The Postcard Killers - James Patterson [45]
Jacob was staring at prints made from the recordings from the Grand Hôtel, tearing at his hair.
Something was fundamentally wrong here. Was he the only one who saw it?
Why had the killers suddenly dropped all safety precautions?
Why were they showing themselves so openly?
It was too easy.
“We’ve got them now,” Evert Ridderwall said happily. “They’ll never get away. I don’t see how they can.”
Even Mats Duvall looked pleased.
“It’s just a matter of time before they’re arrested,” he agreed.
Jacob looked through the pictures again. Both the fair-haired man and the dark-haired woman were clearly visible in all the pictures. There was no doubt that they would be recognized. A national alert had been put out for the couple.
Interpol would be releasing these same pictures internationally within half an hour. Every police patrol in the Stockholm region had already received the printouts.
Sara Höglund came into the room.
“We’ve released their pictures to the media. They ought to be up on their websites in a few minutes.”
Mats Duvall turned to his computer and quickly logged into Aftonposten’s website.
“Sometimes they’re really quick,” he said, turning the screen toward the others.
The headline was in a size usually reserved for world wars and Swedish victories in the ice hockey world championships.
“Police Suspects: These Are the POSTCARD KILLERS.”
Underneath was a picture of the fair-haired man and the dark-haired woman.
Chapter 65
THE SQUARE OUTSIDE STOCKHOLM’S CENTRAL Station was filled with police, their dogs, and cordons.
Mac was walking slowly toward the train terminal’s main entrance with his arm around Sylvia’s shoulders. They could hear the beeping and crackling voices of police radios wherever they went.
Two long-haired boys were picked up with their back pockets full of grass just a few meters ahead of them. What idiots!
“Sorry, guys,” Sylvia said.
No one thought to stop the couple.
No one asked to look in their bags, because they didn’t have any.
They had been walking around the streets, looking at their reflections in plate-glass windows, admiring their work. Mac tried on a new leather jacket at Emporio Armani. Sylvia sampled different perfumes in Kicks. She smelled nice now. Fresh and sexy for her man.
A police car glided slowly past them. Sylvia took off her sunglasses and smiled at the officer in the car. He smiled back and drove on.
An elderly woman started yelling when two officers asked to go through her handbag. Three teenage boys ran past like the hounds of hell were after them, followed by two plainclothes policemen.
“Come on, let’s go in,” Sylvia said. “These people, the police, are so stupid.”
Mac hesitated at the entrance.
Sylvia gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “You’re such a star, Mac.”
With their fingers laced together, they walked into the lion’s den.
Children were crying, dogs barking, adults complaining. Loudspeaker announcements about delays and canceled trains followed one after another. The crowd got thicker and more agitated with every step they took. Some people had already missed trains because of the mindless searches.
After just ten meters or so they reached the first police checkpoint.
Mac stiffened when he caught sight of his own portrait in the hands of a well-built policeman with a big Alsatian panting at his side, but Sylvia pushed her way through to the policeman and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Excuse me,” she said, “but what’s going on?”
The policeman turned around, looked right at her, and quite literally jumped.
“I see you’ve got my picture there,” she said, wide-eyed, pointing to it. “What’s this all about?”
Chapter 66
THEY WERE AMERICAN CITIZENS, THEIR names Sylvia and Malcolm Rudolph, from Santa Barbara, California.
Their arrest was entirely undramatic.
They went right along to the police station without protest to clear up what was obviously a misunderstanding. They were both very calm,