The Postcard Killers by James Patterson, Liza Marklund Page A

light” and “do justice to the art.”
    “Christer? Are you here?”
    She felt as though the illusion of purity would shatter if she called out too loudly.
    “Hi, Dessie,” said a surprised voice behind her. “What brings you here?”
    Dessie spun around. She hadn’t heard him come in.
    Christer, her ex-husband, was dressed as he always was:black polo sweater, black gabardine trousers, and soundless moccasins. He looked like a caricature of a gallery owner.
    “Sorry to intrude,” she said with a slightly strained smile. “I need your help.”
    They had been married for four years. The marriage had given Christer a wife he said he loved, and Dessie had been given a
     context to belong to. Parties to go to, people to talk to. Christer could be charming, but she had never been able to talk
     to him.
    He looked at her in astonishment.
    “Okay, what do you need help with?”
    She felt her palms sweating. Maybe this was crazy. Maybe her idea was completely mad. But she was excited about solving these
     murders. She felt passionate about it.
    “It’s a bit complicated,” she said. “It’s just an idea I had…”
    She took a deep breath. She was here now, after all. “It’s about a particular painting,” she said. “I need your help identifying
     a painting.”

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 pulled 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 all about? Surely you’re not decorating.”
    Dessie sat up. She had the photocopy of the dead couplefrom Dalarö 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 thoughtfully 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 pulled out the photocopy.
    “Maybe you should sit down,” she said.
    He took a step toward her.
    “Just say it,” he said. “Tell 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 walls.
    She caught him before he fell.
    “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 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