Postcard killers

Chapter 124

Mac jumped out of the car. Sylvia took her seat belt off and slid over to the driver's seat.

With a certain amount of effort she put the car in gear. She wasn't used to driving cars with gears and a clutch. Then she sped off to the far side of the next bend.

There she stopped.

She wound down the window and listened over the sound of the engine.

The trees sighed; some sort of animal was bleating in the forest. The sound of a car rose and fel in the distance, but nothing came past. 166 She would have to wait here for a while.

Her eyes settled on some sort of construction in the trees. Planks, a ladder.

A tree house, or maybe a hunting post.

Suddenly she was fil ed with a feeling of intense hatred and disgust.

Imagine, there were people who lived the whole of their pointless lives in godforsaken places like this, working and drinking and fucking and building hunting posts without any awareness that there was anything else, that a higher level of human consciousness even existed. People out here abandoned their lives to meaningless banality, never bothering about bril iance, about aesthetics.

She tore her eyes from the hunting post and concentrated on the rearview mirror.

Mac was driving the red Volvo now. He didn't slow down as he passed her, just carried on at the same careful y precise speed: not too slow, but not too fast either.

She put the car in gear and fol owed at a safe distance. Careful. No mistakes.

Now they had to find a good spot to dump the car from Stockholm, somewhere it would be found relatively quickly, but not immediately.

She licked her thumb and pressed it against the wheel. A lovely print.

Suck on that, dear police!

It made her giddy to think of what they'd already achieved, and that was only the start.

The next part could be even more impressive, their next act. She and Mac were maturing as artists.