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Chapters (65)
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  9. 9
  10. 10
  11. 11
  12. 12
  13. 13
  14. 14
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  20. 20
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  28. 28
  29. 29
  30. 30
  31. 31
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  33. 33
  34. 34
  35. 35
  36. 36
  37. 37
  38. 38
  39. 39
  40. 40
  41. 41
  42. 42
  43. 43
  44. 44
  45. 45
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  48. 48
  49. 49
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  65. Acknowledgements

A woman behind me with thick, glossy hair, magazine hair, says, ‘Chief Björn, was this a hunting accident?’

‘We’re not ruling anything out. Like I say, we keep an open mind. However, there are some specific details I cannot currently divulge that suggest this was not an accident, hunting or otherwise.’

A man behind me with a rich Leonard Cohen voice asks, ‘Chief, what do you say to the rumours the victim was decapitated and the head was displayed on a nearby tree stump.’

More flashbulbs.

Tree stump? Did I miss that? Have they found the severed head?

The Chief puts out a spread palm and says, ‘That’s all I can say for the time being. Now, once again, I’d like to appeal to your viewers and readers for information. Please get in touch if you know anything or suspect anything relevant to this investigation. Thank you.’

More flashbulbs and questions. One young guy asks, ‘Chief Björn, what do you say to the allegations that this ritualistic killing is related to Halloween, and will Visberg be afforded extra law-enforcement officers on October thirty-first? Sir? Chief, will you comment?’

The Chief walks out through the door he came in.

Sebastian and I leave and he pulls me to one side outside the Posten.

‘I’ve found something similar from ten years ago. Hunt season, late October, gunshot wound, decapitation.’

‘You did?’ I ask. ‘Where? Who?’

‘Not local,’ he says. ‘I was going deep on a Google search when I found it. Wasn’t an elk hunt, it was a wild-boar hunt. Four men decapitated in total. One each year for four consecutive years.’

‘Jesus. Was the perpetrator ever caught?’

‘No,’ he says.

‘Shit.’

‘But it’s probably not relevant,’ he says.

I frown.

‘All the deaths occurred deep in the forest.’

‘Okay?’

He looks at me. ‘In Bosnia.’

9

I tell Sebastian that if you widen your net enough you’ll find similar crimes all over the world, not only in Bosnia. Humans are the same everywhere. I ask him to find out what he can about Arne Persson’s surviving relatives and try to schedule me an appointment to interview whoever was closest to him.

Lars is inside sitting on his inflatable haemorrhoid cushion – it looks like the face of Homer Simpson – rewriting a piece on Gavrik transport improvements. Cycle paths for him, psychopaths for me.

‘Pan Night,’ I say. ‘You’ve been living here since the last Ice Age, Lars. What’s Pan Night all about?’

He looks up from his screen and I count the seconds. The adjustment of his glasses and the thinking time. I’m patient because the man is an invaluable font of local knowledge.