CHAPTER 16
Good Friday, March 25–Easter Saturday, March 26
Eriksson leaned back into Blomkvist’s sofa. Without thinking, she put her feet up on
the coffee table—exactly as she would have done at home—and quickly took them
off again. Blomkvist gave her a smile.
“That’s OK,” he said. “Make yourself at home.”
She grinned and put her feet up again.
On Good Friday Blomkvist had brought the copies of Svensson’s papers from the
Millennium offices to his apartment. He had laid out the material on the floor of
the living room, and he and Eriksson had spent eight hours going through emails,
notes, jottings in Svensson’s notebook, and above all the manuscript of the book.
On Saturday morning Annika Giannini had come to see her brother. She brought
the evening newspapers from the day before with their glaring headlines and a
huge reproduction of Salander’s passport photograph on the front page. One read:
WANTED FORTRIPLE MURDER
The other had opted for the more sensational headline:
POLICE HUNTPSYCHOTIC MASS MURDERER
They talked for an hour, during which Blomkvist explained his relationship with
Salander and why he couldn’t believe that she was guilty Finally he asked his sister
whether she would consider representing Salander if or when she was caught.
“I’ve represented women in various cases of violence and abuse, but I’m not really a
criminal defence lawyer,” she said.
“You’re the shrewdest lawyer I know, and Lisbeth is going to need somebody she
can trust. I think in the end she would accept you.”
Annika thought for a while before reluctantly agreeing to at least have a discussion
with Salander if they ever got to that stage.
At 1:00 on Saturday afternoon, Inspector Modig called and asked if she could come
over to pick up Salander’s shoulder bag. The police had evidently opened and read
the letter he sent to Salander’s address on Lundagatan.
Modig arrived only twenty minutes later, and Blomkvist asked her to have a seat
with Eriksson at the table in the living room. He went into the kitchen and took
the bag down from the shelf next to the microwave. He hesitated a moment, then
opened the bag and took out the hammer and the Mace canister. Withholding
evidence. Mace was an illegal weapon and possession was a punishable offence. The
hammer would only serve to support those who believed in Salander’s violent
tendencies. That wasn’t necessary, Blomkvist thought.
He offered Modig some coffee.
“May I ask you some questions?” the inspector said.
“Please.”
“In your letter to Salander which my colleagues found at Lundagatan, you wrote
that you are in her debt. What exactly did you mean by that?”
“Lisbeth Salander did me an enormous favour.”
“What manner of favour was that?”
“It was a favour strictly between her and me, which I don’t intend to discuss.”
Modig looked at him intently. “This is a murder investigation we’re carrying out
here.”
“And I hope that you will catch the bastard who killed Dag and Mia as soon as
possible.”
“You don’t think Salander is that killer?”
“No, I do not.”
“In that case, who do you think did shoot your friends?”
“I don’t know. But Dag was intending to expose a large number of people who had
a great deal to lose. One of them could be the killer.”
“And why would such a person also shoot the lawyer, Nils Bjurman?”
“I don’t know. At least not yet.”
His gaze was steady with his own conviction. Modig suddenly smiled. She knew
that he was nicknamed Kalle Blomkvist after the detective in Astrid Lindgren’s
books. Now she understood why.
“But you intend to find out?”
“If I can. You can tell that to Inspector Bublanski.”
“I’ll do that. And if Salander gets in touch, I hope you’ll let us know.”
“I don’t expect her to contact me and confess that she’s guilty of the murders, but
if she does I’ll do everything I can to persuade her to give herself up. In that case I
would support her in any way I can—she’s going to need a friend.”
“And if she says she’s not guilty?”
“Then I just hope she can shed some light on what happened.”
“Herr Blomkvist, just between us and off the record, I hope you realize that Lisbeth
Salander has to be apprehended. Don’t do anything stupid if she gets in touch with
you. If you’re wrong and she is responsible for these killings, it could be extremely
dangerous for you.”
Blomkvist nodded.
“I hope we won’t have to put you under surveillance. You know, of course, that it is
illegal to give help to a fugitive. Aiding and abetting anyone wanted for murder is a
serious offence.”
“For my part, I hope that you will devote some time to looking at the possibility
that Salander had nothing to do with these killings.”
“We will. Next question. Do you happen to know what sort of computer Dag
Svensson worked on?”
“He had a secondhand Mac iBook 500, white, with a fourteen-inch screen. Just like
mine but with a larger display.” Blomkvist pointed to his machine on the table next
to them.
“Do you have any idea where he kept it?”
“He usually carried it in a black bag. I assume it’s in his apartment.”
“It’s not. Could it be at the office?”
“No. I’ve been through his desk and it definitely isn’t there.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
“Do I take it that Dag’s computer is missing?” Blomkvist said at last.
Blomkvist and Eriksson had made a list of the people who might theoretically have
had a motive for killing Svensson. Each name had been written on large sheets of
paper that Blomkvist taped up on his livingroom wall. All of them were men, either
johns or pimps, and they all appeared in the book. By 8:00 that night they had
thirty-seven names, of which thirty were readily identified. Seven had been given
pseudonyms in Svensson’s text. Twenty-one of the men identified were johns who
on various occasions had exploited one or another of the girls. The practical
problem—from the point of view of whether they should publish the book—was
that many of the claims were based on information that only Svensson or
Johansson possessed. A writer who knew—inevitably—less about the subject would
have to verify the information independently.
They estimated that about 80 percent of the existing text could be published
without any great problems, but a good deal of legwork was going to have to be
done before Millennium could risk publishing the remaining 20 percent. They didn’t
doubt the accuracy of the contents, but weren’t sufficiently familiar with the
detailed work behind the book’s most explosive findings. If Svensson were still alive
they would have been able to publish without question—he and Johansson could
have easily dealt with and refuted any objections.
Blomkvist looked out the window. Night had fallen and it was raining. He asked if
Eriksson wanted more coffee. She did not.
“We’ve got the manuscript under control,” she said. “But we aren’t any closer to
pinpointing Dag and Mia’s killer.”
“It could be one of the names on the wall,” Blomkvist said.
“It could be somebody who doesn’t have anything whatsoever to do with the book.
Or it could be your girlfriend.”
“Lisbeth,” Blomkvist said.
Eriksson stole a glance at him. She had worked at Millennium for eighteen months.
She joined right in the middle of the chaos of the Wennerström affair. After years of
temp jobs, Millennium was her first full-time position. She was doing splendidly.
Working at Millennium was status. She had a close bond with Berger and the rest
of the staff, but she had always felt a little uncomfortable in Blomkvist’s company.
There was no clear reason for it, but of all the people at Millennium, Blomkvist was
the one she found the most reserved and unapproachable.
During the past year he had been coming in late and sitting in his office by himself
a lot, or in Berger’s office. He had often been away, and during her first few months
at the magazine she seemed to see him more frequently on some sofa in a TV
studio than in real life. He did not encourage small talk, and from the comments
she heard from other staff members, he appeared to have changed. He was quieter
and harder to talk to.
“If I’m going to work on trying to figure out why Dag and Mia were shot, I’ll have
to know more about Salander. I don’t really know where to start, if…”
She left the sentence hanging. Blomkvist looked at her. Finally he sat down in the
armchair at ninety degrees to her and put his feet up next to hers.
“Do you like working at Millennium?” he said, disconcertingly. “I mean, you’ve been
working for us for a year and a half now, but I’ve been running around so much
that we’ve never had a chance to get to know each other.”
“I like working there a lot,” she said. “Are you happy with me?”
“Erika and I have said over and over that we’ve never had such a valuable managing
editor. We think you’re a real find. And forgive me for not telling you as much
before now.”
Eriksson smiled contentedly. Praise from the great Blomkvist was extremely
gratifying.
“But that’s not what I was actually asking about,” she said.
“You’re wondering about Lisbeth Salander’s links with Millennium.”
“You’ve never said anything, and Erika is pretty tight-lipped about her.”
Blomkvist met her gaze. He and Berger might have complete confidence in her, but
there were things he just could not discuss.
“I agree with you,” he said. “If we’re going to dig into the murders, you’re going to
need more information. I’m a firsthand source, and also the link between Lisbeth
and Dag and Mia. Go ahead and ask me questions, and I’ll answer them as best I
can. And when I can’t answer, I’ll say so.”
“Why all the secrecy? Who is Lisbeth Salander, and what does she have to do with
Millennium in the first place?”
“This is how it is. Two years ago I hired her as a researcher for an extremely
complicated job. That’s the problem. I can’t tell you what she worked on for me.
Erika knows what it was, and she’s bound by confidentiality.”
“Two years ago … that was before you cracked Wennerström. Should I assume that
she was doing research connected with that case?”
“No, you shouldn’t assume that. I’m neither going to confirm or deny it. But I can
tell you that I hired Lisbeth for an altogether different project and that she did an
outstanding job.”
“OK, that’s when you were living like a hermit in Hedestad, as far as I’ve heard. And
Hedestad didn’t exactly go unnoticed on the media map that summer. Harriet
Vanger resurfacing from the dead and all that. Strangely enough, we at Millennium
haven’t written a word about her resurrection.”
“The reason we didn’t write about Harriet is that she’s on our board. We’ll let the
rest of the media scrutinize her. And as far as Salander is concerned, take my word
for it when I tell you that what she did for me in the earlier project has absolutely
no bearing on what happened in Enskede.”
“I do take your word for it.”
“Let me give you a piece of advice. Don’t guess. Don’t jump to conclusions. Just
accept that she worked for me and that I cannot and will not discuss what it
involved. She did something else for me. During that time she saved my life.
Literally.”
Eriksson looked up in surprise. She had not heard a word about that at Millennium.
“So that means you know her rather well.”
“As well as anyone can know Lisbeth Salander, I suppose,” Blomkvist said. “She is
the most introverted person I’ve ever met.”
He sprang to his feet and looked out into the darkness.
“I don’t know if you want one, but I think I’ll make myself a vodka and lime juice,”
he said at last.
“Sounds much better than another cup of coffee.”
Armansky spent the Easter weekend at his cabin on the island of Blidö thinking
about Salander. His children were grown up and had chosen not to spend the
holiday with their parents. Ritva, his wife of twenty-five years, noticed that he
seemed sometimes far away. He would subside into silent brooding and answered
absentmindedly when she spoke to him. He drove every day to the nearest shop to
buy the newspapers. He would sit by the window on the veranda and read about
the hunt for Salander.
Armansky was disappointed that he had so terribly misjudged her. He had known
for several years that she had mental problems. The idea that she could be violent
and seriously injure someone who was threatening her did not surprise him. The
idea that she had attacked her guardian—whom she would without a doubt
perceive as someone who meddled in her affairs—was understandable. She viewed
any attempt to control her life as provocative and possibly hostile.
On the other hand, he could not for the life of him understand what would have
prompted her to murder two people who, according to all available information,
were utterly unknown to her.
Armansky kept waiting for a link to be established between Salander and the
couple in Enskede. But no such link was reported in the newspapers; instead there
was speculation that the mentally ill woman must have had some sort of
breakdown.
Twice he telephoned Inspector Bublanski and asked about developments, but not
even the director of the investigation could give him a connection. Blomkvist knew
both Salander and the couple, but there was nothing to suggest that Salander knew
or had even heard of Svensson and Johansson. If the murder weapon had not had
her fingerprints on it, and had there not been an unchallengable link to Bjurman,
the police would have been fumbling in the dark.
“So let’s sum up,” Eriksson said. “The assignment is to find out whether Salander
murdered Dag and Mia, as the police claim. Where to begin?”
“Look at it as an excavation job. We don’t have to do our own police investigation.
But we do have to stay on top of what the police uncover and worm out of them
what they know. It’ll be just like any other job, except that we don’t necessarily
have to publish everything we find out.”
“But if Salander is the killer, there has to be a significant connection between her
and Dag and Mia. And the only connection so far is you.”
“And in fact I’m no connection at all. I haven’t talked to Lisbeth in more than a
year. How could she have known that—”
Blomkvist suddenly stopped. Lisbeth Salander: the world-class hacker. It dawned on
him that his iBook was full of correspondence with Svensson, as well as various
versions of the book and a file containing Johansson’s thesis. He couldn’t know if
Salander was checking his computer. But what possible reason could she have to
shoot Svensson and Johansson? What they were working on was a report about
violence against women, and Salander should have encouraged them in every way.
If Blomkvist knew her at all.
“You look like you’ve thought of something,” Eriksson said.
He had no intention of telling her about Salander’s talents with computers.
“No, I’m just tired and going a little off the rails,” he said.
“Well, now, your Lisbeth is suspected of killing not only Dag and Mia but also her
guardian, and in that case the connection is crystal clear. What do you know about
him?”
“Not a thing. I never heard his name; I didn’t even know she had a guardian.”
“But the likelihood of someone else having murdered all three of them is negligible.
Even if someone killed Dag and Mia because of their story, there wouldn’t be the
slightest reason for whoever it was to kill Salander’s guardian as well.”
“I know, and I’ve worried myself sick over it. But I can imagine one scenario, at
least, where an outside person might murder Dag and Mia as well as Lisbeth’s
guardian.”
“And what’s that?”
“Let’s say that Dag and Mia were murdered because they were rooting around in
the sex trade and Lisbeth had somehow gotten involved as a third party. If Bjurman
was Lisbeth’s guardian, then there’s a chance that she confided in him and he
thereby became a witness to or obtained knowledge of something that
subsequently led to his murder.”
“I see what you mean,” Eriksson said. “But you don’t have a grain of evidence for
that theory.”
“No, not one grain.”
“So what do you think? Is she guilty or not?”
Blomkvist thought for a long time.
“You’re asking me if she is capable of murder? The answer is yes. Salander has a
violent streak. I’ve seen her in action when …”
“When she saved your life?”
Blomkvist looked at her, then said, “I can’t tell you the circumstances. But there
was a man who was going to kill me and he was just about to succeed. She stepped
in and beat him senseless with a golf club.”
“And you haven’t told the police any of this?”
“Absolutely not. And this has to remain between you and me.” He gave her a sharp
look. “Malin, I have to be able to trust you on this.”
“I won’t tell anyone about anything we discuss. You’re not just my boss—I like you
too, and I don’t want to do anything that would hurt you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.”
He laughed and then turned serious again. “I’m convinced that if it had been
necessary, she would have killed that man to protect me. But at the same time I
believe she’s quite rational. Peculiar, yes, but completely rational according to her
own scheme of things. She used violence because she had to, not because she
wanted to. To kill someone, she would have to be exceedingly threatened or
provoked.”
He thought for a while. Eriksson watched him patiently.
“I can’t explain the lawyer. I don’t know a thing about him. But I just can’t imagine
her being threatened or provoked—at all—by Dag and Mia. It’s not possible.”
They sat quietly for a long time. Eriksson looked at her watch and saw that it was
9:30.
“It’s late. I have to be getting home.”
“It’s been a long day. We can go on sifting tomorrow. No, leave the dishes. I’ll take
care of it.”
On the Saturday night before Easter, Armansky lay awake, listening to Ritva
sleeping. He could not make sense of the drama. In the end he got up, put on his
slippers and dressing gown, and went into the living room. The air was cool and he
put a few pieces of wood in the soapstone stove, opened a beer, and sat looking out
at the dark waters of the Furusund channel.
What do I know?
Salander was unpredictable. No doubt about that.
Something had happened in the winter of 2003, when she stopped working for him
and disappeared on her year-long sabbatical abroad. Blomkvist was somehow mixed
up in her sudden departure—but he didn’t know what had happened to her either.
She came back and had come to see him. Claimed that she was “financially
independent,” which presumably meant that she had enough to get by for a while.
She had been regularly to see Palmgren. She had not been in touch with Blomkvist.
She had shot three people, two apparently unknown to her.
It doesn’t make any sense.
Armansky took a gulp of his beer and lit a cigarillo. He had a guilty conscience, and
that contributed to his bad mood.
When Bublanski had been to see him, Armansky had unhesitatingly given him as
much information as he could so that Salander could be caught. He had no doubt
that she had to be caught—and the sooner the better. Armansky was a realist. If the
police told him that a person was suspected of murder, the chances were that it
was true. So Salander was guilty.
But the police weren’t taking into account whether she might have felt that her
actions were justified—or whether there might be some mitigating circumstance or
a reasonable explanation for her having gone berserk. The police were required to
catch her and prove that she had fired the shots, not dig into her psyche. They
would be satisfied if they could find a motive, but failing that, they were ready to
call it an act of insanity. He shook his head. He could not accept that she was an
insane mass murderer. Salander never did anything against her will or without
thinking through the consequences.
Peculiar—yes. Insane—no.
So there had to be an explanation, no matter how obscure it might appear to
anyone who did not know her.
At around 2:00 in the morning he made a decision.
0 comments:
Post a Comment