The Postcard Killers by James Patterson, Liza Marklund Page B
Authors: James Patterson, Liza Marklund
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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.”
Chapter 47
DESSIE CAUGHT HER BREATH AS she locked her bicycle outside the entrance to the Museum of Modern Art on the island of Skeppsholmen.
The yellow building was glowing in the sunlight, making her squint just to look up at it.
She didn’t think she’d been here since her divorce from Christer.
She went into the upper entry hall, into an environment similar to her ex-husband’s gallery: pristine white, harsh lighting.
It looked just as she remembered it, the glass walls, the espresso bar, the chrome lamps.
She and Christer had been to a party here in the foyer just a few weeks before their marriage came to an end.
She went up to the information desk, staffed by a tall woman in an all-black outfit.
“Excuse me,” Dessie said. “I’m trying to find a painting called
The Dying Dandy
.”
“Eighty kronor,” the woman said.
Of course, the new right-wing government had abolished free entry to Sweden’s museums.
Dessie paid.
“You’re on the right floor. Just follow the corridor to the left as far as you can, then take a right and then the first left
again,” said the woman in black.
Dessie couldn’t remember the reason for the party she had attended with Christer. It was probably someone’s birthday, or someone
new had managed to get an exhibition at the Modern.
She suppressed the memory and headed off along the long corridor beyond the espresso bar.
The museum was almost empty at this early hour. She could hear people talking from deep within the catacombs but saw no one,
not a soul. It wasn’t just newspapers but also an appreciation for art that was on the decline, even here in Sweden.
Eventually she found the right room.
There it was! She recognized it immediately.
The Dying Dandy
, oil on canvas, one and a half meters tall, almost two meters across. One of the most famous Swedish paintings of the last
century.
Chapter 48
DESSIE STOPPED IN FRONT OF the painting, oddly moved.
It was an impressive creation, with its sweeping shapes and strong colors: the narcissistic man lies dying on his white cushion,
a mirror still in his hand.
His equally affected friends are gathered around him. They’re mourning, but the only one in tears is the man
in the purple jacket and orange shirt up in the left-hand corner.
The woman holding him and the white cushion on her lap looks almost amused.
There was no doubt about it now: this was the model for the murders on Dalarö.
The killers must have known the painting. Maybe they’d been here.
Maybe they’d stood exactly where she was standing now, pondering Dardel’s work: Was it an allegory about the act of creativity?
Or was Dardel holding up a forbidden image of homosexuality?
A thought ran like fire through her brain. She took a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling, then felt the adrenaline kick
in.
Up in one corner, right above the door, was a discreet surveillance camera.
Right now, her image was being captured somewhere.
She took out her mobile and called Gabriella at police headquarters.
Chapter 49
DESSIE WAS HOLDING UP THE color reproduction of Dardel’s masterpiece in one hand and the photograph from Dalarö in the other.
Her hunch had to be right. Jeez, she was better at this than the police!
Gabriella’s desk was covered with Jacob’s postcards and the photographs of the bodies. Beside them were pictures Dessie had
printed from the Internet.
Gabriella looked at the pictures one by one, her eyes opening wider and wider.
“God,” she said, picking up the picture of the murdered Germans, “you’re right, Dessie.”
“Sorry,” said Jacob, “but what are you talking about?”
Dessie looked at his unruly mop of hair. He looked like he’d been quite literally tearing it out. Suddenly she felt so sorry
for him, for his pain, his
it was.
She leaned over and kissed her ex-husband on the cheek.
“Thank you,” she whispered. “This may save lives, Christer.”
Chapter 47
DESSIE CAUGHT HER BREATH AS she locked her bicycle outside the entrance to the Museum of Modern Art on the island of Skeppsholmen.
The yellow building was glowing in the sunlight, making her squint just to look up at it.
She didn’t think she’d been here since her divorce from Christer.
She went into the upper entry hall, into an environment similar to her ex-husband’s gallery: pristine white, harsh lighting.
It looked just as she remembered it, the glass walls, the espresso bar, the chrome lamps.
She and Christer had been to a party here in the foyer just a few weeks before their marriage came to an end.
She went up to the information desk, staffed by a tall woman in an all-black outfit.
“Excuse me,” Dessie said. “I’m trying to find a painting called
The Dying Dandy
.”
“Eighty kronor,” the woman said.
Of course, the new right-wing government had abolished free entry to Sweden’s museums.
Dessie paid.
“You’re on the right floor. Just follow the corridor to the left as far as you can, then take a right and then the first left
again,” said the woman in black.
Dessie couldn’t remember the reason for the party she had attended with Christer. It was probably someone’s birthday, or someone
new had managed to get an exhibition at the Modern.
She suppressed the memory and headed off along the long corridor beyond the espresso bar.
The museum was almost empty at this early hour. She could hear people talking from deep within the catacombs but saw no one,
not a soul. It wasn’t just newspapers but also an appreciation for art that was on the decline, even here in Sweden.
Eventually she found the right room.
There it was! She recognized it immediately.
The Dying Dandy
, oil on canvas, one and a half meters tall, almost two meters across. One of the most famous Swedish paintings of the last
century.
Chapter 48
DESSIE STOPPED IN FRONT OF the painting, oddly moved.
It was an impressive creation, with its sweeping shapes and strong colors: the narcissistic man lies dying on his white cushion,
a mirror still in his hand.
His equally affected friends are gathered around him. They’re mourning, but the only one in tears is the man
in the purple jacket and orange shirt up in the left-hand corner.
The woman holding him and the white cushion on her lap looks almost amused.
There was no doubt about it now: this was the model for the murders on Dalarö.
The killers must have known the painting. Maybe they’d been here.
Maybe they’d stood exactly where she was standing now, pondering Dardel’s work: Was it an allegory about the act of creativity?
Or was Dardel holding up a forbidden image of homosexuality?
A thought ran like fire through her brain. She took a deep breath, looking up at the ceiling, then felt the adrenaline kick
in.
Up in one corner, right above the door, was a discreet surveillance camera.
Right now, her image was being captured somewhere.
She took out her mobile and called Gabriella at police headquarters.
Chapter 49
DESSIE WAS HOLDING UP THE color reproduction of Dardel’s masterpiece in one hand and the photograph from Dalarö in the other.
Her hunch had to be right. Jeez, she was better at this than the police!
Gabriella’s desk was covered with Jacob’s postcards and the photographs of the bodies. Beside them were pictures Dessie had
printed from the Internet.
Gabriella looked at the pictures one by one, her eyes opening wider and wider.
“God,” she said, picking up the picture of the murdered Germans, “you’re right, Dessie.”
“Sorry,” said Jacob, “but what are you talking about?”
Dessie looked at his unruly mop of hair. He looked like he’d been quite literally tearing it out. Suddenly she felt so sorry
for him, for his pain, his
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