The Postcard Killers

    Prosecutor Ridderwall leaned forward across the table.

    “The preliminary autopsy results haven’t been able to pinpoint the exact time of death,” he said. “Are we really going to sit here and guess?”

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

    “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.”

    Gabriella 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 Hцglund asked.

    “We’ve got people at NK right now,” the superintendent said. “We’ll 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 killers were following the pattern exactly. That was good news, he believed.

    “Some of the machines have camera surveillance,” Gabriella Oscarsson said. “We’ve requested the recordings for the times in question.”

    “What did the cameras in the other cities show?” Mats Duvall asked. Jacob fished out a notebook from his sports bag. He replied without opening the book; he knew the answer by heart.

    “A tall 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 Dalarц.

    “The make of camera? What karat ring?” Jacob asked.

    “The parents are going to go through old receipts,” Gabriella said, irritated. “They’ve just lost their kids. Surely some level of sympathy…”

    Jacob looked at her and felt his jaw clench.

    Silence fell on the room. Finally Sara Hцglund 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 Hцglund raised her eyebrows. “How do we do that?”

    “By using the communication channel they’ve already opened,” Jacob said.

    Ten pairs of eyes looked skeptically at him.

    “The postcard to the paper Aftonposten, ” he said. “The killers obviously want to communicate - and now we’re going to give them a reply.”

    Gabriella Oscarsson lifted her eyes to the ceiling. Mats Duvall 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 open letter to the killers and have it published in tomorrow’s paper. Have her offer to interview them.”

    Evert Ridderwall snorted indignantly. “Why on earth would the killers respond to something like that?”

    Jacob looked steadily at him.

    “Because we’re going to offer them a hell of a lot of money,” he said.

Chapter 39

    SYLVIA SIGNALED THE WAITER OVER with a well-manicured hand and a small, 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 vaudevillian atmosphere, situated by the Berzelii Park in the middle of town.

    Sylvia and the Dutch woman had eaten chиvre 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 will lead to the sort of clear-out that the capital markets really 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. “Well, I’m going to have a sinfully rich dessert. Anyone joining me?”

    The Dutch woman ordered a crиme brыlйe, 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?”

    Sylvia shrugged.