The Postcard Killers (6 page)

“Did you see the picture?” he asked. “What did it show? Were there any particular characteristics? Anything that could identify the crime scene?”

Dessie looked carefully at the man in front of her. He looked even worse in daylight than he had in the gloom of the stairwell. His hair was a mess and his clothes were dirty. But his blue eyes were burning with an intensity that brought his whole face alive. She liked something about him — maybe the intensity. Probably that.

“Just a Polaroid picture, nothing else.”

She looked away as she passed him a copy of the picture. Jacob Kanon took it with both hands and stared at the bodies.

Dessie was trying to look calm and unaffected. Violence didn’t usually bother her, but this was different.

The victims were so young, their deaths so cold and calculated, so inhuman.

“Scandinavian setting,” the policeman stated. “Pale furniture, pale background, blond people. Did they take the envelope away?”

Dessie swallowed.

“Forensics? Of course they did.”

“Have you got a copy?”

Dessie handed him a photocopy of the ordinary oblong envelope. The address was written in neat capital letters across the front.

DESSIE LARSSON
AFTONPOSTEN
115 10 STOCKHOLM

She looked uncomfortably at her own name.

“They won’t find anything on it,” Jacob Kanon said. “These killers leave no fingerprints, and they don’t lick the stamps. Was there anything on the back?”

She shook her head.

He held up the picture of the bodies.

“Can I have a copy of this?”

“I’ll print a new one for you,” Dessie said, clicking the command through her computer and pointing at a printer some distance away. “I’m going to get a coffee,” she said, getting up. “Do you want one?”

“I thought I’d lost my chance,” Jacob Kanon replied, heading off toward the printer to get the picture.

Dessie went over to the coffee machine with a gathering feeling of unreality. She pressed for coffee with milk for herself, and black, extra strong for the American. He looked like he needed it.

“They have to make a mistake sometime,” Jacob said as he took the coffee. “Sooner or later they’ll get lazy, or overconfident, or just unlucky. That moment can’t be far off now. That’s what I’m thinking.”

Dessie pushed the terrible coffee away from her and fixed her gaze on the American.

“I’ve got a lot of questions,” she said, “but this one will do for a start: Why me? Why did they pick me? You seem to have a lot of answers. Do you know why?”

At that moment her cell phone began to vibrate. She looked at the display.

Gabriella calling.

“It’s one of the police team,” she said.

“One of the team on this case? Answer it, then!”

She took the call and turned her chair so she had her back to Jacob Kanon.

“We think we’ve found the victims,” Gabriella said. “A German couple out on Dalarö. It’s a real mess.”

Chapter 19

DESSIE TOOK A DEEP BREATH.

“Who found them?” she asked in Swedish.

Jacob Kanon walked around her desk so that he was in front of her again.

“The cleaner,” Gabriella said through the phone. “We’ve got a local patrol out there now.”

“Have they found the victims?” Jacob asked.

Dessie turned away from him again, twisting her body.

“Are you sure it’s the couple in the picture?” she asked.

“They’ve found them, haven’t they?” the American persisted, annoying her.

“Who’s that talking in the background?” Gabriella asked.

“The coroner will find traces of several different substances in the victims’ blood,” Jacob Kanon said loudly, right next to the phone. “Partly THC and alcohol, but also a drug that will be identified as —”

“When did the murders take place?” Dessie asked, putting her finger in her ear to shut out the noisy American.

“I’m worried about you,” Gabriella said. “These killers mean business. I want you to take special care.”

Jacob Kanon grabbed Dessie’s office chair and swung it around so that her knees ended up between his.

“Get the address!”
he said, looking her right in the eyes. “Get the address of the crime scene right now.”

“What’s the address of the crime scene?” Dessie asked, flustered, feeling the warmth from his legs through the thin fabric of her trousers.

“Are you at the paper? Is that the crazy Yank?”

Gabriella’s voice turned shrill and accusing again.

“What’s he doing there? You let him come into the newsroom? Why?”

Dessie avoided the man’s bright blue eyes, feeling her irritation at Gabriella bubbling over. She was very close to shouting at her.

“
The address,
Gaby. This is a newspaper, and these murders are news. We’ll have to send someone out there.”

“What? Since when are
you
a newshound?”

A stubborn streak that should have vanished when she was three years old welled up inside her and made her cheeks burn.

“Would you rather we sent Alexander Andersson? I can arrange for that.”

Gabriella Oscarsson gave her an address out on Dalarö.

“But whatever you do,” she said abruptly, “don’t bring the Yank with you.”

Then she hung up.

Dessie put her cell down. Jacob Kanon let go of her chair and took a step back.

“Where is it? Where’s the crime scene?”

“Forty-five minutes away,” Dessie said, looking at her watch. “South of here, on an island.”

She walked around the desk, hoisted her knapsack onto her back, picked up a pen and notepad, and stopped in front of Jacob Kanon.

“Shall we go?”

Chapter 20

IT HAD STOPPED RAINING, BUT the pavement was still wet. The tires hissed as Dessie steered the Volvo from the newspaper’s auto pool through the puddles outside the paper’s garage. She braked at the main entrance and opened the passenger door for Jacob Kanon.

The stench of him once he shut the door was quite dreadful. This was a big mistake.

“God,” she said, opening the window. “Haven’t you learned to use soap and water in America?”

He fastened his seat belt.

“We’re in good time,” he said. “Almost as quick as the police. That’s a good source you’ve got.”

Dessie switched gears and drove off. She paused for a moment before replying.

“She’s my ex.”

The American sat in silence for a moment.

“Your ex, as in…”

“Girlfriend, yes,” Dessie said, concentrating on the thin traffic.

Why was it so hard to talk about it? It was 2010.

She put her foot down to avoid having to stop at a red light. She peered up at the sky to see if the clouds were showing any sign of breaking up, which they weren’t. She turned on the car radio and found
Gentle Favorites
. She tried to sing along but didn’t know half the words.

“What about you?” she asked, to put an end to the silence. “Have you got a girl?”

“Not anymore,” he said, looking out through the windshield.

“If you tried showering occasionally, maybe she would have stayed.”

“She was murdered. In Rome.”

Shit, shit, shit, what an idiot she was.

“Sorry,” she said, staring straight ahead now.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, looking at her. “Kimmy was my family. It was just her and me.”

So, what happened to the mother? Dessie thought, but she decided to keep her mouth shut this time.

They headed south along Route 73 in silence, passing the Tyresö road and the vast suburb of Brandbergen. The American leaned forward to study the huge, ugly concrete buildings.

She peered intently at the road signs and found the exit for Jordbro. The motorway vanished, replaced by a minor road, the 227.

Not far now.

She felt her pulse rise. She had been to a lot of crime scenes. She was used to broken patio doors and overturned drawers, but she had never been to the site of any murder, let alone a really bad one.

“When we get there,” Dessie said, “what can we expect to find?”

Jacob Kanon looked at her, his eyes sparkling.

“Blood,” he said. “Even small amounts of blood look huge when they’re spread across furniture and floors. You know the stain on the wall when you squash a mosquito? We’re talking about large amounts here.”

Dessie clutched the wheel harder and took the hard right toward Björnö.

Chapter 21

THE MURDER HOUSE WAS ON the shore by the sound, facing the island of Edesö. Dessie didn’t want to be here.

It was small, ordinary, yellow, with carved detailing on the veranda and a little hexagonal tower topped by a pennant. A white picket fence with a gate lined the road. Freshly green birches framed the house, marsh marigolds edging the gravel drive up to the door.

A policeman was busy cordoning off the site with blue-and-white tape down by the shore.

A second officer was talking into his cell phone by the corner of the house.

Dessie stopped by the fence. She held up her compact digital camera and took a few pictures of the house.

Jacob Kanon pushed past her, opened the gate, and snuck under the plastic cordon.

“Hang on,” Dessie said, stuffing the camera in her pocket. “You can’t just —”

“You there!” called the policeman who was tying the cordon around a rowan tree down by the shore. “You can’t come in here, it’s closed to the public.”

Jacob Kanon held up his police badge as he sped up, heading straight for the house.

Dessie was half running behind him on trembling legs. “Jacob — stop!” she called.

“New York Police Department,” Jacob called back. “They want to talk to me about the investigation. It’s all set.”

The policeman with the cell stared at them but kept hold of his phone.

“Jacob,” Dessie said, “I don’t know if —”

The American kept going and climbed up onto the veranda. He took a quick look around and kicked off his shoes.

The outer door was wide open. Jacob stopped at the threshold. Dessie caught up with him and instinctively put her free hand up to cover her nose and mouth.

“Bloody hell,” she said. “What’s that smell?”

Chapter 22

TO THEIR RIGHT WAS A half-open door that seemed to lead to a small kitchen. Ahead and to the left they could see people moving, the floor tiles creaking as they walked about.

“Hello,”
Jacob called out. “My name’s Jacob Kanon and I’m an American homicide officer with information about this case. I only speak English. I’m now entering the crime scene.”

Dessie fumbled her way out of her shoes, still covering her nose and mouth, desperately trying not to retch. She saw Jacob pull on a pair of thin gloves that he took out of his jacket pocket and then open the door in front of them.

From her position behind his back she saw Mats Duvall, the superintendent who had questioned her on Friday, turn around and stare at them. He was wearing a light gray suit with a mauve shirt and bright red tie, and he had blue coverings on his shoes. He was holding his electronic notepad in his hand.

Gabriella was standing by the window, writing something on her own pad. Outside in the sound a yacht glided by.

“What the hell?” Gabriella said, taking a couple of quick steps toward them.

Jacob held up his badge.

“I’m not here to sabotage things,” he said quickly. “I’ve got important information that will help your investigation. I know more about these killers than anyone else does.”

He stepped to one side to let Dessie into the living room. She stopped beside him and caught sight of the sofa.
My god, dear god.

The bloody bodies were still sitting and looked frozen in their peculiar pose.

The blood covering their bodies was dark, almost black. It had run onto the floor, down into the cracks in the wood, to be sucked up by a colorful rug. The woman’s light blond hair hanging down across her breasts was stiff with blood.

The man was lying in her lap, half on the floor, just like in the photograph. The opening in his throat was like a gaping gill, Dessie thought. The wound to his windpipe had been so violent that his head had almost come away from his body.

Dessie felt her blood pressure sink into her toes and grabbed at Jacob to stop herself from falling.

“So you’re Jacob Kanon,” Mats Duvall said, looking the American up and down. “I’ve heard about you.”

He didn’t sound aggressive, just curious.

“You’ll find at least one empty champagne bottle somewhere in here,” Jacob said, “probably Moët and Chandon. Four glasses, and in two of them you’ll find traces of the drug cyclopentolate. It a muscle relaxant used in eye examinations to dilate the pupil.”

Gabriella took a couple of long strides across the room and stopped right next to Jacob Kanon.

“You’re trespassing on a crime scene,” she said and pointed back at the door. “Get out of here!”

“Eyedrops?” Mats Duvall asked.

Jacob looked at the Swedish detectives, ready to fight his side of the ring.

“In the States it’s sold under several different names,” he said. “Ak-Pentolate, Cyclogyl, Cylate, and a couple more. In Canada it’s also known as Minims Cyclopentolate. You can get it here in Europe, too.”

Dessie could feel the room starting to spin. There was a very good chance that she’d throw up. That was pretty much all she was thinking about now.

“So the killers drug their victims?” Mats Duvall said, stepping over and putting his hand on Gabriella’s shoulder. “With eyedrops in the champagne?”

Gabriella cast a furious glance at Dessie and moved even closer to Jacob Kanon.

“And cut their throats once they’re unconscious,” he said. “The killer is right-handed and uses a small, sharp implement. He does it from behind, sticking the knife right into the left jugular vein, then cutting deeply through the sinews and windpipe.”

He mimed the act with his arms as he spoke. He’d obviously done it before.

Dessie realized that all the colors and sounds were starting to fade away.