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Authors: James Patterson, Liza Marklund
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bodies in here, and postcards from
almost all of the murders. The killers are communicating through these pictures, but I can’t work out what they’re saying.
Can you help me?”
“I don’t know anything about murder,” she said.
He laughed, a sad, hollow laugh.
“Who else can I turn to?”
Of course. He was here, outside her door, because he had nowhere else to go.
“Look,” she said, “I’m tired and I have to be up in a couple of hours.”
The timed lights in the stairwell went out. Dessie didn’t bother to switch them on again.
“You’ve been working late,” Jacob Kanon said in the darkness. “Has something happened? They didn’t kill again, did they?”
She realized to her surprise that her mouth was dry.
“I’ve been on a date,” she said.
She could see only his silhouette against the lead-framed window in the stairwell.
“With Hugo Bergman,” she went on. “A famous crime writer. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”
Jacob pressed the light switch again and the lights came on.
“Time’s passing,” he said. “The killers usually stay only a few days in a place once they’ve already done their killing. They’re
probably still here, but they’ll soon be moving on.”
He took a step closer to her.
“Kimmy dies,” he said. “Kimmy dies over and over again, and we have to stop them.”
Dessie backed away.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “Come to the paper tomorrow. If you’re lucky I’ll get you a cup of coffee from the machine.”
He rubbed his eyes with his free hand and looked like he was about to say something but changed his mind.
Instead he disappeared down the marble staircase.
Chapter 29
DESSIE WENT IN AND CLOSED the door behind her, put the safety lock on, and clenched her fists.
She pulled off her clothes and thought about taking a shower but dropped the idea.
She crept under the covers in her double bed without turning the lights on.
The room was gloomy but not dark. The sun had gone down but would be up again in a few hours. She lay there quietly, looking
around her bedroom.
Restless, she threw off the covers, pulled on a dressing gown, and went out to the kitchen.
She drank a glass of water and then went into what was once the maid’s room, a little cubbyhole behind the kitchen where she
had set up her office. She switched the computer on, hesitating a few moments before opening her half-finished doctoral thesis.
Who knew if it would ever get finished?
She sighed. She was actually extremely interested in herresearch subject, so she didn’t know why she never got it done. She had already spent several years of academic life on it,
studying minor criminals and their thought processes, patterns of behavior, and motives.
She had grown up among petty thieves on a farm out in the forests of Norrland in the north of Sweden.
The great majority of her family hadn’t done an honest day’s work in the whole of their miserable lives.
She scrolled up and down the text, reading sentences and whole paragraphs at random.
Maybe she could get going on it again, finish it, and finally get her degree.
Why on earth did she find it so difficult?
Everything she did ended up half done, no matter whether it was work or relationships.
She switched off the computer and went back into the kitchen.
The perfect partner didn’t exist, she knew that much, and, god knows, her knowledge was based on extensive research. The idea
of finding your other half was a myth and a lie. You had to compromise, make allowances, be tolerant.
Gabriella was a great girl, beautiful and sexy and seriously in love with her.
There had been nothing wrong with Christer either. If he hadn’t asked for a divorce, she’d probably still be married to him.
She drank another glass of water and looked at the clock on the wall. 1:43.
Why had she told the American she’d been on a date? Why had she mentioned Bergman’s name? Was it that she wanted Jacob Kanon
to know that she dated men as
almost all of the murders. The killers are communicating through these pictures, but I can’t work out what they’re saying.
Can you help me?”
“I don’t know anything about murder,” she said.
He laughed, a sad, hollow laugh.
“Who else can I turn to?”
Of course. He was here, outside her door, because he had nowhere else to go.
“Look,” she said, “I’m tired and I have to be up in a couple of hours.”
The timed lights in the stairwell went out. Dessie didn’t bother to switch them on again.
“You’ve been working late,” Jacob Kanon said in the darkness. “Has something happened? They didn’t kill again, did they?”
She realized to her surprise that her mouth was dry.
“I’ve been on a date,” she said.
She could see only his silhouette against the lead-framed window in the stairwell.
“With Hugo Bergman,” she went on. “A famous crime writer. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”
Jacob pressed the light switch again and the lights came on.
“Time’s passing,” he said. “The killers usually stay only a few days in a place once they’ve already done their killing. They’re
probably still here, but they’ll soon be moving on.”
He took a step closer to her.
“Kimmy dies,” he said. “Kimmy dies over and over again, and we have to stop them.”
Dessie backed away.
“Tomorrow,” she said. “Come to the paper tomorrow. If you’re lucky I’ll get you a cup of coffee from the machine.”
He rubbed his eyes with his free hand and looked like he was about to say something but changed his mind.
Instead he disappeared down the marble staircase.
Chapter 29
DESSIE WENT IN AND CLOSED the door behind her, put the safety lock on, and clenched her fists.
She pulled off her clothes and thought about taking a shower but dropped the idea.
She crept under the covers in her double bed without turning the lights on.
The room was gloomy but not dark. The sun had gone down but would be up again in a few hours. She lay there quietly, looking
around her bedroom.
Restless, she threw off the covers, pulled on a dressing gown, and went out to the kitchen.
She drank a glass of water and then went into what was once the maid’s room, a little cubbyhole behind the kitchen where she
had set up her office. She switched the computer on, hesitating a few moments before opening her half-finished doctoral thesis.
Who knew if it would ever get finished?
She sighed. She was actually extremely interested in herresearch subject, so she didn’t know why she never got it done. She had already spent several years of academic life on it,
studying minor criminals and their thought processes, patterns of behavior, and motives.
She had grown up among petty thieves on a farm out in the forests of Norrland in the north of Sweden.
The great majority of her family hadn’t done an honest day’s work in the whole of their miserable lives.
She scrolled up and down the text, reading sentences and whole paragraphs at random.
Maybe she could get going on it again, finish it, and finally get her degree.
Why on earth did she find it so difficult?
Everything she did ended up half done, no matter whether it was work or relationships.
She switched off the computer and went back into the kitchen.
The perfect partner didn’t exist, she knew that much, and, god knows, her knowledge was based on extensive research. The idea
of finding your other half was a myth and a lie. You had to compromise, make allowances, be tolerant.
Gabriella was a great girl, beautiful and sexy and seriously in love with her.
There had been nothing wrong with Christer either. If he hadn’t asked for a divorce, she’d probably still be married to him.
She drank another glass of water and looked at the clock on the wall. 1:43.
Why had she told the American she’d been on a date? Why had she mentioned Bergman’s name? Was it that she wanted Jacob Kanon
to know that she dated men as
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