Postcard killers

Chapter 107

There were several clicks on the line, then the Austrian reporter was there.

Dessie introduced herself as a fel ow reporter from Stockholm.

"Before I start, I want to apologize for phoning and disturbing you," she said in her rusty schoolgirl German.

"I was the one who received the postcard and picture in Sweden," she explained. "I wonder if I could ask you a couple of questions."

"I haven't got anything to say," the reporter said, but she didn't sound angry. Just watchful.

"I completely understand," Dessie said. "I know what you've been through."

"I read about the kil ings in Sweden," Charlotta Bruckmoser said, sounding slightly less guarded.

"Wel, here's something you might not know," Dessie said, and she told her story. About the photographs mimicking famous works of art, with a few exceptions; about the postcards of places where death and art mixed together, again with a few exceptions; about Jacob Kanon and his murdered daughter; about Sylvia and Malcolm Rudolph, their alibis and Jacob's conviction that, in 142 spite of everything, they were the Postcard Kil ers.

The only thing she left out was the night in Jacob's room in the hostel.

Two sharp beeping sounds told her that someone was trying to cal her, but she ignored them.

Charlotta Bruckmoser was silent for a few moments after Dessie had finished speaking. "I haven't read any of this in the papers," she eventual y said.

"No," Dessie said, "and I doubt you could get confirmation of it from any official sources."

"What about you, what do you think?" the reporter asked cautiously. "Are the Rudolphs guilty?"

Dessie took a moment to reply.

"I real y don't know anymore."

Silence again.

"Why are you tel ing me this?" the Austrian woman asked.

Two more beeping sounds. Someone was keen to get hold of her.

"The pictures you received," Dessie said. "I'd real y like to see the pictures you received."

"I'l e-mail you the card and the letter and everything," Charlotta Bruckmoser said.

Ten seconds later there was a ping from Dessie's mailbox. The pictures were here!

There was blood al over the room, as if the victims had been crawling about while they bled to death. Two lamps had been broken. The bodies had fal en forward onto their sides and lay about a meter apart on the floor.

"Is there any Austrian work of art that looks like this?" Dessie asked.

"Famous art?"

The reporter took her time replying.

"I don't think so," she said, "but I'm no expert. Famous art, though? I real y don't think so."

Dessie clicked open the PDF of the envelope and looked at the address. It was written in the same block letters as the others. But on the back was something she hadn't seen before: nine numbers, hastily written down.

"That number on the back," Dessie said, "what does that mean?"

"It's a phone number," Charlotta Bruckmoser said. "I tried cal ing it. It's for a pizzeria in Vienna. The police decided it had nothing to do with the case."

At that moment Dessie's inbox pinged again. She felt her stomach lurch.

It's Jacob, ran the thought going through her head. He's e-mailed me because he misses me.

It was from Gabriel a.

Tried to cal you. Another double murder in Oslo.

"I've got to go," Dessie said and hung up on Charlotta Bruckmoser.