The Postcard Killers

    Jacob ate some bread. He didn’t wolf down his food like some men she knew.

    “What’s the name of the town you grew up in?”

    “I come from a farm in the forests of dalen,” she said. “That’s part of Norrland, where the military were called in to shoot workers as recently as the nineteen thirties.”

    The American looked at her stonily.

    “I’m sure they must have had a good reason,” he said.

    Dessie’s mozzarella caught in her throat. “What did you say?”

    “The military don’t usually shoot their fellow citizens for no reason,”

    Jacob said.

    Dessie couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

    “Are you defending state-sanctioned murder?”

    Jacob stared at her, simultaneously concentrating on the chewy ciabatta.

    “Okay,” he said. “Wrong topic of conversation. Let’s move on.”

    Dessie put her cutlery down. “Do you think it’s okay to shoot people for demonstrating against their wages being cut?”

    Jacob held up both hands in a disarming gesture.

    “Shit, I didn’t know you were a communist.”

    And I didn’t know you were a fascist,” Dessie said, picking up her knife and fork again.

Chapter 58

    DESSIE HONESTLY DIDN’T KNOW WHAT to make of Jacob Kanon. He was an entirely new species to her, both shut off and extremely demonstrative at the same time. The way he moved seemed a bit clumsy and uncomfortable, as if he weren’t quite house-trained.

    “Tell me more about your uncles.”

    Dessie pushed aside the plate of cannelloni.

    “Two of them drank themselves to death,” she said. “Uncle Ruben was beaten to death outside the church in Piteе the night before May Day three years ago. He had just been released from a stretch in Porsцn, in Luleе.”

    She said it to shock him, but Jacob just seemed amused.

    “Were they often inside?”

    “Mostly short sentences. They only managed one big thing in the whole of their miserable careers: raiding a security van where they discovered considerably more money than they’d been expecting.”

    The waiter came over to ask if they wanted dessert.

    They both said no.

    “Were they convicted?” Jacob asked. “For the security van job?”

    “Of course,” Dessie said, grabbing the bill. “Although some of the takings were never found.”

    “Let me get that,” Jacob said.

    “Stop being so macho,” Dessie said, taking out her Amex card. “This is Sweden. Men stopped paying for dates in the sixties.” She motioned the waiter over and handed him her card.

    The American poured the last of the wine into their glasses with a grin.

    “So this is a date, is it?” he asked, his eyes twinkling. “That’s interesting.”

    Dessie looked at him in surprise.

    “This? A date? Of course it isn’t.”

    “You said it was. You said this was a date. ‘Men stopped paying for -’”

    Dessie shuddered.

    “That was a figure of speech. This isn’t a date. This will never be a date.”

    She signed the credit-card slip and said, “Let’s go. It’s late.”

    They stepped out into a light blue evening that would soon be night.

    “Where are you staying?” Dessie asked as they walked toward the entrance of police headquarters on Polhemsgatan.

    “Lеngholmen,” he said. “A youth hostel, actually.”

    “It used to be a prison,” Dessie said.

    “Thanks for the reminder,” Jacob said. “I know.”

    She got her bicycle, and with Jacob walking alongside, she started slowly cycling home through the Stockholm night. A low mist hung over the waters of Riddarfjдrden, thin veils sweeping in and hiding the sounds of the city: the cars, the drunken shouting, the music coming from open windows. He kept her company all the way to her door.

    She looked up at him and he was no more than a silhouette against the moon.

    “See you tomorrow,” he said, raising a hand in farewell as he disappeared down toward Gцtgatan.

Chapter 59

Wednesday, June 16

    THE LETTER ARRIVED WITH THE first delivery of the morning. Dessie recognized immediately both the envelope and the writing on it. This time it hadn’t been preceded by a warning postcard. She opened it with her letter knife, wearing gloves on her trembling hands. She was in the presence of the police forensics team and they made her jumpy.

    The envelope contained a Polaroid picture, just as the last one had.

    “I’ll take care of that,” said one of the officers, grabbing the picture from her.

    She had time to register the bodies and the blood.

    She went over to her desk and sank down in the chair. An intense feeling of uneasiness started to spread from her stomach out to her limbs. “Oh, dear god, dear god,” she muttered softly.

    The text she’d written for the paper had evidently worked. The killers had broken their pattern. They had carried out more murders in Stockholm insteadof moving on to the next city.

    The realization made it hard to breathe.

    She had caused the deaths of two more innocent people. How could she live with herself after this?

    Forsberg, the news editor, red-eyed with lack of sleep, sat down on a chair beside her.

    “Feeling rough?” he asked.

    She looked at him without replying.

    “Maybe you should take the day off? Get some rest? You really ought to go home.”