Postcard killers

Chapter 8

Jacob felt the adrenaline pulling like barbed wire through his veins.

He had never been so quick out of the gate before, only a day or so behind them: before the murders took place, before the pictures of the bodies, before their flight to yet another city.

"I have to find a way into the investigation," he said. "At once, right fucking now."

The reporter stumbled a little and steadied herself against the wal behind her. Her eyes were wide and watchful. He'd frightened her badly. He hadn't meant to.

"If I'm the kil ers' contact," she said, "who's yours?"

Her voice was dark, a little hoarse. Her English was perfect but spoken with a strange accent. He looked at her in silence for a few moments.

"Who interviewed you?" Jacob asked. "What's his name, what unit's he on? Is there a prosecutor involved yet? What safety measures have been taken?

Someone's going to die here in Stockholm. "

The woman backed away another few steps.

"How did you know I received the card?" she asked. "How did you know where I live?"

He looked at her careful y. There was no reason to lie.

"Berlin," he said. "The German police. It was the deutsche Polizei who told me another postcard had turned up, sent to a Dessie Larsson at Aftonposten in Stockholm, Sweden. I came at once. I've just gotten in from the airport."

"So, what are we doing here? What do you want with me? I can't help you. I'm nobody."

He took a step closer to her, she took a step to one side. He checked himself.

"They have to be stopped," he said. "This is the best chance yet… They picked you. So now you're somebody."