The Postcard Killers

He’s going to pull out a big butcher’s knife and cut my throat.And I never did find out who my father was.

    The man held a small disk toward her, a blue-and-yellow badge with the letters NYPD on it.

    “My name’s Jacob Kanon,” he said in English. “I’m sorry I scared you. I’m on the homicide unit in the Thirty-second Precinct of Manhattan, in New York City.”

    She looked at the disk. Was that supposed to be an American policebadge? She had seen them on television only. This one looked like it could easily have been bought in a toyshop.

    “Do you speak English? Do you understand anything I’m saying?”

    She nodded and looked up at the man. He was hardly any taller than she was, with broad shoulders and strong biceps, and he was blocking her escape route down the stairs.

    He had a powerful presence but appeared to have lost weight recently. His jeans had slid down and were hanging on his narrow hips. His suede jacket was good quality but badly creased, as though he’d been sleeping in it.

    “It’s really important that you listen to what I’ve got to say,” he said.

    She looked carefully at his eyes, which were bright blue and sparkling. Quite the opposite of everything else about him.

    “They’re here, and they’re going to kill again,” he said.

Chapter 8

    JACOB FELT THE ADRENALINE PULLING like barbed wire through his veins.

    He had never been so quick out of the gate before, only a day or so behind them: before the murders took place, before the pictures of the bodies, before their flight to yet another city.

    “I have to find a way into the investigation,” he said. “At once, right fucking now.”

    The reporter stumbled a little and steadied herself against the wall behind her. Her eyes were wide and watchful. He’d frightened her badly. He hadn’t meant to.

    “If I’m the killers’ contact,” she said, “who’s yours?”

    Her voice was dark, a little hoarse. Her English was perfect but spoken with a strange accent. He looked at her in silence for a few moments.

    “Who interviewed you?” Jacob asked. “What’s his name, what unit’s he on? Is there a prosecutor involved yet? What safety measures have been taken?

Someone’s going to die here in Stockholm. ”

    The woman backed away another few steps.

    “How did you know I received the card?” she asked. “How did you know where I live?”

    He looked at her carefully. There was no reason to lie.

    “Berlin,” he said. “The German police. It was the deutsche Polizei who told me another postcard had turned up, sent to a Dessie Larsson at Aftonposten in Stockholm, Sweden. I came at once. I’ve just gotten in from the airport.”

    “So, what are we doing here? What do you want with me? I can’t help you. I’m nobody.”

    He took a step closer to her, she took a step to one side. He checked himself.

    “They have to be stopped,” he said. “This is the best chance yet… They picked you. So now you’re somebody.”

Chapter 9

    “I’VE BEEN FOLLOWING THESE BUTCHERS since the murders in Rome last Christmas,” he said.

    Suddenly he turned away and looked out through the leaded glass farther down the stairs. The fading sunlight was making red, green, and dark blue spots dance on the marble steps.

    He closed his eyes and put his hand over them, the colors burning into his brain.

    “Sometimes I think I’m right behind them. Sometimes they slip past me, close to me, so close I can almost feel their breath.”

    “How did you find me? I asked you a question.”

    He looked at the reporter again. She wasn’t like the others. She was younger, about thirty, less high-strung. Plus, all the others had been men -

    apart from the female reporter in Salzburg whom he hadn’t managed to make contact with yet.

    “I got your address from directory inquiries. The taxi driver dropped me off at the door. Like I said, I’m a detective.”

    He knotted his hands in frustration.

    “You have to understand how important this is. How far have the police gotten? Have they made contact with the Germans? Tell them they have to talkto Berlin, the best inspector there is called Gьnther Bublitz. He’s a decent man. He cares.”

    The woman lowered her head, peering at him from beneath her hair. Her fear seemed to have subsided, and her gaze was steady and calm now. She was impressive in her way.

    “This is my home,” she said. “If you want to discuss anything about the postcard or the killers or the police operation, you’ll have to come to my workplace tomorrow.”

    She nodded toward the stairs.

    “I’m sure you’ll find your way, Detective. You can get the address from directory inquiries.”

    He took a step closer to her and she held her breath.

    “I’ve been chasing these bastards for six months,” he said, almost inaudibly. “No one knows more about them than I do.”

    The woman braced herself against the wall, then forced her way past him. She picked up her keys from the floor and clutched them hard in her hand.