Postcard killers

Chapter 34

She felt him looking strangely at her as they walked off in the direction of Fridhemsplan.

They went into an empty taxi drivers' cafe a few hundred meters from the newspaper office.

"I'm serious," the policeman said as they sat down in a corner with their coffee. "The Swedish police are way too rigid in their thinking. They'l never catch the kil ers if they carry on like this. They're acting like amateurs. Trust me on this."

Dessie stirred her coffee, the spoon clinking noisily against the china.

If anyone was being rigid, it was she. Her behavior in the newsroom just now wasn't exactly smart. She had to stop being so blunt, and final y, dumb.

"I can't help you," she said. "I'm not even working on the kil ings for the paper. There are other people assigned to the story."

Jacob Kanon leaned across the table, his eyes sparkling bril iantly again.

"Can't you try to get back on the story?"

Dessie looked at the American. His interest in the case was beyond dispute. Unlike her he was dedicated, he had a burning passion, he had a purpose to what he was doing.

What did she have to lose by writing a few commonplace articles about murder? Doing some normal interviews like any good reporter.

"Maybe I could interview you about Kimmy," she said thoughtful y.

That wasn't actual y a bad idea. A father in mourning speaking out, his grief for a much-loved daughter…

She reached for her pen and notepad.

"Tel me what Kimmy was like as a girl. How you reacted when you found out she was -"

Jacob Kanon smashed his fist on the table so hard the cups jumped. Dessie dropped her pen with a start.

The waitress behind the counter glanced quickly in their direction, then looked away again. Whatever this was, she didn't need any of it.

"I'm not giving any interviews about Kimmy," Jacob said.

Dessie sat in silence for several moments before she spoke.

"I just meant as a way of -"

"I'm a homicide detective," he interrupted. "I talk to people, I attempt to solve crimes, but I don't do interviews. Not about anything."

"I don't want to ask you in your capacity as a policeman, but as a father."

He looked at her with his strange, piercing eyes. Then he grabbed his sports bag. He pul ed out a bundle of papers and slapped a photocopy on the table between them.

"This is Kimmy," he said.

Dessie heard herself gasp.