Postcard killers

Her eyes lit up in recognition.

"Harlem," she said.

He nodded. The police chief knew her NYPD.

She turned to Mats Duval.

"We need al the help we can get on this case," she said. "Formalize Mr.

Kanon's status with Interpol. These bastards have to be stopped."

Jacob clenched his fists in triumph.

He was on board, and his intuition had been correct – something was going to break here in Stockholm. He hoped it wasn't him.

Chapter 38

Washington confirmed Jacob's status and Berlin verified that he had been linked to them in their investigation into the German case, and a couple of phone cal s later, he was formal y accepted as part of the group, albeit on strictly limited terms.

"You've got no mandate to make your own decisions on police business,"

Mats Duval clarified. "You can't be armed, so I must ask you to hand over your sidearm. And you have to be accompanied at al times by a Swedish col eague."

Jacob looked at him steadily.

"I haven't got my sidearm with me. You'l get it, though," he said. "Who am I going to be working with?"

Mats Duval looked at everyone.

"Gabriel a, you've been on the case from the start?"

Gabriel a Oscarsson tightened her lips until they formed a harsh line.

"Good," the superintendent said, distributing sheaves of photocopies around the table.

The atmosphere in the room was tense and uncomfortable. Serious runthroughs of an entire case like this almost always contained elements of hierarchical squabbling, and Jacob realized that his actions hadn't made things easier.

Mats Duval cleared his throat and continued going through the victims' credit-card transactions. He spoke in English for Jacob's benefit. None of the others objected, but they couldn't have liked it.

The last purchase had been made in the NK department store around lunchtime on Saturday. Claudia Schmidt had been shopping at the perfume counter, and Rolf Hetger in the jewelry department.

After that, there was a gap of a few hours before the cash withdrawals began.

Jacob studied the printout. It was in Swedish, but the times and amounts were clear enough. And it was the same damn pattern as in the other cities.

In fewer than six hours, the kil ers had managed to trick their victims out of their bank cards, drug them, kil them, steal their possessions and rental car, drive off in the vehicle, and start emptying their bank accounts.

"The Germans died between the perfume counter and the cash withdrawals," he clarified.

Prosecutor Ridderwal leaned forward across the table.

"The preliminary autopsy results haven't been able to pinpoint the exact time of death," he said. "Are we real y going to sit here and guess?"

Jacob put the papers down and looked at the fat little man, at his aggrieved expression and smal, hostile eyes. He needed to set some firm boundaries with these people from the begi

"Are we going to run through the investigation," he said, "or are the two of us going to go outside and fight in the yard? I like to fight, by the way.

Golden Gloves in Brooklyn."

Gabriel a gave an audible sigh and muttered something that sounded like "Good god."

The prosecutor didn't reply and remained seated. So Jacob picked up the papers again.

Rolf Hetger had spent 22,590 kronor in the jewelry department – almost $3,000.

"What did he buy?" Sara Hoglund asked.

"We've got people at NK right now," the superintendent said. "We'l know soon."

They moved on to the next sheet and went through the cash withdrawals.

The addresses meant nothing to Jacob.

"Where are these cash machines?"

"In the city center."

Jacob nodded. Thus far the kil ers were fol owing the pattern exactly. That was good news, he believed.

"Some of the machines have camera surveil ance," Gabriel a Oscarsson said. "We've requested the recordings for the times in question."

"What did the cameras in the other cities show?" Mats Duval asked.

Jacob fished out a notebook from his sports bag. He replied without opening the book; he knew the answer by heart.

"A tal man with brown hair, a cap, and sunglasses. He's wearing a dark, medium-length coat, and light shoes."

"Every time?" the superintendent asked.

"Every time," Jacob said.

They went through the valuables that, according to the victims' families, had probably been stolen from Dalaro.

"The make of camera? What karat ring?" Jacob asked.

"The parents are going to go through old receipts," Gabriel a said, irritated. "They've just lost their kids. Surely some level of sympathy…"

Jacob looked at her and felt his jaw clench.

Silence fel on the room. Final y Sara Hoglund took over.

"How do we proceed from here? Suggestions?"

Jacob swiveled in his chair for a few seconds before replying.

"We have to break their pattern somehow," he said. "We have to provoke them to start making mistakes."

Sara Hoglund raised her eyebrows. "How do we do that?"

"By using the communication cha

Ten pairs of eyes looked skeptical y at him.

"The postcard to the paper Aftonposten, " he said. "The kil ers obviously want to communicate – and now we're going to give them a reply."

Gabriel a Oscarsson lifted her eyes to the ceiling. Mats Duval nodded in encouragement.

"Go on."

Jacob looked at each and every one of the people at the table before answering.

"I've been thinking about this for a while. Get Dessie Larsson to write an 55 open letter to the kil ers and have it published in tomorrow's paper. Have her offer to interview them."

Evert Ridderwal snorted indignantly. "Why on earth would the kil ers respond to something like that?"

Jacob looked steadily at him.

"Because we're going to offer them a hel of a lot of money," he said.

Chapter 39

Sylvia signaled the waiter over with a wel -manicured hand and a smal, delicate wave. She was playing rich girl again today.

"We'd like to look at the wine list again," she said, then giggled and leaned against the shoulder of the beautiful Dutch woman sitting next to her.

"It feels so naughty, doesn't it, drinking wine at lunchtime?"

The Dutch woman cackled and nodded. "Very good wine, too."

They were sitting in Bistro Berns, a high-class French restaurant with a rather vaudevil ian atmosphere, situated by the Berzeli Park in the middle of town.

Sylvia and the Dutch woman had eaten chevre chaud with a beetroot and walnut salad, and the men had each had boeuf bourguignon, and now they were ready for another bottle of red, the good stuff.

"I think the financial crisis wil lead to the sort of clear-out that the capital markets real y need today," the Dutchman said, looking important.

He was terribly keen to impress Mac, and Mac was playing along and pretending to be interested in his every pronouncement. Mac kept getting better with each new couple they met.

"That's the positive scenario," Mac said. "On the other hand, maybe we ought to learn from history. Financial worries at the turn of the last century didn't break until after the First World War."

"God, you're both soooooooo boring," Sylvia groaned, waving the waiter over again. "Wel, I'm going to have a sinful y rich dessert. Anyone joining me?"

The Dutch woman ordered a creme brulee, and the men asked for coffee.

"Have you heard what happened here?" Sylvia asked, pouring more wine into their glasses. "Two tourists were murdered on some island."

The Dutch woman's brown eyes opened wide. She was absolutely gorgeous, this one.

"Is that true?" she said in horror. "Was it in the papers?"