Postcard killers

Chapter 58

Dessie honestly didn't know what to make of Jacob Kanon.

He was an entirely new species to her, both shut off and extremely demonstrative at the same time. The way he moved seemed a bit clumsy and uncomfortable, as if he weren't quite house-trained.

"Tel me more about your uncles."

Dessie pushed aside the plate of cannel oni.

"Two of them drank themselves to death," she said. "Uncle Ruben was beaten to death outside the church in Pitea the night before May Day three years ago. He had just been released from a stretch in Porson, in Lulea."

She said it to shock him, but Jacob just seemed amused.

"Were they often inside?"

"Mostly short sentences. They only managed one big thing in the whole of their miserable careers: raiding a security van where they discovered 79 considerably more money than they'd been expecting."

The waiter came over to ask if they wanted dessert.

They both said no.

"Were they convicted?" Jacob asked. "For the security van job?"

"Of course," Dessie said, grabbing the bil. "Although some of the takings were never found."

"Let me get that," Jacob said.

"Stop being so macho," Dessie said, taking out her Amex card. "This is Sweden. Men stopped paying for dates in the sixties." She motioned the waiter over and handed him her card.

The American poured the last of the wine into their glasses with a grin.

"So this is a date, is it?" he asked, his eyes twinkling. "That's interesting."

Dessie looked at him in surprise.

"This? A date? Of course it isn't."

"You said it was. You said this was a date. 'Men stopped paying for -'"

Dessie shuddered.

"That was a figure of speech. This isn't a date. This wil never be a date."

She signed the credit-card slip and said, "Let's go. It's late."

They stepped out into a light blue evening that would soon be night.

"Where are you staying?" Dessie asked as they walked toward the entrance of police headquarters on Polhemsgatan.

"Langholmen," he said. "A youth hostel, actual y."

"It used to be a prison," Dessie said.

"Thanks for the reminder," Jacob said. "I know."

She got her bicycle, and with Jacob walking alongside, she started slowly cycling home through the Stockholm night. A low mist hung over the waters of Riddarfjarden, thin veils sweeping in and hiding the sounds of the city: the cars, the drunken shouting, the music coming from open windows.

He kept her company al the way to her door.

She looked up at him and he was no more than a silhouette against the moon.

"See you tomorrow," he said, raising a hand in farewel as he disappeared down toward Gotgatan.