Postcard killers

Chapter 27

"Dessie," Hugo Bergman said, his face lighting up. He stood and kissed her on both cheeks in the continental fashion.

Dessie gave a forced smile.

"Sorry I'm late, and a mess," she said, "but I've been out at a double murder al day."

"Ah," Hugo Bergman said. "These stupid editors. Blood and death, their daily bread. But who am I to moralize?"

Bergman laughed at his own joke.

"It was real y rough," Dessie said, sitting down. "The victims, a young couple from Hamburg."

"Let's not talk about that anymore," the author said as he poured red wine into the glass in front of her. She noticed that the bottle was half empty.

"I've already ordered," he said, putting his glass down. "I hope you eat meat."

Dessie smiled again.

"I'm afraid I don't," she said. "I'm against the commercial exploitation of animals."

Hugo Bergman inspected the wine list.

"Wel," he said. "You can eat the mashed potatoes. They haven't been exploited. What about this one, the Chateau Pichon-Longuevil e-Baron from nineteen ninety-five?"

This last sentence was directed at the waiter who had silently glided up to their table.

Bergman turned back to her. "Did you read my article about the workload of public prosecutors, by the way? Goodness, I've had a real y positive response to it."

Dessie continued to smile until her mouth was starting to ache. She real y was trying. Tossing her hair and fluttering her eyelashes, she listened 39 attentively and laughed politely at the writer's attempts to be witty and sophisticated.

The food was good, or at least the mashed potatoes were.

Bergman got more and more drunk from the ridiculously expensive wines he went through. He actual y had some difficulty locating the dotted line when it came to signing the credit-card bil.

"You're a very beautiful woman, Dessie Larsson," he slurred when they came out into Kungstradgarden in front of the restaurant.

His heavy breath struck her in the face.

"Thank you," she said, unlocking her bicycle, "for everything."

"I'd love to see you again," he said, and tried to kiss her.

Quickly Dessie put on her bike helmet, thinking, That ought to work as a passion kil er. But Bergman 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, stil 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 Gotgatsbacken.

She carried the bike up the steps to Urvadersgrand, 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.