Johan had been stationed on Gotland since May 1, and up until now he hadn’t lacked for story ideas. Unemployment was a big problem on the island. During the past few years several large companies had cut back on the number of employees or had shut down completely. Some had moved their production to the mainland. The latest death blow came when the government decided to close P18, the old military base, as part of the big wave of cuts in the defense budget that had swept across Sweden.
    Now, though, the team hadn’t managed to squeeze out a single story for several days, and Johan was clearly feeling the pressure from Grenfors in Stockholm.
    When the phone rang, he answered without much enthusiasm.
    It was Pia, and there was an eager tone to her voice. He could hear that she was driving as she talked.
    “Hey, a horse has been found in a pasture with its head cut off.”
    Pia had a habit of skipping any introductory greetings, which she viewed as unnecessary, especially when she was in a hurry and had something important to say.
    “When?”
    “This morning. Two little girls found it in a pasture out by Petesviken. Do you know where that is?”
    “No clue.”
    “It’s in southern Gotland, on the west coast—it’s probably about thirty-five miles from the city.”
    “How did you hear about this?”
    “I have a friend who lives there. She called me.”
    “Who owns the horse?”
    “A completely ordinary farm family.”
    “We should drive out there right away. How soon can you get here?”
    “I’m out in front now.”
    Johan hung up the phone and immediately called Detective Superintendent Knutas on his direct line. He got no answer, and the switchboard told him that the entire investigative team would be tied up all morning.
    A decapitated horse sounded weird, but that was exactly what he needed. He grabbed a notebook and pen and locked the door to the office. He decided to wait to call Grenfors in Stockholm; he had nothing against keeping the editor on tenterhooks for a while.

 
    He sat in the kitchen, thinking about how palpably a room could change, depending on who was in it and what was taking place. The gloom that had previously emanated from the walls, and the guilt and shame that had fallen from the ceiling onto his head, were now gone. In the past the walls had pressed in and threatened him whenever he sat at his place at the table, which was always the same. Whatever food was served gave him no pleasure; it merely swelled up inside his mouth until he had a hard time swallowing. A plateful of anxiety lay hidden under the gravy.
    Things were different now that he could do whatever he pleased. He had made himself a hearty breakfast. The exertions of the morning demanded a solid meal.
    On the plate in front of him were three thick slices of toasted white bread with pieces of Falun sausage and eggs dripping with fat. He topped them off with a generous squirt of ketchup, along with salt and pepper. The cat was meowing greedily and rubbing against his leg. He tossed her a piece of sausage.
    The clock on the wall showed that it was nine forty -five. Through the dusty windowpane he could see the sun lighting up the yard outside. He ate the food with a good appetite and gulped down some of the cold milk. When he was done, he pushed away the plate and belched loudly. He leaned back in his chair and took a pinch of snuff.
    His body was tired; his arms ached. It had been more difficult than he’d anticipated. For a moment he had even thought that he might not be able to do it. Finally, he had managed it. The finishing work had taken a good long time, but now it was done.
    He stood up and picked up his plate. Carefully he rinsed off the scraps of food under the faucet and then washed the plate.
    All of a sudden he felt very tired. He had to lie down and sleep.