The Postcard Killers

    “I can’t understand what the papers say. It was a girl in the hotel who told us. Isn’t that right, Mac, that two tourists were murdered on an island near here?”

    Mac nodded. “Yes, that’s right. Two Germans. An awful business, apparently. Their throats had been cut.”

    Now Mr. Dutch Boyfriend’s eyes opened wide as well.

    “Their throats were cut?” he said. “We had a case like that in Holland actually. In Amsterdam, not all that long ago. That’s right, isn’t it, Nienke?”

    “Is it?” the Dutch woman said, licking dessert off her spoon. “When was that, then?”

    “They’re being called the Postcard Killers,” Mac said. “They’ve sent a postcard to some newspaper here.”

    “That’s sick,” the Dutch woman said, scraping her bowl for the last remnants of the brыlйe. “Where did you get that blouse?”

    This directed at Sylvia. The murdered Germans were already gone from the Dutch woman’s pretty little blond head.

    “Emporio Armani,” Sylvia said. “There’s a great boutique, fabulous. It’s just around the corner from here, on Biblioteksgatan.”

    She stood up, walked around the table, and settled down on Mac’s lap.

    “Darling,” she cooed, “it’s such a lovely day. I’d really love a souvenir, something to remember it by…”

    “No,” Mac said, standing up quickly.

    Sylvia almost fell on the floor.

    “What?” she said, laughing, as Mr. Dutch Boyfriend stood up and helped steady her. “Do you think it would be too expensive?”

    “No, Sylvia,” he said. “Not now. Not today.” His lips curled in irritation. Sylvia laughed and wound her arm around the Dutchman’s shoulder.

    “Ooh,” she said, “what a killjoy he is. I think you’re much more fun.”

    She stretched up on tiptoe and kissed him full on the lips.

    “We’ve got to go now, Sylvia,” Mac said, taking hold of her other arm.

Chapter 40

    “HANG ON,” THE DUTCHMAN SAID, handing Mac his card. “Get in touch if you fancy going out for a meal one evening. We’d enjoy it.”

    “Sure, we’ll do that!” Sylvia called as Mac pulled her out of the restaurant.

    When they were out of sight, Sylvia pulled herself free of his grip.

    “I presume you have a good explanation,” she said, stroking his arm. Mac didn’t answer at first. Then he said, “Why did you bring up the murders? We don’t make mistakes like that.”

    “It wasn’t a mistake. The city is too hot now. We couldn’t kill them. Though, Christ, I wanted to. I wanted to cut them both.”

    The Berzelii Park was crawling with people with ice creams and bicycles and buggies.

    Sylvia sidled closer to Mac and kissed his neck. “Are you angry with me?” she whispered. “How can I make it up to you?”

    “We’ve got some work to do,” he said tersely. “We still have to get out of Stockholm.”

    She sighed theatrically but took hold of his hand, sucking his finger and then kissing him on the lips.

    “I’m your slave,” she whispered. “I just don’t want to end up in prison. I couldn’t bear to be without you, Mac.”

    They walked across the bridge over Strцmmen back to the Old Town. Sylvia had both her arms around Mac’s waist, which made it hard to walk as she stumbled along the edge of the quay.

    Finally Mac cheered up and put his arm around her shoulders. “You’re forgiven.”

    They walked to the 7-Eleven on Vдsterlеnggatan, tucked in among all the medieval buildings, and Sylvia bought the day’s papers while Mac got half an hour on the Internet.

    “Is there anything about Oslo?” Sylvia asked.

    Mac tapped quickly on the keyboard.

    “Nope,” he said.

    Sylvia turned to pages 6 and 7 of Aftonposten, recognizing the house in the picture.

    “You know something?” she said. “We left the Dutch couple with the bill.”

    Mac laughed. Then he logged in and set to work.

Chapter 41

    THE SHOP ASSISTANT AT NK was a forty-year-old woman from Riga named Olga. She had bleached-blond hair and big earrings, held a goldsmith’s diploma, and was fluent in five languages. Swedish wasn’t one of them. She had gotten the job in the jewelry section of the department store during the tourist season to take care of foreign customers.

    Two days before, she had sold an Omega watch, a Double Eagle Chronometer in steel and gold with a mother-of-pearl case, to the murdered German tourist Rolf Hetger.

    Now she was sitting in the interrogation room on the fourth floor of Stockholm’s police headquarters, clearly ill at ease. Jacob studied the woman from his position by the wall. She looked considerably older than her forty years. The question was, Why was she so nervous?

    “Can you tell us about your encounter with Rolf Hetger?” Mats Duvall asked.

    The Latvian licked her lips.

    “He wanted to look at a watch. That’s pretty much it,” she said. “There was another man with him. They spoke English to each other. They were both very stylish.”

    She blushed.

    “Can you describe the other man’s appearance for me? Please.”

    “The American? He was blond and really fair. He looked like a film star. He was very charming. Humorous, attentive.”

    She looked down at the table.

    Jacob felt his muscles tense: the killer was a flirtatious American? Of course he was.