The Postcard Killers

    Sara Hцglund and Mats Duvall let him cry for a few minutes. Then they asked if he wanted a lawyer present. They had to do this. He had the right to one under Swedish law, the same as in America. The murder suspect merely shook his head. He didn’t need legal representation. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He couldn’t understand how anyone could suspect him of anything so terrible. The Dutch couple had been happy and full of life when he and Sylvia had left them in their hotel room the previous day.

    What were they doing in the hotel room? Did they eat or drink anything?

    “No,” Malcolm Rudolph said with a sniff. “Well, actually we did. Peter had a Coke that I drank a bit of.”

    “No champagne?”

    “Champagne? In the middle of the afternoon?” The question seemed to strike him as absurd.

    “Did you smoke anything in their room? Marijuana, for instance?”

    “Marijuana is illegal here, isn’t it? And Sylvia and I don’t smoke, anyway.”

    He slumped down on the table and started crying again. The questions kept coming.

When did you arrive in Sweden?

How long have you been traveling in Europe?

Can you tell us about Peter and Nienke?

    “They were so much fun, so nice. We were really looking forward to the trip to Finland with them. We had a great lunch at that place in the Old Town…”

    The detectives’ questions bounced off him, many unanswered, then into the control room.

Where were you on November twenty-seventh last year?

December thirtieth?

January twenty-sixth this year? February ninth? March fourth?

    The interrogation was stopped after just forty-three minutes. To be humane, and to be lawful.

    Malcolm Rudolph was led away to a cell in Kronoberg Prison.

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-?”

    “Vдsterlеnggatan?”

    “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 Hцglund 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.”