The Postcard Killers

    “What made you think the fair-haired man was American?” the superintendent asked.

    Olga fingered one of her earrings.

    “He spoke American,” she said.

    “Are you sure of that?”

    She blushed deeper.

    “He sounded… he looked… like that nice actor with long hair… fromLegends of the Fall.”

    Mats Duvall looked confused.

    “Brad Pitt,” Jacob said.

    The superintendent cast a surprised glance in Jacob’s direction.

    “What happened at the store? Tell us everything. Please.”

    “They looked at watches. The German was thinking of buying a Swatch at first, but the American persuaded him to buy a different one. So that’s what he did.”

    Over 22,000 kronor for an impulse buy, Jacob thought. The killer was very persuasive.

    “Did Rolf Hetger sign for it or use his PIN?”

    Olga breathed deeply for a few seconds.

    “He used his code.”

    “And where was the American while this was going on? The purchase transaction.”

    “He was standing right next to him.”

    “Do you think you’d recognize the American if you saw him again?”

    She hesitated, then nodded.

    “Why’s that?” Mats Duvall asked.

    Olga looked at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

    “You must have hundreds of customers every day. How come you remember these two in particular?”

    “Not hundreds,” she said and seemed slightly annoyed, “and not many of them buy expensive Omegas.”

    She looked down and Jacob could tell that she was lying. Olga remembered the men because they were young, wealthy, handsome, and had flirted with her.

    He knotted his hands. This was what he’d been waiting for: a mistake. They’d been sloppy and had made themselves visible. They had finally left a trail. Now could he follow it?

    “Have you got the equipment to do electronic composite pictures?” he asked.

    “Two floors down,” Mats Duvall replied. “We can do anything you can do in America.”

    They ended the session.

Chapter 42

    A POLICE INSPECTOR TOOK THE woman to the expert whose computer was full of noses, eyes, and hairlines.

    “That went pretty well,” Mats Duvall said as they walked back toward his office. “A breakthrough, really. A victory for street-level policing.”

    “Partly,” Jacob said. “Olga wasn’t being completely honest with us.”

    Mats Duvall raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

    “She isn’t Latvian. I know Latvians from my old neighborhood,” Jacob said. “I think she’s from farther east, Russia or Ukraine, which means she’s here on a false passport. And she isn’t forty. She’s more like fifty. I’d find a way to hold her, question her more. She knows something she isn’t telling us.”

    The superintendent sat down behind his desk and switched on his computer.

    “We don’t just hold people as we like in this country, and certainly not on the basis of vague suppositions about false passports.”

    “It’s not because of the passport,” Jacob said, making an effort not to shout. “We’ve scared the hell out of her. Didn’t you see that? She’ll disappear as soon as she gets the chance.”

    Mats Duvall typed something on his computer and didn’t reply. Jacob took a couple of long strides toward the superintendent’s desk and leaned over the screen.

    “This is the first time anyone’s seen the killer and remembered him so clearly,” he said. “If she disappears, then so do our chances of identifying him.”

    Mats Duvall looked at his watch.

    “Time to head off to Aftonposten again,” he said.

Chapter 43

    DESSIE COULDN’T BELIEVE HER EARS.

    “You can’t be serious,” she said. “I can’t do that. The paper can’t do it.”

    She was sitting at the table in the conference room behind the sports desk. She was there with the editor in chief, Stenwall, Forsberg, the news editor, Jacob Kanon, Gabriella, and Mats Duvall.

    “This doesn’t have to be a unanimous decision,” Robert Stenwall said.

    “The editorial team is agreed, so the matter’s set. We’re publishing a letter to the killers tomorrow. We all feel the letter should come from you. You’re the one they chose to contact, after all.”

    Dessie stood up at the table. She was beside herself.

    “Offer money to those bastards? Can’t you see how unethical that is?”

    “We believe this is a good way of getting them to communicate,” Mats Duvall said. “The murderers want mass-media coverage. Otherwise, they wouldn’t send those letters and postcards.”

    Dessie looked at their faces. They were closed, their eyes turned away. They had already made their decision, she realized, without even consulting her.

    “It isn’t the media’s job to do the work of the police like this,” she said.

    “We’re supposed to report murders, not solve them.”

    “We see this as a chance to do both at the same time,” the editor in chief said in a rather strained voice. “People are dying, Dessie.”

    She crossed her arms over her chest.

    “Then I think you should sign the letter,” she said. “Why should I have to put my name to it?”

    Forsberg twisted uncomfortably in his chair. He didn’t like disagreements.

    “They chose you,” Mats Duvall said. “It won’t have anything like the same impact if someone else does it.”

    She stared at the floor.