The Postcard Killers (10 page)

“Detective Kanon from New York City,” she said. “What district?”

“Thirty-second,” Jacob replied.

Her eyes lit up in recognition.

“Harlem,” she said.

He nodded. The police chief knew her NYPD.

She turned to Mats Duvall.

“We need all the help we can get on this case,” she said. “Formalize Mr. Kanon’s status with Interpol. These bastards have to be stopped.”

Jacob clenched his fists in triumph.

He was on board, and his intuition had been correct — something was going to break here in Stockholm. He hoped it wasn’t him.

Chapter 38

WASHINGTON CONFIRMED JACOB’S STATUS AND Berlin verified that he had been linked to them in their investigation into the German case, and a couple of phone calls later, he was formally accepted as part of the group, albeit on strictly limited terms.

“You’ve got no mandate to make your own decisions on police business,” Mats Duvall clarified. “You can’t be armed, so I must ask you to hand over your sidearm. And you have to be accompanied at all times by a Swedish colleague.”

Jacob looked at him steadily.

“I haven’t got my sidearm with me. You’ll get it, though,” he said. “Who am I going to be working with?”

Mats Duvall looked at everyone.

“Gabriella, you’ve been on the case from the start?”

Gabriella Oscarsson tightened her lips until they formed a harsh line.

“Good,” the superintendent said, distributing sheaves of photocopies around the table.

The atmosphere in the room was tense and uncomfortable. Serious run-throughs of an entire case like this almost always contained elements of hierarchical squabbling, and Jacob realized that his actions hadn’t made things easier.

Mats Duvall cleared his throat and continued going through the victims’ credit-card transactions. He spoke in English for Jacob’s benefit. None of the others objected, but they couldn’t have liked it.

The last purchase had been made in the NK department store around lunchtime on Saturday. Claudia Schmidt had been shopping at the perfume counter, and Rolf Hetger in the jewelry department.

After that, there was a gap of a few hours before the cash withdrawals began.

Jacob studied the printout. It was in Swedish, but the times and amounts were clear enough. And it was the same damn pattern as in the other cities.

In fewer than six hours, the killers had managed to trick their victims out of their bank cards, drug them, kill them, steal their possessions and rental car, drive off in the vehicle, and start emptying their bank accounts.

“The Germans died between the perfume counter and the cash withdrawals,” he clarified.

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 Höglund 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 Dalarö.

“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 Höglund 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 Höglund 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
chèvre 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 crème brûlée, 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.

“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 brûlée. “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 Strömmen 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 Västerlånggatan, 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.

“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… from
Legends 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.”