Postcard killers

Chapter 3

Jacob reached for the wedding photograph he had asked Emily's mother to send him.

Emily was only twenty-one years old. Clive had just turned twenty-six.

They were a stunningly beautiful couple, and the wedding photo radiated so much happiness and romance. Clive was dressed in tails, tal and handsome.

Maybe a touch overweight, but that suited his status as a stockbroker in the London markets.

Emily looked like a fairy-tale princess, her hair in big ringlets framing her head. Slim and fragile, she looked quite enchanting in her ivory dress. Her eyes shone at the camera.

They had met at a mutual friend's New Year's party in Notting Hil, in one of those narrow trendy houses where the film with Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts had been shot.

Emily's mother hadn't been able to stop crying when Jacob talked to her on the phone.

He could neither comfort nor help her. He wasn't even formal y involved in the case, after al. As an American police officer, he had to be careful not to get involved in the work done by the authorities in other countries.

That could have diplomatic consequences and, even worse, could lead to his expulsion from the country.

A wave of despondency washed over Jacob with a force that took his breath away and made the mug of wine in his hand shake.

He quickly emptied it of its contents and went and poured some more.

Pathetic, he knew.

He sat down at the desk once again, his back to al the photographs and postcards so that he didn't have to look at them.

Maybe he should go and shower. Head down to the communal bathroom at the end of the corridor in the hope that there was some hot water left. Did he even have any soap? Christ, had he even used soap since he arrived in Berlin?

He drank some more wine.

When the bottle was empty, he picked up the pictures of the dead couple from Rome. He placed them in front of him on the desk and put his 9mil imeter Glock 26 beside them, just as he always did.

The kil ers had sent two pictures of the murder in Rome: one image of the two naked victims and a close-up of two of their hands.

The woman's left and the man's right.

He picked up the picture of the hands and traced the shape of the woman's graceful hand with his finger, smiling as it reached the birthmark at the base of her thumb.

She played the piano, was an expert on Franz Liszt.

He breathed out deeply, let go of the picture, and picked up his gun.

He ran the palm of his hand over the dul plastic of the grip and put the muzzle in his mouth. It tasted of powder and metal.

He closed his eyes and the room slid gently to the left, the result of far too much Riesling.

No, Jacob thought. Not yet. I'm not done here yet.