"Don't ask me. I specialize in petty criminals," Dessie said. "Not serial kil ers. Nothing big and important like that."

Forsberg stood up to get a cup of coffee from the machine.

The victims in Berlin were Australians, Dessie read. Karen and Wil iam Cowley, both twenty-three and married for a couple of years. They'd come to Europe to get over the death of their infant son. Instead, they had run into the notorious murderers who were kil ing couples al over Europe.

The postcard had been sent to a journalist at a local paper. The picture was of the site of Hitler's bunker, and there had been a Shakespeare quote on the back.

Dessie suddenly gasped. She felt almost like she was having a heart attack, or how she imagined that might feel.

To be or not to be…

Her eyes were pinned to the recycling bin in front of her.

"Forsberg," she said, sounding considerably calmer than she felt. "I think 11 they've arrived in Stockholm."

Chapter 5

"So, Dessie, you've no idea why the postcard was sent to you in particular?"

The police had taken over the conference room behind the sports desk.

Police superintendent Mats Duval sat on the other side of the table, looking at her through a pair of designer glasses.

An old-fashioned tape recorder, the sort that actual y used a cassette, was slowly winding on the table in front of her.

"Not the faintest idea," Dessie said. "I don't get it at al. No."

The newsroom was cordoned off. A team of forensics officers had taken the postcard, photographed it, and sent it off for analysis. After that, they had laid siege to the mail room.

Dessie didn't understand what they were expecting to find there, but they had a whole arsenal of equipment with them.

"Have you written any articles about this? Have you reported on any of the other murders around Europe?"