Chapter 32

"Come on," Forsberg said. "Let's go through what you're doing today. In the other room."

Alexander Andersson took a step toward her.

"If you know so bloody much, why aren't you writing anything?"

She pul ed loose from Forsberg and stared daggers at the reporter.

"I know you might have trouble understanding this," she said, "but my goal in life real y isn't to get a big-picture byline. I could care less."

She went back to her desk then, fol owed by Forsberg. 46 "You've got to be careful with Alexander," she said to the editor. "He's faking it."

"Dessie," Forsberg said, "listen to me. I've got a job for you. Have you read Hugo Bergman's article on public prosecutor workloads?"

Dessie looked at the news editor and blinked.

The one we published on Friday?"

"It's caused a real stink," Forsberg said, handing her a bundle of printouts.

"Cal Bergman and get an interview, and check with the different regional prosecutors to see how many cases they've actual y got at the moment. Can you do that?"

Dessie made no move to take the printouts. She could see Hugo Bergman in her mind's eye, swaying like a tree outside the Opera Cel ar, where she'd left him the night before.

"You're trying to get me off the murders," she said. "That's what this is, right?"

The news chief sat on her desk and lowered his voice.

"Dessie," he said, "there are people asking why you were sent that postcard. They're wondering what sort of contacts you've got with the underworld."

She swal owed, couldn't believe her ears.

"I'm here today only because the police told me to be here," she said.

"I'm supposed to be off Monday and Tuesday. I'm not claiming any kind of copyright on these murders, but if -"

She was interrupted by a shout and then a loud commotion in the lobby. It sounded like something breaking, something large and solid.

Forsberg stood up.

"What the hel is that?"

A furious male voice could be heard through the office wal s. The words weren't clear, but they didn't need to be.

"Wait here," Dessie said and ran toward the door as fast as she could.

Chapter 33

Jacob Kanon was standing and yel ing inarticulately at the enclosed glass cubicle where Albert, the security guard, had taken cover.

Dessie fumbled with the door and rushed out into the lobby.

"You're cal ing her right now!" the American detective was screaming.

"You're going to pick up the phone now and tel her I'm here, you fucking -"

"What are you doing?" she asked breathlessly, grabbing him by the shoulder.

Jacob Kanon spun around and stared at her. He fel silent in the middle of a word that sounded suspiciously like motherfucker, then breathed out.

"Have you heard from the police today?" he asked "What are they saying?

Tell me."

Dessie looked over her shoulder into the newsroom, then took a firm grip of the man's arm and pul ed him toward the outside door.

"Your credibility is already pretty low," she said, pushing him into the revolving door. "You won't make it any better by standing here shouting at poor Albert. And whatever did you break?"

They emerged into the sunshine.

"A wooden bench," the American said sul enly. "It hit one of the radiators."

She gave him a skeptical look, then burst out laughing.

"You're crazy," she said.

Chapter 34

She felt him looking strangely at her as they walked off in the direction of Fridhemsplan.

They went into an empty taxi drivers' cafe a few hundred meters from the newspaper office.

"I'm serious," the policeman said as they sat down in a corner with their coffee. "The Swedish police are way too rigid in their thinking. They'l never catch the kil ers if they carry on like this. They're acting like amateurs. Trust me on this."

Dessie stirred her coffee, the spoon clinking noisily against the china.

If anyone was being rigid, it was she. Her behavior in the newsroom just now wasn't exactly smart. She had to stop being so blunt, and final y, dumb.

"I can't help you," she said. "I'm not even working on the kil ings for the paper. There are other people assigned to the story."

Jacob Kanon leaned across the table, his eyes sparkling bril iantly again.

"Can't you try to get back on the story?"

Dessie looked at the American. His interest in the case was beyond dispute. Unlike her he was dedicated, he had a burning passion, he had a purpose to what he was doing.

What did she have to lose by writing a few commonplace articles about murder? Doing some normal interviews like any good reporter.

"Maybe I could interview you about Kimmy," she said thoughtful y.

That wasn't actual y a bad idea. A father in mourning speaking out, his grief for a much-loved daughter…

She reached for her pen and notepad.

"Tel me what Kimmy was like as a girl. How you reacted when you found out she was -"

Jacob Kanon smashed his fist on the table so hard the cups jumped. Dessie dropped her pen with a start.

The waitress behind the counter glanced quickly in their direction, then looked away again. Whatever this was, she didn't need any of it.

"I'm not giving any interviews about Kimmy," Jacob said.

Dessie sat in silence for several moments before she spoke.

"I just meant as a way of -"

"I'm a homicide detective," he interrupted. "I talk to people, I attempt to solve crimes, but I don't do interviews. Not about anything."

"I don't want to ask you in your capacity as a policeman, but as a father."

He looked at her with his strange, piercing eyes. Then he grabbed his sports bag. He pul ed out a bundle of papers and slapped a photocopy on the table between them.

"This is Kimmy," he said.

Dessie heard herself gasp.

Chapter 35

Two young people lay dead as if broken on the floor of a hotel room.

Their throats had been cut with the same brutality as in the murders on Dalaro. The wounds gaped dark red, the floor was drowning in blood.

Dessie's mouth went dry again and her pulse was racing in a terrifying way.

"The blood's stil bright, fresh," Dessie said. "They were alive just a few minutes before."

"Yes, that's correct," said Jacob, "they'd just died."

She forced her breathing to stay calm, regular. It wasn't real y helping.

Jacob put another picture in front of her.

"Karen and Bil y Cowley," he said. "Look at them, Dessie. What do you see?"

The young Australian couple who had come to Europe to get over the death of their young son hadn't just had their throats cut. They were sitting upright, side by side, their heads leaning back against what must have been the head of a bed. Their left eyebal s had been stabbed, blood and fluid running like red mascara from the sockets.

"The couple in Amsterdam had their right ears cut off," Jacob said, putting a third picture in front of her. "Their names were Lindsay and Jeffrey Holborn."

She looked at the pictures, forcing herself to see beyond the blood and violence.

"They're tel ing us something," Jacob said angrily. "The kil ers are talking 49 through these pictures. I'm sure of it. Look at this one, from Florence."

A double bed: a young woman on the left, a young man on the right. The picture was taken from above, which meant the photographer must have been standing on the bed, right between the dead bodies.

"What do you see?" Jacob asked.

The man and woman were lying in the same position, their bent legs paral el a little to the left, their right hands on their ribcages and their left ones over their genitals.