The Postcard Killers - James Patterson [54]
“We’ve still got to handle the press,” Sara Höglund said. “Several of the main channels have already done their own vignettes on the Rudolphs, with music and everything.”
Jacob stood up.
“We’ve got to knock a hole in their defense,” he said. “We’ve got to continue to provoke them into making mistakes.”
He stopped in front of Sara Höglund.
“Let me question them,” he said. “Let Dessie interview them. Let us talk to them both together.”
Sara Höglund got to her feet.
“You’re not exactly the shy, retiring type, are you? What makes you think that a reporter on the evening paper and a desperate father would be better at breaking down criminals than experienced murder investigators?”
“With all due respect,” Jacob said, forcing himself to sound calm and collected, “you aren’t the only murder cops in this room. And I’m American. You don’t pick up the nuances in the language.”
“And Dessie Larsson can?”
“She’s written a doctoral thesis on criminology. In English. Have you?”
Dessie stood up as well.
“I’ve done it before,” she said in a quiet voice.
Jacob and Sara Höglund looked at her in surprise.
“I’ve interviewed criminals during ongoing investigations,” she said. “Without pen and paper, or a tape recorder, of course, and under police supervision, but it wouldn’t be the first time.”
“What do we stand to gain from it?” Mats Duvall asked. “Please tell me that.”
“What do you stand to lose?” asked Jacob.
Chapter 80
THE PRESS CONFERENCE WAS OUT of control from the very start.
Several American television channels were broadcasting live and had no desire to sit through Evert Ridderwall’s painstaking details of the progress of the investigation.
Their reporters started shouting questions almost at once, which revealed yet another complication: Evert Ridderwall was extremely bad at English.
He was also rather hard of hearing. He just about managed to read out the details that the investigating team had jointly put together for him, but he could neither hear nor understand what the reporters were asking him.
“A sufficient lack of self-doubt can get you anywhere,” Dessie muttered as she stood next to Jacob at the back of the room.
“And we have a stunning example of that in front of us,” Jacob agreed bitterly.
Evert Ridderwall had insisted on holding the press conference himself because he was, after all, the head of the investigating team.
Sara Höglund, who was standing on the podium next to him, eventually leaned purposefully across the table, picked up the prosecutor’s script and started reading.
Her English bore traces of the East Coast of the United States, and Jacob recalled that she had a good knowledge of the NYPD. Maybe she’d trained there, or worked with them once upon a time.
In actual fact, she said very little other than that the investigation was continuing, and that certain evidence had been obtained but she couldn’t go into details because of the significance of the material to the investigation.
“Fuck it, they haven’t got anything,” said a reporter from one of the Swedish news agencies to his colleague. They were sitting right in front of Dessie and Jacob.
“Shall we go?” Jacob whispered.
“Yes. Please. Now.”
They got to the exit before the reporter from Dagens Eko caught sight of Dessie.
“Dessie,” he called after her. “Dessie Larsson?”
She turned around, surprised that he had recognized her.
“Yes?” she said, and the next moment she had a huge microphone pressed up under her nose.
“What do you think of the unpleasant criticism that’s being directed at you?”
Dessie stared at the man. He was unshaven and had bad teeth.
Don’t blow up, she thought. Don’t get angry, don’t rush off, that’s exactly what he wants.
“Criticism directed at me?” she said. “What do you mean specifically?”
“What do you think of the fact that you’ve introduced to Scandinavia the Anglo-Saxon tradition of paying large amounts of money to brutal serial killers?”
“I think you’ve completely misunderstood that,” she replied, trying to sound calm and confident. “I haven’t paid any money to —”