A ceaseless murmuring was mixed with the drumming done by a man leading the way. In one hand he held a flat drum made of animal hide, in the other a leather-covered wooden mallet that he used to strike the drum with an even beat.
When they reached the open clearing that was their destination, one of the men moved away from the group. From his tunic he pulled out an eighteen-inch signal horn made of bone. He raised it to his lips, pointed it toward the sea, and blew. The sound was monotonous and plaintive. A drinking horn was passed around the group. With closed eyes and solemn faces they each drank the wine from the horn, and when everyone had tasted it, they poured the last drops onto the ground. The man with the signal horn appeared to be the leader. He took up a position in front of the participants. He spoke a few words and then turned to face the east as the drumbeats sounded. He shouted into the bright night. With a strong and clear voice he invoked the deities. Then he faced, by turns, the south, the west, and the north as he spoke. Finally he turned toward the center of the circle, where an altar had been erected with idols painted in blood.
One by one the participants stepped forward to place flowers, fruit, and sacks of grain on the holy altar. Stones had been arranged in a circle around the entire site.
The people in the circle stomped their feet on the ground, and the murmuring started up again, growing louder until everyone was practically screaming. Several of the men lit a fire, which instantly flared up toward the sky.
The drummer struck the drum in time with the people's laments. Someone handed the leader an axe, which he swung in front of him as he uttered incantations. A cage was carried forward, and a well-fed white hen was held up before the participants, who stared at it, enraptured. The hen was placed on the ground in front of the leader, who raised the axe and cut off the bird's head with a precise blow. Blood spattered all around, the lament became even more ecstatic, and the stomping grew more intense.
At last the leader collapsed. The drumming ceased, and the voices stopped. Silence reigned.
One of the participants left the group without drawing attention to himself. No one noticed when he headed back the way they had come. He got into his car and drove off.
SATURDAY, JULY 10
They were going to spend the weekend at the home of Emma's parents on the island of Faro. Just Emma, Johan, and the baby, Elin. Emma's parents had dropped by the house in Roma to say hello before they set off on the long trip that they usually took each year. She had felt nothing but emptiness during their visit. She didn't sense any sincerity from them, just a superficial babbling about how adorable Elin was. Then they went off to the airport and their travels, which would take them to China this time. That was just as well.
Emma had promised to look after their house, and it would be lovely to have a change of scene. She was already feeling cooped up in the house in Roma. There was so much to remind her of her old life there, and yet there was nothing left of it. The walls breathed Olle and all the bitterness that had emerged over the past six months.
Emma was very fond of the house on Faro. For the life of her she couldn't understand how her parents could go off traveling when everything was so marvelous right there at home.
The route to the ferry landing at Farosund passed through a lush farming area. They took the small roads through Barlingbo and Ekeby up to Bal and the larger village of Slite before they reached Farosund, where they caught the car ferry over to Faro. It took only a few minutes to cross the sound. Elin slept the whole way.
When they drove off the ferry on the opposite shore, Emma felt the same sense of contentment that she always felt. Faro was more barren and windswept than Gotland, and the difference was instantly noticeable. They made the obligatory stop at the Konsum supermarket to buy fresh strawberries and last-minute groceries. They also stopped at the local bakery on the way to Skar to buy some of their amazing sugar buns. Then they drove the last part of the way toward Norsta Auren at the northernmost section of Faro.
The white limestone house stood all by itself near a low stone wall, with the sea on the other side. Emma felt a slight churning in her stomach; she hadn't been out here in more than six months. The house felt chilly, as it always did when they first arrived. The stone floor was shiny; her parents had done a proper cleaning. She sat down in the armchair by the window to nurse Elin, who was now awake and crying. In the meantime, Johan unpacked the groceries. Through the window Emma could look out at the beach. It was narrow here, where it started, but it got wider the farther out you went. One big advantage was that the sand was packed down so hard that you could push a baby buggy along it.
"Maybe we could take a walk along the beach later," she called to Johan.
"Sure. That would be great. Would you like something to drink?"
"Yes, please. A glass of water."
The next minute he came into the living room, bringing her a big glass of water. Johan looked so happy and relaxed. He seemed glad to be with her and their child. That seemed to be all he wanted. Why couldn't she feel just as happy? Out in the kitchen Johan was humming as he put everything away. She should pull herself together and give him a chance. Elin's cheeks grew rosy as she suckled at her mother's breast. For your sake, thought Emma. And for mine.
Due to the new situation, the investigative team was holding a meeting, even though it was Saturday.
Knutas was looking forward to hearing what conclusions Agneta Larsvik had reached. She had devoted the past two days to defining what she thought were the distinguishing characteristics of the perpetrator.
Everyone had just sat down when the door opened and Kihlgard came in. He looked happy, his hair was windblown, and he had two big paper sacks in his hands.
"Hi, everybody," he greeted them cheerfully. "I've been to a fantastic party at the Hamra pub, and when I was about to drive away this morning, they insisted on sending some goodies along with me for our coffee. Is there any fresh coffee?"
"No, but I'll put on a pot," Jacobsson offered.
"I'll help you," said Kihlgard, and they left the room together.
Knutas and Norrby exchanged glances. Kihlgard always had to be in the spotlight. On the other hand, he created an atmosphere of wellbeing, which Knutas appreciated since he wasn't very good at such things himself.
They waited patiently for the coffee to be ready. In the meantime, Thomas Wittberg came sauntering in with a whole liter of Coca-Cola in his hand. Judging by his expression, it had been a late night with plenty to drink for him as well. They chatted a bit about all the partying that had gone on in the city the night before. It had been unusually rowdy. The number of tourists increased every year, especially among the younger crowds who were attracted to Visby's pub life, since the island's summer weather was among the best in the whole country. Unfortunately the young people also brought with them drunkenness, drugs, and fights. Right now everyone gathered around the table had much more serious matters to talk about. As soon as the coffee and Kihlgard's cinnamon rolls appeared, they started going over the status of the investigation. Knutas began by telling everyone that the hotel project represented a link between Martina Flochten and Gunnar Ambjornsson, just in case anyone had missed the discussions that had been going on in the hallways.
Then he turned to Jacobsson and Wittberg. "What have you come up with?"
"Not much." Wittberg tugged on his blond locks. "Karin and I spent all of yesterday talking to the demonstrators protesting the project and any politicians we could find. It wasn't easy. On a Friday in July hardly anyone stays at work past lunchtime. We asked about how the protests have been going, about possible threats, and so on. Of course, without mentioning the horse's head that was found at Ambjornsson's house," Wittberg emphasized when he noticed the nervous expression on Knutas's face.