Postcard killers

Chapter 118

Afterward, they sat in bed and ate an improvised lunch. Jacob was finishing one of her microwaved vegetarian lasagnas.

Dessie had taken her laptop back to bed and was reading Aftonposten's report of the deal that the lawyer, Andrea Friederichs, had negotiated for the rights to Sylvia and Malcolm's story.

"An advance of three and a half mil ion dol ars," she read, "plus royalties and even more money for the subsidiary sale of the book rights. And get this – the lawyer has decided not to charge for her services. She only represented them because it was the right thing to do, she says."

"Are they stil at the Grand?"

She clicked further on the site and looked at her watch.

"According to Alexander Andersson's blog, they checked out half an hour 157 ago. They left through the back door to avoid the media scrum outside the main entrance."

Jacob threw off the covers, leapt out of bed, and disappeared into the kitchen.

Dessie looked after him in surprise.

"There's nothing that links them to the murders," she cal ed into the kitchen. "Jacob? They're free to come and go as they like."

She heard the kettle boil.

The next minute he was standing in the doorway with a mug of coffee in each hand. His face was as dark as a thundercloud.

"It was them," he said. "I know it was. We can't let them go free."

"But there's stil no evidence," Dessie said glumly. "We can't prove a damn thing."

He handed her a mug.

"Their gear must be somewhere. The eyedrops, the outfit he was wearing when he emptied those accounts, the things they've stolen and not managed to get rid of. And the murder weapon…"

"Exactly," Dessie said. "That could be in any rubbish bin, and do you know why? Because I told them in that bloody letter that they were about to get caught. I gave them time to clean up."

Jacob stopped beside the bed and looked at her.

"There was nothing wrong with that letter. You were doing the right thing when you wrote it. You were very brave."

"Was I?" Dessie said. "What did it actual y achieve? Apart from warning the Rudolphs and making a fool of me in front of every proper journalist in Sweden."

He walked angrily across the bedroom floor, turned, and came back.

"They didn't throw their stuff away," he said, "not al of it, anyway. Most serial kil ers keep trophies. They would have chosen a hiding place as soon as they got to Stockholm. It's entirely possible that it's al stil there. I think that it's even likely."

He stopped midstride.

"The little key!" he said.

Dessie blinked.

"What?"

He reached across Dessie and her computer to grab her cel phone from the bedside table.

"What's going on?"

"At the bottom of page three of the official report, there's something about a key. My FBI friend noticed it. I can't help hoping it belongs to some left-luggage locker in Stockholm."