Postcard killers

Chapter 45

The brass doorbell gave A brittle little ring that fitted its setting perfectly.

Dessie stepped into the gal ery on Osterlanggatan in the Old Town, holding her breath.

"Hel o?" she cal ed cautiously.

She always felt so grubby when she came here. The floor, ceiling, and wal s were al painted pristine white. Even the patrons' restroom and the staircase to the offices above were entirely white. She knew the reason why.

She'd been told it was to "trap the light" and "do justice to the art."

"Christer? Are you here?"

She felt as though the il usion of purity would shatter if she cal ed out too loudly.

"Hi, Dessie," said a surprised voice behind her. "What brings you here?"

Dessie spun around. She hadn't heard him come in.

Christer, her ex-husband, was dressed as he always was: black polo sweater, black gabardine trousers, and soundless moccasins. He looked like a caricature of a gal ery owner.

"Sorry to intrude," she said with a slightly strained smile. "I need your help."

They had been married for four years. The marriage had given Christer a wife he said he loved, and Dessie had been given a context to belong to. Parties to go to, people to talk to. Christer could be charming, but she had never been able to talk to him.

He looked at her in astonishment.

"Okay, what do you need help with?"

She felt her palms sweating. Maybe this was crazy. Maybe her idea was completely mad. But she was excited about solving these murders. She felt passionate about it.

"It's a bit complicated," she said. "It's just an idea I had…"

She took a deep breath. She was here now, after al. "It's about a particular painting," she said. "I need your help identifying a painting."