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, pulled out the knapsack, and fished out her phone.
One missed call.
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 tell him?
He sat up so abruptly that he hit his head on the top bunk. “Just say it, for god’s sake!”
She shrank from his words.
“They’re out,” she said. “Ridderwall has let the Postcard Killers go free.”
Chapter 90
DESSIE HELD HER ARMS out to him, wanting to catch him as he fell 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, pulling them on without bothering with his underwear.
“You can’t change the decision,” Dessie said, forcing herself to sound calm and collected. “There’s nothing you can do about it.”
His hair was a mess, still damp with sweat. His face was almost completely drained of color.
“No,” he said, pulling his black T-shirt over his head. “But I can follow 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.
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 -
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
