The Postcard Killers - James Patterson [6]
An old-fashioned tape recorder, the sort that actually used a cassette, was slowly winding on the table in front of her.
“Not the faintest idea,” Dessie said. “I don’t get it at all. No.”
The newsroom was cordoned off. A team of forensics officers had taken the postcard, photographed it, and sent it off for analysis. After that, they had laid siege to the mail room.
Dessie didn’t understand what they were expecting to find there, but they had a whole arsenal of equipment with them.
“Have you written any articles about this? Have you reported on any of the other murders around Europe?”
She shook her head.
The superintendent looked at her coolly.
“Can I ask you to reply verbally so that your response gets picked up on the tape?”
Dessie sat up in her chair and cleared her throat.
“No,” she said, a little too loudly. “No, I’ve never written about these murders.”
“Is there anything else you might have done to provoke them into contacting you specifically?”
“My obvious charm and flexibility?” she suggested.
Duvall tapped away at a small gadget that Dessie assumed was some sort of electronic notepad. His fingers were long and thin, the nails well manicured. He was dressed in a suit, a pink shirt, and a gray-on-blue striped tie.
“Let’s move on to you: how long have you been working here at Aftonposten?”
Dessie clasped her hands in her lap.
“Almost three years,” she said. “Part-time. I do research when I’m not here.”
“Research? Can I ask what in?”
“I’m a trained criminologist, specializing in property crime. And I’ve done the extension course in journalism at Stockholm University, so I’m a trained journalist as well. And right now I’m writing my doctoral thesis.… Glad you asked?”
She had let the sentence about her thesis trail off. Focusing on the social consequences of small-scale property break-ins, it had been placed on the back burner — to put it mildly. She hadn’t written a word of it in over two years.
“Would you describe yourself as a high-profile or famous reporter?” the superintendent asked.
Dessie let out a rather inappropriate laugh, partly through her mouth, partly her nose.
“Hardly.” She recovered slightly. “I never write about the news. I come up with my own stories. For instance, I had an interview with Burglar Bengt in yesterday’s paper. He’s Sweden’s ‘most notorious’ burglar. Found guilty of breaking into three hundred eighteen properties, and that doesn’t include —”
Superintendent Duvall interrupted her, leaning in closer across the table.
“The usual scenario is that the people who sent the postcard carry on a correspondence with the journalist. You may get more mail from the killers.”
“If you don’t catch them first,” she said.
She met the policeman’s gaze. His eyes were calm, inscrutable behind his shiny glasses. She couldn’t tell if she liked or disliked him. Not that it mattered.
“We don’t know the killers’ motives,” he said. “I’ve spoken to the security division, but we don’t think you need personal protection for the time being. Do you think you need it?”
A shiver ran up Dessie’s spine.
“No,” she said. “No personal protection.”
Chapter 6
SYLVIA AND MAC WERE STROLLING happily, arm in arm, through the medieval heart of Stockholm.
The narrow cobblestoned streets wound between irregular buildings that appeared to lean toward one another. The sun was blazing in a cloud-free sky, prompting Mac to take off his shirt. Sylvia stroked his flat stomach and kissed him passionately on the mouth and elsewhere.
The streets opened out and they emerged onto a little triangular square with an ancient tree at its center. Some pretty, blond girls were jumping rope on the cobbles. Two old men were playing chess on a park bench.
The huge canopy of the tree cast shadows over the whole square, filtering the sunlight onto the cobbles and facades of the houses. They each bought an ice cream and sat down on an ornate park bench that could have been there beneath the tree for hundreds of years.
“What an amazing trip this is. What an adventure we’re having,” Sylvia said. “No one has ever lived