Postcard killers

Chapter 44

Tuesday, June 15

Sylvia fluffed and adjusted the pillows on the queen-size bed, then opened the copy of Aftonposten. She let out a little groan of disappointment.

"That's not very flattering at al," she said, looking at the composite picture of Mac that dominated page 6. "You're much more handsome in real life."

"Let me see what I look like," Mac said, trying to take the paper from her.

"Hang on a moment," Sylvia said, pul ing the paper back. "I want to read what it says."

Mac was put out and went into the bathroom. Sylvia looked admiringly at his buttocks as he disappeared into the shower. She pushed aside the breakfast tray on her lap to read the story better.

The letter was written in both English and Swedish, and addressed to the "Postcard Kil ers." The headline ran: "Accept My Chal enge – If You Dare."

Sylvia ran her eyes across the page to see who had signed the letter.

"Hey," she cal ed toward the bathroom. "Our new friend Dessie Larsson's written us a letter. How sweet of Dessie. How thoughtful she is."

The shower started up. Mac didn't answer.

Be like that, then, she thought, and started reading out loud.

"You wrote to me, and now I'm writing to you. Unlike you, I'm prepared to put my name on my correspondence. I'm not hiding, I take ful responsibility for my actions. And I shal carry on doing that. So I and Aftonposten have chosen to reply to you with this letter…"

She skimmed through the text.

It said that the police were hot on their heels, that it was only a matter of time before they were arrested. That they had gotten too cocky, that they had started to make mistakes. That they were close to giving themselves away. That the Germans on Dalaro would be their last victims.

She looked up to see Mac standing in the doorway with the bath towel around his neck, watching her read.

"What does it say? Don't be such a control ing bitch. You know I don't like that."

"Oh, sorry, baby. Most of it's bul shit," Sylvia said, "but the end is 63 interesting. She wants to interview us."

Mac snorted out a laugh.

"What a moron. Why would we let her interview us?"

Sylvia passed him the paper.

"They're offering us a hundred thousand dol ars."

Mac's eyes opened wide.

"No way," he said, taking the paper with both hands and sinking onto the unmade bed. "Fuck. A hundred thousand dol ars. That's pretty good!"

Sylvia stood up and went over to the window of the hotel room. She stretched her slender arms above her head and yawned loudly, wel aware that she was ful y visible in al her nakedness. "Look at me," she whispered. "Here I am. Catch me!"

On the other side of the street was a building constructed in the Swedish National Romantic style, with towers and a copper roof, its gril e-covered windows glittering in the morning sun. It was Stockholm's municipal courthouse, the place where clumsy criminals were taken to atone for their pathetic misdemeanors. She stood on tiptoe. Behind the courthouse was a creamy yel ow palatial building with pinnacles and a bel tower and decorative balustrades: Stockholm's police headquarters, where funny little officers were tearing their hair out in despair and thinking up lies to get them to give themselves away.

"Sylvia," Mac said, "this is actual y worth considering. She's promising complete anonymity, that she wil never reveal her sources. And we could real y use the money. Look, there's a phone number for us to cal."

She let her eyes roam across the gray-brown facade of the courthouse.

"That's not a bad idea," she said, turning to Mac. "But why stop at a hundred thousand dol ars?"

"Do you think she'd pay more?"

Sylvia smiled.

"Have you got that card the Dutchman gave you?"

Mac blinked his long eyelashes.

"Why?"

She went over to the bed, got on al fours, and snaked her way slowly over to Mac. She bit him gently on the earlobe and breathed into his neck.

Then she slid down onto him, warm and wet. "First things first, sweetheart."