Postcard killers

"You're a very beautiful woman, Dessie Larsson," he slurred when they came out into Kungstradgarden in front of the restaurant.

His heavy breath struck her in the face.

"Thank you," she said, unlocking her bicycle, "for everything."

"I'd love to see you again," he said, and tried to kiss her.

Quickly Dessie put on her bike helmet, thinking, That ought to work as a passion kil er. But Bergman didn't give up so easily.

"I've got a writer's pad in the Old Town," he slurred at her. "A penthouse…"

Dessie took a quick step to the side and got on her bike.

"Thanks for a fantastic evening," she said, turning her back on him and pedaling off.

It was so bloody typical. Anyone who was interested in her was a control freak, a self-obsessed idiot, or a single-minded sex maniac.

She glanced back over her shoulder when she reached the next intersection. Hugo Bergman was standing there swaying where she had left him, fumbling with his mobile phone. He had probably forgotten about her already.

"Asshole," she whispered into the wind. "It's your loss."

It was a cool, stil evening. The clouds had drifted away and the sky was light even though it was after eleven.

People were walking along the quayside, talking and laughing. The sidewalk bars were open, offering blankets and halogen heaters to anyone feeling cold.

She breathed the white summer night into her lungs and cycled slowly past the Royal Palace, crossed the intersection at Slussen, and then stood up on the pedals to climb up Gotgatsbacken.

She carried the bike up the steps to Urvadersgrand, unlocked the door, and parked it in the courtyard.

She had time to unlock and open the door to her apartment before she noticed the man standing watching her from the shadows.

Chapter 28

She heard herself gasp. that was starting to become a habit, a very bad one.

"I've done what you said," Jacob Kanon said, stepping toward her with his arms outstretched.

She looked at him. He had shaved and washed his hair.

"H and M," he explained.

He was wearing the same jeans, the same jacket, but possibly a new Tshirt. It was hard to tel: it was black, just like the previous one.

"Fantastic," Dessie said. "What a transformation."

"They sel soap as wel," he went on.

"I hope you didn't wear yourself out shopping," Dessie said. "What do you want?"

He looked at her with his sparkling eyes.

"The Swedish police wil be making a huge mistake if they don't listen to me," he said. "They won't catch these kil ers, even if they trip over them. The Germans did nearly everything right and stil didn't catch them."

Dessie closed the door to her apartment. She stayed out in the hal way with him. She wasn't afraid of him anymore, just a bit leery.

"This type of murder investigation is the worst to try to clear up," the American went on. "The victims are picked at random, there are no co

He appeared sad, restrained, and not quite sober, but something in him seemed entirely genuine. He wasn't putting it on, he wasn't exaggerating.

Maybe it was the contrast to Hugo Bergman's supercilious sense of selfcongratulation that made Dessie notice it. And now that she could see what he looked like behind al the grime, he was actual y pretty good-looking. And those eyes of his were something.

Watch yourself, she thought and crossed her arms.

"What's this got to do with me?" she asked.

Jacob held up a smal sports bag that she hadn't seen before.

"Al we've got is a pattern," he said. "I've got copies of the pictures of most of the bodies in here, and postcards from almost al of the murders. The kil ers are communicating through these pictures, but I can't work out what they're saying. Can you help me?"

"I don't know anything about murder," she said.

He laughed, a sad, hol ow laugh.

"Who else can I turn to?"

Of course. He was here, outside her door, because he had nowhere else to go.

"Look," she said, "I'm tired and I have to be up in a couple of hours."

The timed lights in the stairwel went out. Dessie didn't bother to switch them on again.

"You've been working late," Jacob Kanon said in the darkness. "Has something happened? They didn't kil again, did they?"

She realized to her surprise that her mouth was dry.

"I've been on a date," she said.

She could see only his silhouette against the lead-framed window in the stairwel.

"With Hugo Bergman," she went on. "A famous crime writer. Maybe you've heard of him?"

Jacob pressed the light switch again and the lights came on.

"Time's passing," he said. "The kil ers usual y stay only a few days in a place once they've already done their kil ing. They're probably stil here, but they'l soon be moving on."

He took a step closer to her.

"Kimmy dies," he said. "Kimmy dies over and over again, and we have to stop them."

Dessie backed away.

"Tomorrow," she said. "Come to the paper tomorrow. If you're lucky I'l get you a cup of coffee from the machine."

He rubbed his eyes with his free hand and looked like he was about to say something but changed his mind.

Instead he disappeared down the marble staircase.

Chapter 29

Dessie went in and closed the door behind her, put the safety lock on, and clenched her fists.

She pul ed off her clothes and thought about taking a shower but dropped the idea.

She crept under the covers in her double bed without turning the lights on.

The room was gloomy but not dark. The sun had gone down but would be up again in a few hours. She lay there quietly, looking around her bedroom. 42 Restless, she threw off the covers, pul ed on a dressing gown, and went out to the kitchen.

She drank a glass of water and then went into what was once the maid's room, a little cubbyhole behind the kitchen where she had set up her office. She switched the computer on, hesitating a few moments before opening her halffinished doctoral thesis.

Who knew if it would ever get finished?

She sighed. She was actual y extremely interested in her research subject, so she didn't know why she never got it done. She had already spent several years of academic life on it, studying minor criminals and their thought processes, patterns of behavior, and motives.

She had grown up among petty thieves on a farm out in the forests of Norrland in the north of Sweden.

The great majority of her family hadn't done an honest day's work in the whole of their miserable lives.

She scrol ed up and down the text, reading sentences and whole paragraphs at random.

Maybe she could get going on it again, finish it, and final y get her degree.

Why on earth did she find it so difficult?

Everything she did ended up half done, no matter whether it was work or relationships.

She switched off the computer and went back into the kitchen.

The perfect partner didn't exist, she knew that much, and, god knows, her knowledge was based on extensive research. The idea of finding your other half was a myth and a lie. You had to compromise, make al owances, be tolerant.

Gabriel a was a great girl, beautiful and sexy and seriously in love with her.

There had been nothing wrong with Christer either. If he hadn't asked for a divorce, she'd probably stil be married to him.

She drank another glass of water and looked at the clock on the wall. 1:43.