The Postcard Killers (8 page)

“Fantastic,” Dessie said. “What a transformation.”

“They sell soap as well,” 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 will be making a huge mistake if they don’t listen to me,” he said. “They won’t catch these killers, even if they trip over them. The Germans did nearly everything right and still didn’t catch them.”

Dessie closed the door to her apartment. She stayed out in the hallway 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 connections between them and the killers, no obvious motives, no shared history going back more than a few hours. And the killers are traveling like ordinary tourists, which means that no one notices their absence, no one cares when they come and go, no one notices if they act strangely…”

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 self-congratulation that made Dessie notice it. And now that she could see what he looked like behind all the grime, he was actually 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 small sports bag that she hadn’t seen before.

“All 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 all of the murders. The killers 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, hollow 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 stairwell 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 kill 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 stairwell.

“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 killers usually stay only a few days in a place once they’ve already done their killing. They’re probably still here, but they’ll 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’ll 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 pulled 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.

Restless, she threw off the covers, pulled 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 half-finished doctoral thesis.

Who knew if it would ever get finished?

She sighed. She was actually 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 scrolled up and down the text, reading sentences and whole paragraphs at random.

Maybe she could get going on it again, finish it, and finally 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 allowances, be tolerant.

Gabriella 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 still be married to him.

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

Why had she told the American she’d been on a date? Why had she mentioned Bergman’s name? Was it that she wanted Jacob Kanon to know that she dated men as well? Why would she want him to know that?

She put the glass down on the draining board and realized that she was quite hungry. All she had eaten were those damn mashed potatoes!

Chapter 30

THE POET HAD GONE BACK to Finland, leaving Jacob alone in his cell.

There was no space for a chair or table in the narrow room, so he had settled down on the Finn’s abandoned lower bunk. He had put his pistol and the framed photograph of Kimmy on the deeply recessed windowsill. He’d bought the gun in Rome with the help of an old cop friend who had retired to Italy.

He leaned forward and ran his finger along his daughter’s smiling cheek.

This was the picture he had given the press after she died, taken the day she’d been accepted at Juilliard.

Jacob got up, went over to his duffel bag, and opened a bottle of wine. He stood with the bottle in his hand, staring out at the light summer night.

There was a small beach under his window. A few alcohol-fueled youngsters wearing mortarboards were noisily soaking one another without taking their clothes off.

He let his eyes roam over the dark water.

Kimmy didn’t like swimming.

All the other kids on the block loved going down to Brighton Beach, but Kimmy never learned to swim well. Instead she preferred the big forest parks on Staten Island, or up in Westchester or Putnam County, with their teeming wildlife, especially deer.

There was only one thing she loved more than her graceful deer, and that was his aunt Isabelle’s piano. Kimmy would go and play on it after school every afternoon, and every day in the summer. She was gifted, so Jacob paid for lessons with the best teacher available in Brooklyn.

But that afternoon a couple of years ago when she told him she’d applied to Juilliard, the most famous college in the world for music, drama, and dance, he’d felt almost terrified. He’d never heard of anyone from Brooklyn’s Bay Ridge area even getting close to being accepted there. He’d checked: only five percent of all applicants got in.

But Kimmy was special. She specialized in Franz Liszt, one of the most technically demanding composers in the world, and she had chosen his suggestive piano concerto Totentanz no.1 as her audition piece.

He had been so proud that he’d burst into tears when the acceptance letter came — and back in those days, he hardly ever cried. Not like the present.

Kimmy had met Steven on her very first day at Juilliard, a budding classical composer. They got engaged and decided to get married as soon as they graduated.

Steven was a great guy, but Jacob thought they should see something of the world before they settled down.

So he had given them a trip to Rome as a Christmas present.

They were murdered the day before they were due to return to New York.

Jacob took a deep breath and found himself back in the narrow cell at the hostel.

The shrieking kids on the beach had vanished.

He sank onto the lower bunk with Kimmy’s picture in his lap.

He had identified her dead body in the cold room of a mortuary on the outskirts of Rome on New Year’s Day, the first day of what had been the very worst year of his life.

This
year.

He picked up his pistol and put the muzzle in his mouth, just as he had done so many nights before, tasting the powder and metal, taking comfort from the idea that there could be an end to this. One slight movement of his finger and his desperate loss and longing would be over.

But not yet. Not until he found her murderers.

Chapter 31

Monday, June 14

THE PAPER
AFTONPOSTEN
WAS STUCK in a downward sales and readership spiral that was probably hopeless. In an attempt to break it, the management was making increasing use of unusual and risky innovations. Usually they failed.

On other occasions everyone busted their butt to get things moving.

This was one of those days.

Dessie had parked herself at her desk with the first edition that day.

Aftonposten
had filled practically the whole paper with the Dalarö murders.

The front-page headline was “Butchered by the Postcard Killers.” The photo that dominated the paper was a beautiful picture of the two young Germans. Claudia Schmidt and Rolf Hetger were in each other’s arms, laughing happily toward the camera.

Dessie leafed through to the paper’s heavyweight news spread, pages 6 and 7. “Death in the Archipelago” was the dramatic headline.

And the picture editors had chosen one of her shots of the yellow wooden house.

It came out quite well, actually, with the contradiction between the idyllic veranda and the heavily clouded sky.

She ran her eyes over the text. It was written by Susanna Gröning, one of the paper’s star female reporters.

Page 8 had an updated run-through of the killings around Europe, with maps and graphics.

Page 9 was written by Alexander Andersson under the heading “Postcard Killers — Vicious Murderers Killing for Kicks.”

Andersson referred to “anonymous sources close to the investigation” who claimed to have “a clear picture of the killers.”

The Postcard Killers were at least two men, seriously deranged, probably with PTSD, according to the sources. They killed purely for pleasure, and they enjoyed seeing people suffer. The extent of the violence indicated that at least one of the men was very well built and extremely strong. Seeing as the victims were usually well-off tourists, the motive was similar to that of terrorism: the killings were an attack on Western lifestyles.

Dessie read the text twice with growing astonishment, and finally, anger and disgust.

Then she got up and went over to the news desk. The group around Forsberg were laughing loudly at something as she approached.

“Alexander,” she said, holding up page 9. “Where did you get this from?”

The reporter raised an eyebrow and smiled her way.

“Are you after my sources?”

“No need,” Dessie said. “They’re completely
worthless
.”

Alexander Andersson’s smile died and he stood up. Dessie felt all the men looking at her. They expected her to get her ass kicked now, didn’t they?

“This doesn’t make any sense,” she said. “There’s nothing in the investigation to suggest terrorism or killing for kicks. Quite the opposite.”

“And you know that, do you, just because they sent you a postcard?”

Several of the men laughed and waited for more from Andersson. Dessie felt the blood rush to her face.

“This article is completely wrong, I know that much. If you really have got a source, they must be several miles from the center of the investigation.”

Forsberg stood up and took hold of Dessie’s arm. “Come.”

Chapter 32

“COME ON,”
FORSBERG SAID. “LET’S go through what you’re doing today. In the other room.”

Alexander Andersson took a step toward her.

“If you know so bloody much, why aren’t you writing anything?”

She pulled loose from Forsberg and stared daggers at the reporter.

“I know you might have trouble understanding this,” she said, “but my goal in life really isn’t to get a big-picture byline. I could care less.”

She went back to her desk then, followed by Forsberg.

“You’ve got to be careful with Alexander,” she said to the editor. “He’s faking it.”

“Dessie,” Forsberg said, “listen to me. I’ve got a job for you. Have you read Hugo Bergman’s article on public prosecutor workloads?”

Dessie looked at the news editor and blinked.

“The one we published on Friday?”

“It’s caused a real stink,” Forsberg said, handing her a bundle of printouts. “Call Bergman and get an interview, and check with the different regional prosecutors to see how many cases they’ve actually got at the moment. Can you do that?”

Dessie made no move to take the printouts. She could see Hugo Bergman in her mind’s eye, swaying like a tree outside the Opera Cellar, where she’d left him the night before.

“You’re trying to get me off the murders,” she said. “That’s what this is, right?”

The news chief sat on her desk and lowered his voice.

“Dessie,” he said, “there are people asking why you were sent that postcard. They’re wondering what sort of contacts you’ve got with the underworld.”