Postcard killers

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, al 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? Tel them they have to talk to Berlin, the best inspector there is cal ed Gunther 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 kil ers or the police operation, you'l have to come to my workplace tomorrow."

She nodded toward the stairs.

"I'm sure you'l 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 wal, then forced her way past him.

She picked up her keys from the floor and clutched them hard in her hand.

"You look and smel like a garbage dump," she said. "You've no authority with the Swedish police. You're just chasing these kil ers… Sorry, but that seems a bit… obsessive."

He brushed his hair back hard and closed his eyes.

Obsessive? Was he obsessed? Of course he was.

He saw the Polaroid picture in front of his eyes, the man's and woman's hands, the beautiful fingers that were almost touching. The blood that had run 17 down their arms and gathered around the fingernails. "Love you, Dad! See you at New Year's!"

He opened his eyes and met her gaze.

"They kil ed my daughter in Rome," he said. "They cut Kimmy's and Steven's throats in a hotel room in Trastevere, and I'm going to chase them until Hel freezes over."