Postcard killers Read online

  Dessie groaned and her whole body shuddered.

  He sucked and licked her entire body, and when he final y pushed inside her again she leaned her head back and yel ed. While the contractions were stil convulsing her lower body, he felt the rushing noise in his head grow into an explosion that made all sound and vision disappear for him.

  When he came to his senses again, he realized he was freezing.

  He rol ed to one side, sliding out of her. He fumbled for the covers beneath them and pul ed them over their bodies.

  She looked at him, wide-eyed and surprised.

  "Wow," she said.

  Chapter 88

  Dessie was still astonished at what had happened.

  When she accepted his invitation to stay at his place, she had made up her mind that nothing like this was going to happen. Her life was so turbulent just now that a messy affaire was the last thing she needed. Probably the last thing Jacob needed, too.

  "Wow?" he replied, and smiled.

  Now his eyes were warm again, that crazy blue, completely focused on her.

  This real y wasn't good at al. How could it be?

  She ought to get up at once and leave and face the damn reporters at her house.

  Instead she smiled back.

  "Dessie," he whispered. "Dessie, Dessie, you're pretty amazing, you know that?"

  She felt a warmth spread inside her, out from her stomach, her core.

  "Dessie," he said again, this time in a questioning tone. "What sort of name is that anyway? Dessie? "

  She cuddled up next to him. He pul ed her closer so that she could rest her head on his chest. She let her fingers play on his skin, smal, featherlike strokes.

  "I was christened Desiree," she said, "the least known of the Swedish princesses."

  She could see her mother in front of her, Eivor, her dear, sweet mom, born in 1938, the same year as Desiree Elizabeth Sibyl a, the second-youngest of the Haga princesses, the "Hagacesses," daughter of Crown Prince Gustaf Adolf and his wife, Sibyl a av Sachsen-Coburg-Gotha. Princess Desiree was Eivor's great role model, so it was obvious that that was what her daughter would be cal ed.

  "It's a beautiful name," Jacob said.

  She laughed.

  "You can imagine how much fun it was being cal ed Desiree when you're ten years old and living in Adalen. 'Desiree, have you got diarrhea?'"

  "Poor Desiree," said Jacob, stroking her hair, then her face, his fingers lingering.

  "It was lucky my cousin Robert from Kalix came to visit sometimes,"

  Dessie said, lifting her face to look at Jacob's. "Robert was big and strong, and he protected me."

  He kissed her, and she felt an immediate little shiver between her legs.

  She felt him react the same way.

  She rol ed over to sit on top of him and nibbled gently at his earlobe, then his cheek.

  If this was wrong, how come it felt so right?

  Dessie kissed Jacob's eyes one at a time.

  Chapter 89

  Friday, June 18

  She was woken by a muffled electronic noise. It was coming from somewhere beneath them, and she waited quietly until the annoying sound stopped.

  Careful y she laid her head back on Jacob's chest and breathed in his smel, a combination of sweat and aftershave. Everything was quiet. The sun was already high in the sky, drowning the little room in white light.

  Dessie wondered how long she had been asleep.

  An hour, maybe two.

  She wanted to lie here forever. Never have to get up from this bed or leave this man, never do anything else for the rest of her life but make love to him until the day they died, or possibly until the lack of caffeine made her change her mind.

  It would soon be unbearably hot in here. In his cel. That much was a certainty.

  She wriggled her way out of his embrace, pul ed herself up on one elbow, and looked at his sleeping face.

  He looked so young when his face was relaxed and al his worries were far away.

  His hair curled over his forehead and spread out on the pil ow. He couldn't have had it cut for at least six months.

  Not since Kimmy. She thought about Jacob's daughter now, picturing her face. How unbearably sad to lose her like that… to outlive your own child.

  The electronic noise started up again, longer and more persistent this time.

  It was her cel phone.

  Damn, it was in her knapsack, which had slid under the bed the night before, during their somewhat chaotic entry into the little room.

  She waited until it stopped buzzing. Jacob stirred in his sleep beside her.

  She leaned over the edge of the bed, pul ed out the knapsack, and fished out her phone.

  One missed cal.

  One new message.

  She clicked on the message.

  It was a news flash from the main Swedish news agency, short and concise as usual.

  She gasped, "Oh, no."

  Jacob's heavy breathing stopped and she realized he was awake. She'd woken him. She felt his warm hand on her back, a caress that carried the promise of something more.

  She turned to face him, meeting his radiant eyes.

  His smile faded when he saw the look on her face.

  "What is it?" he said. "What's happened?"

  Oh god, oh god, how was she going to tel him?

  He sat up so abruptly that he hit his head on the top bunk. "Just say it, for 119 god's sake!"

  She shrank from his words.

  "They're out," she said. "Ridderwal has let the Postcard Killers go free."

  Chapter 90

  Dessie held her arms out to him, wanting to catch him as he fel into despair at the news. She wanted to hold his face in her hands and reassure him that everything would sort itself out, that this was just a mad, stupid mistake, that Kimmy would get justice and he would be able to move on with his life, and that the rest of his life started right here in this bed with her.

  But Jacob leapt up from the bunk, making his way across her and stumbling onto the floor.

  He grabbed his jeans, pul ing them on without bothering with his underwear.

  "You can't change the decision," Dessie said, forcing herself to sound calm and col ected. "There's nothing you can do about it."

  His hair was a mess, stil damp with sweat. His face was almost completely drained of color.

  "No," he said, pul ing his black T-shirt over his head. "But I can fol ow them. So that's what I'm going to do, right to the ends of the damn earth, if I'm not there already…"

  Dessie sat up in bed now, lifting the covers over her breasts, suddenly very conscious of her nakedness. She felt incredibly vulnerable, too. A little sad.

  "They were let out at six this morning, to avoid the media. They could be halfway across the Atlantic by now. They could be anywhere."

  He pushed his feet into his shoes without bothering to untie them and tugged his suede jacket on. Then he stopped by the door, hesitating.

  "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean… I'm just sorry!"

  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 kil ers have booked into the honeymoon suite, if you can believe that. The whole of the world's press is there, including al our esteemed col eagues."

  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.

  "Th
e Rudolphs have decided to speak. They want to tel 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 Kil ers safely locked back away in Kronoberg Prison.

  "This is surreal. What in hel are they up to?" she said. "Those bastards are guilty as hel. 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 careful y for more than a minute.

  Dessie shook her head to say that she wasn't there and pul ed her knapsack on.

  "Just a moment…"

  He put his hand over the mouthpiece.

  "It's a Danish journalist. He wants to talk to you specifical y. 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 121 the Postcard Kil ers."

  Chapter 92

  JACOB CAME TOWARD HER in the departure hal 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 wel.

  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'l 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 swal owed 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 tel 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 final y managed to say.

  "The press conference at two o'clock, yeah."

  He heaved his duffel bag onto his shoulder again. 122 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 al."

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

  How could she be so clingy? She wasn't that way – not ever – not even as a kid, especial y 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.

  She watched him go until he was swal owed up by the mass of people and disappeared in the crowd.

  "See you."

  Chapter 93

  CNN, SKY NEWS, and BBC World were al broadcasting live from the Hal of Mirrors in the Grand Hotel. The overblown decor with its gold pil ars, mirrored doors, and crystal chandeliers made Dessie think of Versail es or some other wedding-cake chateau. Journalists and photographers and cameramen and radio reporters were al pushing and shoving to get the best places.

  It was so crowded that the television people were standing shoulder to shoulder as they spoke to the cameras.

  Usual y she did al she could to avoid press conferences.

  There was something humiliating in al the pushing and shoving to get close, packed in with other reporters and turned into a babbling crowd.

  The hierarchy was ridiculously strict as wel.

  The television people always got to sit at the front. The bigger and noisier the channel, the closer their reporter got to the center of the action. 123 Then came the radio reporters with their antennas, the news agencies, the national press, and then the specialist and local press. Researchers and editorial staff like her were let in only if there was room.

  Today she decided to behave like Jacob, storming through everybody like an express train, quickly showing her press pass at the door and forcing her way into the back of the room, not taking no for an answer, not caring what anybody thought of her.

  The room could hold five hundred, but the hotel management had limited the number to three hundred because of al the equipment needed for live television broadcasts.

  She leaned back against the wal, craning her neck to see. What an absurd circus.

  At the front of the room was a smal, important-looking podium with metal steps on both sides.

  The jungle of microphones shouted out the fact that this was where the siblings were going to proclaim their innocence to al the world.

  The level of sound in the room was rising steadily, like the tension in a stadium during the World Cup final.

  Dessie closed her eyes.

  She felt almost completely paralyzed inside. Events in the room were reaching her through a thick, toughened, glasslike material. It felt like that, anyway.

  How could everything have gone so wrong? And so quickly.

  Her cel rang and she only noticed it because she was holding it in her hand.

  It was Forsberg.

  "How does it look? Did you manage to get inside? How close are you?"

  "I thought this whole spectacle was going out live on seventeen channels,"

  Dessie said. "Can't you see for yourself?"

  "They're just showing a forest of microphones. I can't tel anything. Have you seen Alexander Andersson?"

  "I don't think we're in quite the same place," Dessie said. "I'm standing right at the back."

  Forsberg took a deep breath.

  "Is it true that you interviewed them?" he said. "While they were being held?"

  She kept her eyes fixed on the podium. Something was happening in the front.

  "Don't believe everything you hear. They're coming in now!"

  The Hal of Mirrors exploded in a storm of flashbulbs and spotlights.

  From a door on the left Malcolm Rudolph walked into the room. He was wearing a light blue shirt unbuttoned at the neck and a pair of fashionably torn jeans.

  His sister, Sylvia, was walking behind him, her bil owing chestnut brown hair glittering in the flashing lights. She was dressed entirely in white.

  "Shit," Forsberg said in her ear. "She's beautiful! How does she look in person?"

  "I
'l cal you later," Dessie said, ending the cal.

  After Sylvia came a tal, thin woman whom Dessie recognized as Andrea Friederichs, their lawyer – their copyright lawyer.

  The central characters stopped in front of the jungle of microphones and stood there for three long minutes so that they could be photographed properly.

  Then the lawyer leaned forward and said in the queen's English: "If we could get started with this press conference…"

  Chapter 94

  The Rudolphs' message to the world was crystal clear: a miscarriage of justice had narrowly been avoided today.

  This was repeated time after time during the forty-five-minute live broadcast.

  The emcee for the performance was Andrea Friederichs, and Dessie had to admit that she performed her duties with aplomb.

  She said that thanks to the civic-minded courage of Prosecutor Evert Ridderwal, these innocent young people had been spared yet another day of stressful interrogation, and another night in a Swedish prison cel.

  Obviously, the Rudolph siblings had nothing to do with the Postcard Kil ers.

  The very idea was preposterous.

  The lawyer systematical y went through al the points that proved they were innocent. She reeled them off from memory, no notes:

  They were in Madrid when the kil ings took place in Athens.

  They were in the south of Spain at the time of the Salzburg murders.

  They were buying theater tickets when the murders in Berlin were carried out.

  The Dutch couple, Nienke van Mourik and Peter Visser, were clearly stil alive when the Rudolphs left their hotel room.

  The Swedish police had arrested and held them because they were looking at art.

  "I have never seen such an extreme case of high-handed policing," Andrea 125 Friederichs said.

  Dessie looked around the room, noting her col eagues' sympathetic demeanors. They clearly shared the lawyer's righteous indignation.