The Postcard Killers

    Sylvia stood up and went over to the window of the hotel room. She stretched her slender arms above her head and yawned loudly, well aware that she was fully visible in all her nakedness. “Look at me,” she whispered. “Here I am. Catch me!”

    On the other side of the street was a building constructed in the Swedish National Romantic style, with towers and a copper roof, its grille-covered windows glittering in the morning sun. It was Stockholm’s municipal courthouse, the place where clumsy criminals were taken to atone for their pathetic misdemeanors. She stood on tiptoe. Behind the courthouse was a creamy yellow palatial building with pinnacles and a bell tower and decorative balustrades: Stockholm’s police headquarters, where funny little officers were tearing their hair out in despair and thinking up lies to get them to give themselves away.

    “Sylvia,” Mac said, “this is actually worth considering. She’s promising complete anonymity, that she will never reveal her sources. And we could really use the money. Look, there’s a phone number for us to call.”

    She let her eyes roam across the gray-brown facade of the courthouse.

    “That’s not a bad idea,” she said, turning to Mac. “But why stop at a hundred thousand dollars?”

    “Do you think she’d pay more?”

    Sylvia smiled.

    “Have you got that card the Dutchman gave you?”

    Mac blinked his long eyelashes.

    “Why?”

   She went over to the bed, got on all fours, and snaked her way slowly over to Mac. She bit him gently on the earlobe and breathed into his neck. Then she slid down onto him, warm and wet. “First things first, sweetheart.”

Chapter 45

    THE BRASS DOORBELL GAVE A brittle little ring that fitted its setting perfectly.

    Dessie stepped into the gallery on Цsterlеnggatan in the Old Town, holding her breath.

    “Hello?” she called cautiously.

    She always felt so grubby when she came here. The floor, ceiling, and walls were all painted pristine white. Even the patrons’ restroom and the staircase to the offices above were entirely white. She knew the reason why. She’d been told it was to “trap the light” and “do justice to the art.”

    “Christer? Are you here?”

    She felt as though the illusion of purity would shatter if she called out too loudly.

    “Hi, Dessie,” said a surprised voice behind her. “What brings you here?”

    Dessie spun around. She hadn’t heard him come in.

    Christer, her ex-husband, was dressed as he always was: black polo sweater, black gabardine trousers, and soundless moccasins. He looked like a caricature of a gallery owner.

    “Sorry to intrude,” she said with a slightly strained smile. “I need your help.”

    They had been married for four years. The marriage had given Christer a wife he said he loved, and Dessie had been given a context to belong to. Parties to go to, people to talk to. Christer could be charming, but she had never been able to talk to him.

    He looked at her in astonishment.

    “Okay, what do you need help with?”

    She felt her palms sweating. Maybe this was crazy. Maybe her idea was completely mad. But she was excited about solving these murders. She felt passionate about it.

    “It’s a bit complicated,” she said. “It’s just an idea I had…”

    She took a deep breath. She was here now, after all. “It’s about a particular painting,” she said. “I need your help identifying a painting.”

Chapter 46

    CHRISTER HELD UP HIS HANDS in a gesture of curiosity.

    “What painting? Have you got a picture of it?”

    Dessie hesitated.

    “No,” she said, “not exactly. I can describe it. There’s a woman sitting with a cushion on her lap, and there’s a man lying on her lap with his head on the cushion.”

    Christer looked none the wiser.

    She put her knapsack and bike helmet on the floor. Then she sat down next to them.

    “A woman,” she said, “sitting like this.”

    Then she lay down on the floor. “And a man, lying like this.”

    She pulled one leg up, spread the fingers of one hand, and stretched the other hand out.

    Christer blinked several times.

    “Dessie,” he said, “what are you doing? What’s this all about? Surely you’re not decorating.”

    Dessie sat up. She had the photocopy of the dead couple from Dalarц in her knapsack. She didn’t want to show it to Christer. He was so sensitive about blood. He used to think it was unpleasant even when she had her period.

    “A picture,” she said. “I’m after a picture or a painting with people in the positions I just showed you.”

    He looked thoughtfully at her.

    She lay down again, stretching her right hand across the floor.

    “Like this,” she said. “The man’s holding something in his right hand.”

    “Dessie,” he said quietly, “why are you here?”

    Dessie felt her cheeks starting to burn. He thought the painting was a pretext.

    She jerked her neck, stood up, opened the knapsack, and pulled out the photocopy.

    “Maybe you should sit down,” she said.

    He took a step toward her.

    “Just say it,” he said. “Tell me why you’ve come to see me. It’s not about art, Dessie.”

    Dessie showed him the photocopy. She saw his eyes open wide and his face go as white as the walls.

    She caught him before he fell.