Postcard killers

Chapter 46

Christer held up his hands in a gesture of curiosity.

"What painting? Have you got a picture of it?"

Dessie hesitated.

"No," she said, "not exactly. I can describe it. There's a woman sitting with a cushion on her lap, and there's a man lying on her lap with his head on the cushion."

Christer looked none the wiser.

She put her knapsack and bike helmet on the floor. Then she sat down next to them.

"A woman," she said, "sitting like this."

Then she lay down on the floor. "And a man, lying like this."

She pul ed one leg up, spread the fingers of one hand, and stretched the other hand out.

Christer blinked several times.

"Dessie," he said, "what are you doing? What's this al about? Surely you're not decorating."

Dessie sat up. She had the photocopy of the dead couple from Dalaro in her knapsack. She didn't want to show it to Christer. He was so sensitive about blood. He used to think it was unpleasant even when she had her period.

"A picture," she said. "I'm after a picture or a painting with people in the positions I just showed you."

He looked thoughtful y at her.

She lay down again, stretching her right hand across the floor.

"Like this," she said. "The man's holding something in his right hand."

"Dessie," he said quietly, "why are you here?"

Dessie felt her cheeks starting to burn. He thought the painting was a pretext.

She jerked her neck, stood up, opened the knapsack, and pul ed out the photocopy.

"Maybe you should sit down," she said.

He took a step toward her.

"Just say it," he said. "Tel me why you've come to see me. It's not about art, Dessie."

Dessie showed him the photocopy. She saw his eyes open wide and his face go as white as the wal s.

She caught him before he fel.

"Good god," he said. "Are those… are those… people?"

Her reply was needlessly harsh. It just came out that way.

"Not anymore. Look at the way they're positioned. Doesn't it remind you of anything? Where have I seen that before?"

"For heaven's sake," he said, shutting his eyes, shaking his head. "Take it 66 away."

"No," Dessie said. "Take a proper look. Please. Look at the man."

She helped Christer sit down on the floor. He was breathing deeply and had to put his head between his knees for a few seconds.

"Let's see," he said, taking the picture, looking at it for a couple of seconds, then pushing it away again.

"The Dying Dandy," he said. "Nils Dardel, nineteen eighteen. It's in the Museum of Modern Art."

Dessie closed her eyes, seeing the painting before her. Of course! It floated up from her memory. She knew exactly which painting it was.

She leaned over and kissed her ex-husband on the cheek.

"Thank you," she whispered. "This may save lives, Christer."