The Postcard Killers

    The door frame shook as he slammed the door shut behind him. Jacob is gone, Dessie thought. The policeman is back.

Chapter 91

    THE NEWSROOM WAS EMPTY, deserted as though a bomb had gone off inside. Forsberg was sitting on his own behind his desk, half asleep, his eyes rimmed with red, watching a TV screen. His jowls seemed to have grown larger overnight.

    “Where is everyone?” Dessie asked, sitting down next to him. The news editor nodded toward the television.

    “The Grand Hotel,” he said. “Our favorite killers have booked into the honeymoon suite, if you can believe that. The whole of the world’s press is there, including all our esteemed colleagues.”

    Dessie stared at him.

    “Are you serious?”

    “They’re giving a press conference at two p.m.”

    “The Grand?”

    Forsberg rubbed his hedgerow of stubble. He hadn’t shaved for three days or more.

    “The Rudolphs have decided to speak. They want to tell the world how innocent they are.”

    Dessie leaned back in her chair. This had to be a very bad dream. Soon she’d wake up with Jacob’s arms around her and the Postcard Killers safely locked back away in Kronoberg Prison.

    “This is surreal. What in hell are they up to?” she said. “Those bastards are guilty as hell. Now they’re holding press conferences?”

    Forsberg gave a long yawn.

    “So anyway, how are we doing with our journalist’s objectivity these days?”

    Dessie stood up.

    “Shouldn’t you go home and get some sleep?”

    The phone on the desk rang. Forsberg grabbed it.

    “What is it?”

    He gestured that Dessie should stay, then listened carefully for more than a minute.

    Dessie shook her head to say that she wasn’t there and pulled her knapsack on.

    “Just a moment…”

    He put his hand over the mouthpiece.

    “It’s a Danish journalist. He wants to talk to you specifically. Says it’s important.”

    “I’m not giving any interviews,” she said, fastening her helmet strap under her chin.

    “I think you should talk to him. He says he received a postcard in this morning’s mail - postmarked yesterday in Copenhagen. He thinks it’s from the Postcard Killers.”

Chapter 92

    JACOB CAME TOWARD HER in the departure hall of the Central Station and something fluttered in Dessie’s chest, something that made her catch her breath and break into a broad, genuine smile. Even here, even now. But then she saw his eyes and clenched jaw, and the smile froze on her lips.

    “Have you got the copies?” he asked in a monotone.

    Dumbly she handed over the faxed copies of the Danish postcard, front and back. He put his duffel bag down beside him, clutching the sheets of paper, staring at them.

    The card was a picture of the Tivoli pleasure gardens. She knew the place well.

    Apart from the name of the city, the back of the postcard had exactly the same capital letters and layout as Dessie’s.

TO BE OR NOT TO BE

IN COPENHAGEN

THAT IS THE QUESTION

WE’LL BE IN TOUCH

    “I’ll be damned,” he said, studying the copies. “It’s quicker to get hold of evidence through the media than through useless bloody Interpol. That’s unbelievable.”

    She swallowed hard. So that was why he’d agreed to meet her, because she had access to information that the police hadn’t yet gotten hold of.

    “What do you think about the handwriting?” she asked, trying to sound neutral. “Is it the same person?”

    He shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. She thought of last night, couldn’t help it. What had she been thinking?

    “It’s impossible to tell with this lettering. Looks like it. Can I keep this?”

    She nodded, unsure if she would be able to control her voice if she tried to say anything.

    “You’ve heard about the Grand Hotel?” she finally managed to say.

    “The press conference at two o’clock, yeah.”

    He heaved his duffel bag onto his shoulder again.

    She tried to smile.

    “So at least you know where they are,” she said. “You don’t have to go to the ends of the earth after all.”

    He stopped in the middle of what he was doing and looked at her, and she suddenly wanted the floor to swallow her up.

    How could she be so clingy? She wasn’t that way - not ever - not even as a kid, especially not then.

    “I’ve had a reply from the States,” he said. “From my contacts, those emails I sent from your computer.”

    “That’s good,” she said.

    “I’m on my way to Los Angeles right now,” he said, looking at his watch.

    “My plane leaves in two hours.”

    She felt like someone had just poured a bucket of ice cold water over her.

    “You’re - Los Angeles? But…” She’d been about to say, “But what about me?”

    She bit her cheek so hard she could taste blood.

    She was acting like an idiot. She wanted to shrivel up, to be anywhere but here.

    He looked at his watch again, hesitating. Then he took a step toward her and gave her a clumsy hug. The duffel bag was in the way and she got no contact with his body. How very fitting, she thought. The perfect ending for them.

    “See you,” he said, turning around and walking quickly toward the express train to Arlanda.