"The usual scenario is that the people who sent the postcard carry on a correspondence with the journalist. You may get more mail from the kil ers."
"If you don't catch them first," she said.
She met the policeman's gaze. His eyes were calm, inscrutable behind his shiny glasses. She couldn't tel if she liked or disliked him. Not that it mattered.
"We don't know the kil ers' motives," he said. "I've spoken to the security division, but we don't think you need personal protection for the time being. Do you think you need it?"
A shiver ran up Dessie's spine.
"No," she said. "No personal protection."
Chapter 6
Sylvia and Mac were strolling happily, arm in arm, through the medieval heart of Stockholm.
The narrow cobblestoned streets wound between irregular buildings that appeared to lean toward one another. The sun was blazing in a cloud-free sky, prompting Mac to take off his shirt. Sylvia stroked his flat stomach and kissed him passionately on the mouth and elsewhere.
The streets opened out and they emerged onto a little triangular square with an ancient tree at its center. Some pretty, blond girls were jumping rope on the cobbles. Two old men were playing chess on a park bench.
The huge canopy of the tree cast shadows over the whole square, filtering the sunlight onto the cobbles and facades of the houses. They each bought an ice cream and sat down on an ornate park bench that could have been there beneath the tree for hundreds of years.
"What an amazing trip this is. What an adventure we're having," Sylvia said. "No one has ever lived life like this."
The air was clear, crystal clear, and birds were singing in the branches above them. There was no urban noise, just the girls' laughter and the rhythmic sound of the jump rope hitting the cobbles.
The square was an oasis surrounded by five-hundred-year-old buildings in muted colors, their hand-blown windows shimmering.