Postcard killers

Chapter 73

They headed off down toward the Central Station side by side.

"What does it mean that the Rudolphs are being held according to Swedish law?" Jacob asked.

"The prosecutor can hold them for up to three days."

"Can they post bail?"

"No, we don't have that sort of system here. Have you ever eaten a flatbread rol?"

"A what?"

They stopped at a little kiosk sel ing hot dogs and hamburgers. Dessie ordered something in her incomprehensible language and let him pay for whatever it was.

Gradual y the solid panic inside him started to let go and open up some.

"Here you are," Dessie said.

She handed him a sort of pancake fil ed with mashed potato, hamburger dressing, gril ed hot dog, chopped dil pickle, onion, mustard, ketchup, and prawn mayonnaise, and al wrapped in foil.

"Jeezuz," he said.

"Just eat," Dessie said. "It's real y good."

"I thought you didn't eat meat," Jacob said.

She looked at him in surprise.

"How'd you know that?"

He took a deep breath and tried to relax his shoulders.

"Just something I noticed, I guess. What do you think of the Rudolphs?

Are they our Postcard Kil ers?"

"Probably," she said. "Mine's vegetarian, by the way."

They sat on the bench inside a bus shelter and ate the sticky rol s. Jacob, who considered himself an expert in junk food, had to admit she was right: it was real y good.

He wolfed it down and thought he might even have another 98 hot-dog-withmashed-potatoes thing.

Dessie Larsson had a calming effect on him. He'd known that almost from the beginning, but he'd never felt it more than he did right now.

He looked at this woman next to him in the yel ow glow of the streetlights.

She was actual y very beautiful without being conspicuously pretty. Her profile was classical y clean and simple. She didn't seem to wear any makeup at al, not even mascara.

"What makes you think they're guilty?" he asked, studying her reaction.

She glanced at him and wiped her mouth with a napkin.

"The bodies," she said. "We know they're arranged as works of art, and the Rudolphs are art students. I don't know, but there's something there, in that mix of art and reality. Also, I don't believe them, especial y her."

He threw the foil wrapping and the smal remains of mashed potato into the bus shelter's trash bin.

"What do you mean, 'that mix of art and reality'? Either it's art or it's reality, right?"

Dessie gave him a serious look.

"It's not unusual for art students to blend them together. We had several cases like that a year or so ago.

"First there was a girl who faked a nervous breakdown in a psychiatric ward as part of her degree show for the Art School. She had the resources of a whole ward focused on her for an entire night. Anyone who was sick or real y suicidal had to wait because of her act."

"You're kidding," Jacob said.

"Nope. Then we had a guy who smashed up a car on the subway. He covered it in black graffiti and broke several windows. He filmed the whole thing and cal ed it 'Territorial Pissing.' Believe it or not, it was exhibited in an art show. The cost to repair the car was one hundred thousand kronor."

"And I thought we had a monopoly on crazies in the States," Jacob said, looking at his watch. "Speaking of the States, there are a few things I have to check on there. Do you know where I can get hold of a computer?"

She looked at him, her eyes large and green.

"I've got one at home," she said.