CHAPTER 14
Maundy Thursday, March 24
Modig tried three times in half an hour to reach Nils Bjurman on his mobile. Each
time she got the message that the subscriber could not be reached.
At 3:30 p.m. she drove to Odenplan and rang his doorbell. Once more, no answer.
She spent the next twenty minutes knocking on doors in the apartment building to
see if any of Bjurman’s neighbours knew where he might be.
In eleven of the nineteen apartments no-one was there. It was obviously the wrong
time of day to be knocking on doors, and it would not get any better over the
Easter weekend. In the eight apartments that were occupied, everyone was helpful.
Five of them knew who Bjurman was—a polite, well-mannered gentleman on the
fifth floor. No-one could provide any information as to his whereabouts. She
managed to ascertain that Bjurman might be visiting one of his closest neighbours,
a businessman named Sjöman. But nobody answered the door there either.
Frustrated, Modig took out her mobile and called Bjurman’s answering machine
once again. She gave her name, left her number, and asked him to please contact
her as soon as he could.
She went back to Bjurman’s door and wrote him a note asking him to call her. She
got out a business card and dropped that through the mail slot as well. Just as she
closed the flap, she heard a telephone ring inside the apartment. She leaned down
and listened intently as it rang four times. She heard the answering machine click
on, but she could not hear any message.
She closed the flap on the mail slot and stared at the door. Exactly what impulse
made her reach out and touch the handle she could not have said, but to her great
surprise the door was unlocked. She pushed it open and peered into the hall.
“Hello!” she called cautiously and listened. There was no sound.
She took a step into the hall and then hesitated. She had no warrant to search the
premises and no right to be in the apartment, even if the door was unlocked. She
looked to her left and got a glimpse of the living room. She had just decided to
back out of the apartment when her glance fell on the hall table. She saw a box for
a Colt Magnum pistol.
Modig suddenly had a strong sense of unease. She opened her jacket and drew her
service weapon, which she had rarely done before.
She clicked off the safety catch and aimed the gun at the floor as she went to the
living room and looked in. She saw nothing untoward, but her apprehension
increased. She backed out and peered into the kitchen. Empty. She went down the
corridor and pushed open the bedroom door.
Bjurman’s naked body lay half stretched out on the bed. His knees were on the
floor. It was as though he had knelt to say his prayers.
Even from the door Modig could tell that he was dead. Half of his forehead had
been blown away by a shot to the back of his head.
Modig closed the apartment door behind her. She still had her service revolver in
her hand as she flipped open her mobile and called Inspector Bublanski. She could
not reach him. Next she called Prosecutor Ekström. She made a note of the time. It
was 4:18.
Faste looked at the entrance door to the building on Lundagatan. He looked at
Andersson and then at his watch. 4:10.
After obtaining the entry code from the caretaker, they had already been inside the
building and listened at the door with the nameplate SALANDER-WU. They had
heard no sound from the apartment, and nobody had answered the bell. They
returned to their car and parked where they could keep watch on the door.
From the car they had ascertained by phone that the person in Stockholm whose
name had been recently added to the contract for the apartment on Lundagatan
was Miriam Wu, born in 1974 and previously living at St. Eriksplan.
They had a passport photograph of Salander taped above the car radio. Faste
muttered out loud that she looked like a bitch.
“Shit, the whores are looking worse all the time. You’d have to be pretty desperate
to pick her up.”
Andersson kept his mouth shut.
At 4:20 they were called by Bublanski, who told them he was on his way from
Armansky’s to the Millennium offices. He asked Faste and Andersson to maintain
their watch at Lundagatan. Salander would have to be brought in for questioning,
but they should be aware that the prosecutor did not think she could be linked to
the killings in Enskede.
“All right,” Faste said. “According to Bubble the prosecutor wants to have a
confession before they arrest anybody.”
Andersson said nothing. Listlessly they watched people moving through the
neighbourhood.
At 4:40, Prosecutor Ekström called Faste’s mobile.
“Things are happening. We found Bjurman shot in his apartment. He’s been dead
for at least twenty-four hours.”
Faste sat up in his seat. “Got it. What should we do?”
“I’m going to issue an alert on Salander. She’s being sought as a suspect in three
murders. We’ll send it out county-wide. We have to consider her dangerous and
very possibly armed.”
“Got it.”
“I’m sending a van to Lundagatan. They’ll go in and secure the apartment.”
“Understood.”
“Have you been in touch with Bublanski?”
“He’s at Millennium.”
“And seems to have turned off his phone. Could you try to reach him and let him
know?”
Faste and Andersson looked at each other.
“The question is, what do we do if she turns up?” Andersson said.
“If she’s alone and things look good, we’ll pick her up. This girl is as crazy as hell
and obviously on a killing spree. There may be more weapons in the apartment.”
Blomkvist was dead tired when he laid the pile of manuscript pages on Berger’s
desk and slumped into the chair by the window overlooking Götgatan. He had
spent the whole afternoon trying to make up his mind what they ought to do with
Svensson’s unfinished book.
Svensson had been dead only a few hours, and already his publisher was debating
what to do with the work he had left behind. An outsider might think it cynical
and coldhearted, but Blomkvist did not see it that way. He felt as if he were in an
almost weightless state. It was a sensation that every reporter or newspaper editor
knew well, and it kicked in at moments of direst crisis.
When other people are grieving, the newspaperman turns efficient. And despite the
numbing shock that afflicted the members of the Millennium team who were there
that Maundy Thursday morning, professionalism took over and was rigorously
channelled into work.
For Blomkvist this went without saying. He and Svensson were two of a kind, and
Svensson would have done the same himself if their roles had been reversed. He
would have asked himself what he could do for Blomkvist. Svensson had left a
legacy in the form of a manuscript with an explosive story. He had worked on it for
four years; he had put his soul into a task which he would now never complete.
And he had chosen to work at Millennium.
The murders of Dag Svensson and Mia Johansson were not a national trauma on
the scale of the murder of Olof Palme, and the investigation would not be minutely
followed by a grieving nation. But for employees of Millennium the shock was
perhaps greater—they were affected personally—and Svensson had a broad network
of contacts in the media who were going to demand answers to their questions.
But now it was Blomkvist’s and Berger’s duty to finish Svensson’s book, and to
answer the questions Who killed them? And why?
“I can reconstruct the unfinished text,” Blomkvist said. “Malin and I have to go
through the unedited chapters line by line and see where more work still needs to
be done. For most of it, all we have to do is follow Dag’s notes, but we do have a
problem in chapters four and five, which are largely based on Mia’s interviews. Dag
didn’t fill in who the sources were, but with one or two exceptions I think we can
use the references in her thesis as a primary source.”
“What about the last chapter?”
“I have Dag’s outline, and we talked it through so many times that I know more or
less exactly what he wanted to say. I propose that we lift the summary and use it
as an afterword, where I can also explain his reasoning.”
“Fair enough, but I want to approve it. We can’t be putting words in his mouth.”
“No danger of that. I’ll write the chapter as my personal reflection and sign it. I’ll
describe how he came to write and research the book and say what sort of person
he was. I’ll conclude by recapping what he said in at least a dozen conversations
over the past few months. There’s plenty in his draft that I can quote. I think I can
make it sound dignified.”
“I want this book published more than ever,” Berger said.
Blomkvist understood exactly what she meant.
Berger put her reading glasses on the desk and shook her head. She got up and
poured two cups of coffee from the thermos and sat down opposite Blomkvist.
“Christer and I have a layout for the replacement issue. We’ve taken two articles
earmarked for the issue after this one and we’re going to fill the gaps with
freelance material. But it’ll be a bit of this and a bit of that, an issue without any
real focus.”
They sat quietly for a moment.
“Have you listened to the news?” Berger asked.
“No. I know what they’re going to say.”
“It’s the top story on every radio station. The second-place story is a political move
by the Centre Party.”
“Which means that absolutely nothing else is happening in the country.”
“The police haven’t released their names yet. They’re being described as a
‘conscientious couple.’ No-one’s mentioned that it was you who found them.”
“I’ll bet the police will do all they can to keep it quiet. At least that’s to our
advantage.”
“Why would the police want to do that?”
“Because detectives basically hate a media circus. I would guess something will leak
out sometime tonight or early tomorrow morning.”
“So young and so cynical.”
“We aren’t that young anymore, Ricky. I thought about it while I was being
questioned last night. The police inspector looked like she could still be at school.”
Berger gave a weak laugh. She had had a few hours’ sleep last night, but she was
beginning to feel the strain. Still, in no time at all she would be editor in chief of
one of the largest newspapers in Sweden. And no—this was not the right time to
reveal that news to Blomkvist.
“Henry called a while ago. A preliminary investigation leader named Ekström held
some sort of press conference this afternoon.”
“Richard Ekström?”
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“Political flunky. Guaranteed media circus. This is going to get plenty of publicity.”
“Well, he says that the police are already following up certain leads and hope to
solve the case soon. Otherwise he pretty much said nothing. But apparently the
place was jammed with reporters.”
Blomkvist rubbed his eyes. “I can’t get the image of Mia’s body out of my mind.
Damn, I was just getting to know them.”
“Some crazy—”
“I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about it all day.”
“About what?”
“Mia was shot from the side. I saw the entry wound on the side of her neck and
the exit wound in her forehead. Dag was shot from the front. The bullet went into
his forehead, and came out the back of his head. Those looked to be the only two
shots. It doesn’t feel like the act of a lone nutcase.”
Berger looked at her partner thoughtfully. “So what was it?”
“If it’s not a random killing, then there has to be a motive. And the more I think
about it, the more it feels as if this manuscript provides a damned good motive.”
Blomkvist gestured at the stack of paper on Berger’s desk. She followed his eyes.
Then they looked at each other. “Maybe it’s not the book itself. Maybe they had
done too much snooping and managed to … I don’t know … maybe somebody felt
threatened.”
“And hired a hit man. Micke—that’s the stuff of American movies. This book is about
the exploiters, the users. It names police officers, politicians, journalists… So you
think one of them murdered Dag and Mia?”
“I don’t know, Ricky. But we’re supposed to be going to press in three weeks with
the toughest exposé of trafficking that’s ever been published in Sweden.”
At that moment Eriksson knocked and put her head round the door. An Inspector
Bublanski wanted to speak with Blomkvist.
Bublanski shook hands with Berger and Blomkvist and sat down in the third chair
at the table by the window. He studied Blomkvist and saw a hollow-eyed man with
a day’s growth of beard.
“Have there been any developments?” Blomkvist said.
“Maybe. I understand you were the one who found the couple in Enskede and
called the police last night.”
Blomkvist nodded wearily.
“I know that you told your story to the detective on duty last night, but I wonder if
you could clarify a few details for me.”
“What would you like to know?”
“How did you come to be driving over to see Svensson and Johansson so late at
night?”
“That’s not a detail, it’s a whole novel,” Blomkvist said with a tired smile. “I was at
a dinner party at my sister’s house—she lives in a new development in Stäket. Dag
Svensson called me on my mobile and said that he wasn’t going to have time to
come to the office on Thursday—today, that is—as we had previously agreed. He was
supposed to deliver some photographs to our art director. The reason he gave was
that he and Mia had decided to drive up to her parents’ house over the weekend,
and they wanted to leave early in the morning. He asked if it would be OK if he
messengered them to me last night instead. I said that since I lived so close, I could
pick up the photographs on my way home from my sister’s.”
“So you drove to Enskede to pick up photographs.”
“Yes.”
“Can you think of any motive for the murders of Svensson and Johansson?”
Blomkvist and Berger glanced at each other. Neither said a word.
“What is it?” Bublanski wanted to know.
“We’ve discussed the matter today and we’re having a bit of a disagreement. Well,
actually not a disagreement—we’re just not certain. We would rather not
speculate.”
“Tell me.”
Blomkvist described to him the subject of Svensson’s book, and how he and Berger
had been discussing whether it might have some connection to the murders.
Bublanski sat quietly for a moment, digesting the information.
“So Dag Svensson was about to expose police officers.”
He did not at all like the turn the conversation had taken, and imagined how a
“police trail” might wander back and forth in the media and give rise to all kinds of
conspiracy theories.
“No,” Blomkvist said. “He was about to expose criminals, a few of whom happen to
be police officers. There are also one or two members of my own profession,
namely journalists.”
“And you’re thinking of publishing this information now?”
Blomkvist turned to look at Berger.
“No,” she said. “We’ve spent the day working on the next issue. In all probability
we’ll publish Svensson’s book, but that won’t happen until we know exactly what’s
going on. In light of what has happened, the book will have to be extensively
reworked. We will do nothing to sabotage the investigation into the murder of our
two friends, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’ll have to take a look at Svensson’s desk, but since these are the editorial offices
of a magazine it might be a sensitive thing to put in hand a complete search.”
“You’ll find all Dag’s material in his laptop,” Berger said.
“I’ve gone through his desk,” Blomkvist said. “I’ve taken some documents that
directly identify sources who want to remain anonymous. You are at liberty to
examine everything else, and I’ve put a note on the desk to the effect that nothing
may be touched or moved. The problem is that the contents of the book absolutely
have to remain under wraps until it’s printed. We badly need to avoid having the
text passed around the police force, the more so since we’re going to hang one or
two policemen out to dry.”
Shit, Bublanski thought. Why didn’t I come straight here this morning? But he only
nodded and changed tack.
“OK. We have a person we want to question in connection with the murders. I
believe it’s someone you know. I’d like to hear what you have to say about a
woman named Lisbeth Salander.”
For a second Blomkvist looked like a virtual question mark. Bublanski noted that
Berger gave her colleague a sharp look.
“Now I don’t understand.”
“You know Lisbeth Salander?”
“Yes, I do know her.”
“How do you know her?”
“Why do you ask?”
Bublanski was obviously irritated, but all he said was, “I’d like to interview her in
connection with the murders. How do you know her?”
“But… that doesn’t make sense. Lisbeth Salander has no connection whatsoever to
Dag Svensson or Mia Johansson.”
“That’s something we’ll establish in due course,” Bublanski said patiently. “But my
question remains. How do you know Lisbeth Salander?”
Blomkvist stroked the stubble on his chin and then rubbed his eyes as thoughts
tumbled around in his head. At last he met Bublanski’s gaze.
“I hired her about two years ago to do some research for me on a completely
different project.”
“What was that project?”
“I’m sorry, but now you’ll have to take my word for it: it didn’t have the slightest
thing to do with Dag Svensson or Mia Johansson. And it’s all over.”
Bublanski did not like it when someone claimed there were matters that could not
be discussed even in a murder investigation, but he chose to drop it for the time
being.
“When was the last time you saw Salander?”
Blomkvist paused before he spoke.
“Here’s how it is. During the autumn two years ago I was seeing her. The
relationship ended around Christmas of that year. Then she disappeared from the
city. I hadn’t seen her for more than a year until a week ago.”
Berger raised her eyebrows. Bublanski surmised that this was news to her.
“Tell me where you saw her.”
Blomkvist took a deep breath and then gave a brisk account of the events on
Lundagatan. Bublanski listened with gathering astonishment, unsure how much of
the story Blomkvist was making up.
“So you didn’t talk to her?”
“No, she disappeared on upper Lundagatan. I waited a long time, but she never
came back. I wrote her a note and asked her to get in touch with me.”
“And you’re quite sure you know of no connection between her and the couple in
Enskede.”
“I am certain of it.”
“Can you describe the man you say you saw attack her?”
“Not in detail. He attacked, and she defended herself and fled. I saw him from a
distance of forty to forty-five yards. It was late at night and quite dark.”
“Were you intoxicated?”
“I was a little under the influence, but I wasn’t falling-down drunk. The man had
lightish hair in a ponytail. He wore a dark waist-length jacket. He had a prominent
belly. When I went up the stairs on Lundagatan I only saw him from behind, but he
turned around when he clobbered me. I seem to remember that he had a thin face
and blue eyes set close together.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?” Berger said.
Blomkvist shrugged. “There was a weekend in between, and you went to Göteborg
to take part in that damned debate programme. You were gone Monday, and on
Tuesday we only saw each other briefly. It didn’t seem so important.”
“But considering what has happened in Enskede … it’s odd that you didn’t mention
this to the police,” Bublanski said.
“Why would I mention it to the police? That’s like saying I should have mentioned
that I caught a pickpocket trying to rob me in the tunnelbana at T-Centralen a
month ago. There is absolutely no imaginable connection between what happened
on Lundagatan and what happened in Enskede.”
“But you didn’t report the attack to the police?”
“No.” Blomkvist paused. “Lisbeth Salander is a very private person. I considered
going to the police but decided it was up to her to do that if she wanted to. And I
wanted to speak to her first.”
“Which you haven’t done?”
“I haven’t spoken to her since the day after Christmas a year ago.”
“Why did your—if relationship is the right word—why did it end?”
Blomkvist’s eyes darkened.
“I don’t know. She broke off contact with me—it happened practically overnight.”
“Did something happen between you?”
“No, not if you mean an argument or anything like that. One day we were good
friends. The next day she didn’t answer her telephone. Then she melted into thin air
and was gone from my life.”
Bublanski contemplated Blomkvist’s explanation. It sounded honest and was
supported by the fact that Armansky had described her disappearance from Milton
Security in similar terms. Something had apparently happened to Salander during
the winter a year earlier. He turned to Berger.
“Do you know Salander too?”
“I met her once. Could you tell us why you’re asking questions about her in
connection with Enskede?” she said.
Bublanski shook his head. “She has been linked to the crime scene. That’s all I can
say. But I have to admit that the more I hear about Lisbeth Salander the more
surprised I am. What is she like as a person?”
“In what respect?” Blomkvist said.
“How would you describe her?”
“Professionally—one of the best fact finders I have ever come across.”
Berger glanced at Blomkvist and bit her lower lip. Bublanski was convinced that
some piece of the puzzle was missing and that they knew something they were
unwilling to tell him.
“And privately?”
Blomkvist paused for a long moment before he spoke.
“She is a very lonely and odd person,” Blomkvist said. “Socially introverted. Doesn’t
like talking about herself. At the same time she’s a person with a strong will. She
has morals.”
“Morals?”
“Yes. Her own particular moral standards. You can’t talk her into doing anything
against her will. In her world, things are either right or wrong, so to speak.”
Again Blomkvist had described her in the same terms as Armansky had. Two men
who knew her, and the same evaluation.
“Do you know Dragan Armansky?”
“We’ve met a few times. I took him out for a beer once last year when I was trying
to find out where Lisbeth had got to.”
“And you say that she was a competent researcher?”
“The best,” Blomkvist said.
Bublanski drummed his fingers on the table and looked down at the flow of people
on Götgatan. He felt strangely torn. The psychiatric reports that Faste had retrieved
from the Guardianship Agency claimed that Salander was a deeply disturbed and
possibly violent person who was for all intents and purposes mentally handicapped.
What Armansky and Blomkvist had told him painted a very different picture from
the one established by medical experts over several years of study. Both men
conceded that Salander was an odd person, but both held her in high regard
professionally.
Blomkvist had also said that he had been “seeing her” for a period—which indicated
a sexual relationship. Bublanski wondered what rules applied for individuals who
had been declared incompetent. Could Blomkvist have implicated himself in some
form of abuse by exploiting a person in a position of dependency?
“And how did you perceive her social handicap?” he asked.
“What handicap?”
“The guardianship and her psychiatric problems.”
“Guardianship?”
“What psychiatric problems?” Berger said.
Bublanski looked in astonishment from Blomkvist to Berger and back. They didn’t
know. They really did not know. Bublanski was suddenly angry at both Armansky
and Blomkvist, and especially at Berger with her elegant clothes and her
fashionable office looking down on Götgatan. Here she sits, telling people what to
think. But he directed his annoyance at Blomkvist.
“I don’t understand what’s wrong with you and Armansky,” he said.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“Lisbeth Salander has been in and out of psychiatric units since she was a teenager.
A psychiatric assessment and a judgment in the district court determined that she
was and still is unable to look after her own affairs. She was declared incompetent.
She has a documented violent tendency and has been in trouble with the
authorities all her life. And now she is a prime suspect in a murder investigation.
And you and Armansky talk about her as though she were some sort of princess.”
Blomkvist sat motionless, staring at Bublanski.
“I’ll put it another way,” Bublanski said. “We were looking for a connection
between Salander and the couple in Enskede. It turns out that you not only
discovered the victims, you are also the connection. Do you have anything to say to
this?”
Blomkvist leaned back, closed his eyes, and tried to make heads or tails of the
situation. Salander suspected of murdering Svensson and Johansson? That can’t be
right. It doesn’t make sense. Was she capable of murder? Blomkvist suddenly saw in
his mind’s eye her expression from two years ago when she had gone after Martin
Vanger with a golf club. There was no shadow of doubt that she could have killed
him. But she didn’t, because she had to save my life. He unconsciously reached for
his neck, where Vanger’s noose had been. But Svensson and Johansson … it doesn’t
make any logical sense whatsoever.
He was aware that Bublanski was watching him closely. Like Armansky, Blomkvist
had to make a choice. Sooner or later he would have to decide which corner of the
ring he was going to be in if Salander was accused of murder. Guilty or not guilty?
Before he managed to say anything, the telephone on Berger’s desk rang. She picked
it up, listened, then handed the receiver to Bublanski.
“Somebody called Faste wants to speak to you.”
Bublanski took the receiver and listened attentively. Blomkvist and Berger could see
his expression change.
“When are they going in?”
Silence.
“What’s the address again? Lundagatan. And the number? OK. I’m in the vicinity. I’ll
drive there.”
Bublanski stood up.
“Excuse me, but I’ll have to cut this conversation short. Salander’s guardian has just
been found shot dead. She’s now being formally charged, in absentia, with three
murders.”
Berger’s mouth dropped open. Blomkvist looked as if he had been struck by
lightning.
The occupation of the apartment on Lundagatan was an uncomplicated procedure
from a tactical perspective. Faste and Andersson leaned on the hood of their car
keeping watch while the armed response team, supplied with backup weapons,
occupied the stairwell and took control of the building and the rear courtyard.
The team swiftly confirmed what Faste and Andersson already knew. No-one
opened the door when they rang the bell.
Faste looked down Lundagatan, which was blocked off from Zinkensdamm to
Högalid Church, to the great annoyance of the passengers on the number 66 bus.
One bus had been stuck inside the barriers on the hill and could not go forward or
back. Eventually Faste went over and ordered a patrolman to step aside and let the
bus through. A large number of onlookers were watching the commotion from
upper Lundagatan.
“There has to be a simpler way,” Faste said.
“Simpler than what?” Andersson said.
“Simpler than sending in the storm troopers every time a stray hooligan has to be
brought in.”
Andersson refrained from commenting.
“After all, she’s less than five feet tall and weighs about ninety pounds.”
It had been decided that it was not necessary to break down the door with a
sledgehammer. Bublanski joined them as they waited for a locksmith to drill out
the lock, and then he stepped aside so that the troops could enter the apartment. It
took about eight seconds to eyeball the 500 square feet and confirm that Salander
was not hiding under the bed, in the bathroom, or in a wardrobe. Then Bublanski
was given the all clear to come in.
The three detectives looked with curiosity around the impeccably kept and
tastefully furnished apartment. The furniture was simple. The kitchen chairs were
painted in different pastel colours. There were attractive black-and-white
photographs in frames on the walls. In the hall was a shelf with a CD player and a
large collection of CDs. Everything from hard rock to opera. It all looked arty.
Elegant. Tasteful.
Andersson inspected the kitchen and found nothing out of the ordinary. He looked
through a stack of newspapers and checked the counter-top, the cupboards, and
the freezer in the refrigerator.
Faste opened the wardrobes and the drawers of the chest in the bedroom. He
whistled when he found handcuffs and a number of sex toys. In the wardrobe he
found some latex clothing that his mother would have been embarrassed even to
look at.
“There’s been a party here,” he said out loud, holding up a patent-leather outfit that
according to the label was designed by Domino Fashion—whatever that was.
Bublanski looked in the desk in the hall, where he found a small pile of unopened
letters addressed to Salander. He looked through the pile and saw that they were
bills and bank statements, and one personal letter. It was from Mikael Blomkvist. So
far, Blomkvist’s story held up. Then he bent down and picked up the mail on the
doormat, stained with footprints from the armed response team. It consisted of a
magazine, Thai Pro Boxing, the free newspaper Södermalm News, and three
envelopes addressed to Miriam Wu.
Bublanski was struck by an unpleasant suspicion. He went into the bathroom and
opened the medicine cabinet. He found a box of paracetamol painkillers and a half-full tube of Citodon, paracetamol with codeine. Citodon was a prescription drug.
The medicine was prescribed for Miriam Wu. There was one toothbrush in the
medicine cabinet.
“Faste, why does it say SALANDER-WU on the door?” he said.
“No idea.”
“OK, let me put it this way—why is there mail on the doormat addressed to a
Miriam Wu, and why is there a prescription tube of Citodon in the medicine
cabinet made out to Miriam Wu? Why is there only one toothbrush? And why—
when you consider that Lisbeth Salander is, according to our information, only one
hand’s breadth tall—do those leather pants you’re holding up fit a person who is at
least five foot eight?”
There was a brief, embarrassed silence in the apartment. It was broken by
Andersson.
“Shit,” he said.
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