The Postcard Killers (16 page)

Chapter 68

JACOB HAD TO STOP HIMSELF from smashing his fist through the cement wall. He was forced to take a quick walk out in the corridor to calm himself down, if that was even possible.

He came back into the control room just as the young woman was taking her place in the interrogation room.

Sylvia
.

She seemed more collected than her husband and answered the questions calmly and clearly.

When she heard that the Dutch couple had been murdered, she put her hands to her face and wept quietly for a moment.

Then she confirmed Malcolm’s story: they’d eaten lunch with Nienke and Peter and were planning a joint trip to Helsinki next weekend.

“How did you arrange it?”

“We booked the tickets on the Internet — from a Seven-Eleven shop,” she said.

“Which company?”

“Silja.”

She smiled.

“I remember that because it sounds a bit like my name, Sylvia.”

“Where was the shop?”

“On the long pedestrian street that runs right through the Old Town, Vasterlang—?”

“Västerlånggatan?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

One of the detectives got up at once and left the room to check out her story.

“Who actually purchased the tickets?” Sara Höglund asked. “Do you remember?”

Jacob slapped his forehead.

“Good God!” he said. “What sort of performance is this? Question time in Sunday school? Jesus, ask her some tough questions, for fuck’s sake!”

Gabriella came over and stood right next to Jacob. Her eyes were red and her breath smelled of coffee.

“Pull yourself together,” she said. “You’re behaving like a kid. Let Sara and Mats do their jobs.”

“That’s precisely what I mean!” Jacob yelled. “They’re not doing their jobs! They’re sitting there making nice with her! She’s a cold-blooded murderer. Look at her. She’s so calm.”

“Take it easy, Jacob,” Dessie said, putting her hand on his arm.

He ran his hands through his hair and swallowed audibly.

On the television screen the interrogation slowly continued. No big ups or downs.

“Where were you on November twenty-seventh last year?”

Sylvia Rudolph played thoughtfully with a curl of hair. She was very pretty, though not as striking as her husband.

“I can’t remember offhand. Can I check in my diary? I might have something there.”

Mats Duvall switched on his electronic notepad.

“Let’s take something more recent,” he said. “Where were you on February ninth this year?”

Jacob leaned forward to hear better. That was the date of the killings in Athens. He knew every murder date by heart.

“February?” the woman said with a frown. “In Spain, I think. Yes, that’s right. We were in Madrid in early February, because Mac had a stomach bug and we had to go to a doctor.”

“Can you remember the name of the doctor?”

She pulled a face.

“No,” she said, “but I’ve still got the receipt. It was really expensive, and the doctor was useless.”

Jacob gave a groan.

The questions meandered on, and Sylvia answered them all in the same calm, matter-of-fact manner.

“What’s the reason for the trip to Europe? Why did you come here?”

“We’re art students,” Sylvia said.

Dessie and Jacob exchanged a quick glance. Finally there was something.

“We’re at UCLA and have taken a year off. It’s been really educational. Super. Until today, anyway.”

“How long have you been married?”

The young woman opened her eyes wide, then burst out laughing. Dessie and Jacob looked at each other again.

“Married! We’re not married. Mac’s my twin brother.”

Part Two

Chapter 69

DESSIE PHONED FORSBERG AT THE paper once Sylvia Rudolph had been taken back to her cell.

“How’s it going?” the news editor asked. “Have they confessed yet?”

“You know I can’t answer that. I’m not here as a reporter,” Dessie said. “What’s the reaction at the paper?”

“We’ve got extra pages in all of tomorrow’s editions. This is huge. Everyone’s totally focused. We’ve got newspapers around the world contacting us. There’s even a guy from the
New York Times
sitting at your desk. I hope you don’t mind him borrowing it…”

“I meant the reaction to my letter and the two murders. I can see I’m getting a whole load of crap on the Net.”

“Oh, that. Well, no one’s bothered about that.”

“Come on,” Dessie said. “What are people really saying?”

Forsberg hesitated.

“Alexander Andersson is upset and going around talking a load of rubbish. He’s saying that you’re ‘unethical’ and ‘desperate for headlines’ and quite a lot of other stuff, but that’s nothing to worry about. He’s just jealous of the attention you’re getting.”

Dessie closed her eyes.

She
knew
it would turn out like this. She told them it would.

“Are they saying anything in the proper media?”

Forsberg sighed.

“Forget about all this, Dessie. The killers have been caught. Everyone’s happy. Go have a beer or something.”

He hung up.

The killers have been caught. Everyone’s happy.

Dessie desperately wished it were that simple.

Chapter 70

AT 8.30 THAT EVENING, SYLVIA Rudolph volunteered that she had new information for the police. The interrogation resumed at her own request.

Her face was paler now, and she had obviously been crying.

“I don’t really want to say this,” she said, “because I don’t like gossip. But I can see we’re in a serious situation here, and I can no longer protect…”

She fell quiet, hesitating about whatever she was going to say next.

“Who are you protecting?” Sara Höglund said gently. “You have to tell us now.”

Sylvia Rudolph discreetly wiped away a tear. Then she took a deep breath.

“I didn’t tell you the whole truth earlier,” she said, and Jacob and all the others in the control room leaned toward the screen at the same time.

“We didn’t set out for Europe just to look at art. I had to get away from Los Angeles, and Mac offered to come with me.”

Mats Duvall and Sara Höglund waited in silence for her to go on.

“There’s someone who wants to hurt me,” she said in a very quiet voice. “He’s an old boyfriend, although if you ask him, he’ll say we’re still together. He just can’t accept the fact that I am finished with him. He… used to hit me. He can’t stay away from me.”

Sylvia Rudolph started to cry softly.

Sara Höglund put a reassuring hand on her arm.

“It feels awful to say something so bad about another person,” the young woman went on, taking the police chief’s hand and squeezing it.

“But I really think Billy is capable of doing anything if it would hurt me. He might have followed me to Europe.”

Chapter 71

THE INVESTIGATING TEAM WAS GATHERED in Mats Duvall’s office.

They made a hollow-eyed, determined crowd as they settled on the sofas and chairs.

“We’ve gone through their hotel room in the Amaranten,” the superintendent said. “A preliminary search hasn’t re-vealed anything that can help our case. Quite the reverse, in fact…”

He looked through his papers.

“Malcolm Rudolph really was tested for salmonella on February ninth in Madrid,
the same day the murders in Athens were committed.
Here’s the receipt.”

Jacob shut his eyes, covering them with his hand. He almost couldn’t bear to hear any more.

Mats Duvall went on to summarize the state of the investigation: No drugs had been found in the hotel room, neither marijuana nor any muscle relaxant containing cyclopentolate. No weapons had been found. No knives or scalpels.

Inquiries at the 7-Eleven shop on Västerlånggatan confirmed that one of their computers had been used at lunchtime on Tuesday to book a Helsinki cruise with Silja Line for four people. The four passengers were Peter Visser, Nienke van Mourik, Sylvia Rudolph, and Malcolm Rudolph.

No stolen property, neither that of the victims in Sweden nor from anywhere else in Europe, had been found, and no champagne. In fact, there was nothing to suggest that Sylvia or Malcolm Rudolph had ever been in contact with any of the other murder victims.

A response from Berlin indicated that no trace of the Rudolph siblings had been found at any of the European crime scenes.

On the other hand, their fingerprints were found in various places in the room in the Grand Hôtel.

There was complete silence after the superintendent finished with his list.

“Reactions?”

“It’s them,” Jacob said. “I know it is. I don’t know how they’ve done it, or what the purpose of this little charade of theirs is, but they’re guilty as fuck.”

“And how do we prove that, sir?” Sara Höglund said. “They’ve looked at paintings, which isn’t a crime, at least not here in Europe. They’ve been traveling around and they visited friends in their hotel room. What can we possibly charge them with? And based on what evidence?”

Jacob recalled the reassuring hand she had laid on Sylvia Rudolph’s arm.

“We have to go through the confiscated material more thoroughly,” he said. “There’s something there, something we’ve missed. Let me help you. Please.”

“They turned themselves in,” Sara Höglund said. “They’re being very cooperative. They’ve declined legal representation. They’re horrified by the deaths of their friends. And they’ve got an alibi for the murders in Athens.”

There was an oppressive silence when she stopped talking.

“This won’t hold,” Evert Ridderwall said. “We have to have something more than this. I can hold them until lunchtime on Saturday. Then I’ll have to let them go.”

Chapter 72

JACOB STEPPED ONTO THE STREET. His whole body was numb and felt hollowed out.

He couldn’t imagine a worse scenario than these two killers walking free.

As if it weren’t bad enough that they had killed and humiliated their victims, they’d be able to stand there laughing at everyone afterward.

He had to stop himself from kicking over a motorcycle leaning against the wall.

“See you tomorrow,” Dessie said, walking past him with her bike helmet in her hand.

“Wait up,” Jacob said instinctively, holding his hand out toward her. “Hold on…”

She stopped, surprised.

He looked at her, his mouth open, apparently not knowing what to say next.

Don’t go, I can’t stand being alone anymore?

I can’t go back to my prison cell at the hostel. Not tonight?

They’re laughing at me, can’t you hear them laughing at me?

“Jacob,” the journalist said, walking over to him. “What’s wrong? I mean, I know what’s wrong in a particular sense, but
what’s wrong?
”

He made an effort to breathe normally.

“There are… a few things I’ve been wondering about. Have you got a couple of minutes?”

She hesitated.

“It won’t take long,” he said. “You’ve got to eat anyway, haven’t you? I’ll pay tonight. I’ll even make an effort to be civil.”

“I’m so exhausted. I need to go home. We can get something along the way.”

Chapter 73

THEY HEADED OFF DOWN TOWARD the Central Station side by side.

“What does it mean that the Rudolphs are
being held
according to Swedish law?” Jacob asked.

“The prosecutor can hold them for up to three days.”

“Can they post bail?”

“No, we don’t have that sort of system here. Have you ever eaten a flatbread roll?”

“A what?”

They stopped at a little kiosk selling hot dogs and hamburgers. Dessie ordered something in her incomprehensible language and let him pay for whatever it was.

Gradually the solid panic inside him started to let go and open up some.

“Here you are,” Dessie said.

She handed him a sort of pancake filled with mashed potato, hamburger dressing, grilled hot dog, chopped dill pickle, onion, mustard, ketchup, and prawn mayonnaise, and all wrapped in foil.

“Jeezuz,” he said.

“Just eat,” Dessie said. “It’s really good.”

“I thought you didn’t eat meat,” Jacob said.

She looked at him in surprise.

“How’d you know that?”

He took a deep breath and tried to relax his shoulders.

“Just something I noticed, I guess. What do you think of the Rudolphs? Are they our Postcard Killers?”

“Probably,” she said. “Mine’s vegetarian, by the way.”

They sat on the bench inside a bus shelter and ate the sticky rolls. Jacob, who considered himself an expert in junk food, had to admit she was right: it was really good.

He wolfed it down and thought he might even have another hot-dog-with-mashed-potatoes thing.

Dessie Larsson had a calming effect on him. He’d known that almost from the beginning, but he’d never felt it more than he did right now.

He looked at this woman next to him in the yellow glow of the streetlights.

She was actually very beautiful without being conspicuously pretty. Her profile was classically clean and simple. She didn’t seem to wear any makeup at all, not even mascara.

“What makes you think they’re guilty?” he asked, studying her reaction.

She glanced at him and wiped her mouth with a napkin.

“The bodies,” she said. “We know they’re arranged as works of art, and the Rudolphs are art students. I don’t know, but there’s something there, in that mix of art and reality. Also, I don’t believe them, especially her.”

He threw the foil wrapping and the small remains of mashed potato into the bus shelter’s trash bin.

“What do you mean, ‘that mix of art and reality’? Either it’s art or it’s reality, right?”

Dessie gave him a serious look.

“It’s not unusual for art students to blend them together. We had several cases like that a year or so ago.