The Postcard Killers by James Patterson, Liza Marklund Page B

didn’t give up so easily.
    “I’ve got a writer’s pad in the Old Town,” he slurred at her. “A penthouse…”
    Dessie took a quick step to the side and got on her bike.
    “Thanks for a fantastic evening,” she said, turning her back on him and pedaling off.
    It was so bloody typical. Anyone who was interested in her was a control freak, a self-obsessed idiot, or a single-minded sex maniac.
    She glanced back over her shoulder when she reached the next intersection. Hugo Bergman was standing there swaying where she had left him, fumbling with his mobile phone. He had probably forgotten about her already.
    “Asshole,” she whispered into the wind. “It’s your loss.”
    It was a cool, still evening. The clouds had drifted away and the sky was light even though it was after eleven.
    People were walking along the quayside, talking and laughing. The sidewalk bars were open, offering blankets and halogen heaters to anyone feeling cold.
    She breathed the white summer night into her lungs and cycled slowly past the Royal Palace, crossed the intersection at Slussen, and then stood up on the pedals to climb up Götgatsbacken.
    She carried the bike up the steps to Urvädersgränd, unlocked the door, and parked it in the courtyard.
    She had time to unlock and open the door to her apartment before she noticed the man standing watching her from the shadows.

Chapter 28
    SHE HEARD HERSELF GASP. THAT was starting to become a habit, a very bad one.
    “I’ve done what you said,” Jacob Kanon said, stepping toward her with his arms outstretched.
    She looked at him. He had shaved and washed his hair.
    “H and M,” he explained.
    He was wearing the same jeans, the same jacket, but possibly a new T-shirt. It was hard to tell: it was black, just like the previous one.
    “Fantastic,” Dessie said. “What a transformation.”
    “They sell soap as well,” he went on.
    “I hope you didn’t wear yourself out shopping,” Dessie said. “What do you want?”
    He looked at her with his sparkling eyes.
    “The Swedish police will be making a huge mistake if they don’t listen to me,” he said. “They won’t catch these killers, even if they trip over them. The Germans did nearly everything right and still didn’t catch them.”
    Dessie closed the door to her apartment. She stayed out in the hallway with him. She wasn’t afraid of him anymore, just a bit leery.
    “This type of murder investigation is the worst to try to clear up,” the American went on. “The victims are picked at random, there are no connections between them and the killers, no obvious motives, no shared history going back more than a few hours. And the killers are traveling like ordinary tourists, which means that no one notices their absence, no one cares when they come and go, no one notices if they act strangely…”
    He appeared sad, restrained, and not quite sober, but something in him seemed entirely genuine. He wasn’t putting it on, he wasn’t exaggerating.
    Maybe it was the contrast to Hugo Bergman’s supercilious sense of self-congratulation that made Dessie notice it. And now that she could see what he looked like behind all the grime, he was actually pretty good-looking. And those eyes of his were something.
    Watch yourself, she thought and crossed her arms.
    “What’s this got to do with me?” she asked.
    Jacob held up a small sports bag that she hadn’t seen before.
    “All we’ve got is a pattern,” he said. “I’ve got copies of the pictures of most of the bodies in here, and postcards from almost all of the murders. The killers are communicating through these pictures, but I can’t work out what they’re saying. Can you help me?”
    “I don’t know anything about murder,” she said.
    He laughed, a sad, hollow laugh.
    “Who else can I turn to?”
    Of course. He was here, outside her door, because he had nowhere else to go.
    “Look,” she said, “I’m tired and I have to be up in a couple of hours.”
    The timed