CHAPTER 18
Tuesday, March 29–Wednesday, March 30
The three parallel investigations into the murders in Enskede churned on. Officer
Bubble’s investigation enjoyed the advantages of authority. On the surface, the
solution seemed to lie within reach; they had a suspect and a murder weapon that
was linked to the suspect. They had an ironclad connection to one victim and a
possible connection via Blomkvist to the other two victims. For Bublanski it was
now basically a matter of finding Salander and putting her in a cell in Kronoberg
prison.
Armansky’s investigation was formally subordinate to the police investigation, and
he had his own agenda. His objective was somehow to watch out for Salander’s
interests—to discover the truth, preferably a truth in the form of a persuasively
mitigating circumstance.
Millennium’s investigation was the difficult one. The magazine lacked the resources
of the police, obviously, and of Armansky’s organization. Unlike the police, however,
Blomkvist was not primarily interested in establishing a reasonable scenario for
why Salander might have gone down to Enskede and murdered two of his friends.
He had decided over the Easter weekend that he simply did not believe the story. If
Salander was in some way involved in the murders, there had to be entirely
different grounds from those the police were suggesting—someone else may have
held the gun or something had happened that was beyond her control.
Hedström said nothing during the taxi journey from Slussen to Kungsholmen. He
was in a daze from out of the blue ending up in a real police investigation. He
glanced at Bohman, who was reading Armansky’s presentation again.
Then all at once he smiled to himself. The assignment had given him an unexpected
opportunity to realize an ambition that neither Armansky nor Bohman knew
anything about. He was going to have a chance to get back at Salander. He hoped
that he would be able to help catch her. He hoped above all that she would be
sentenced to life in prison.
It was well known that Salander was not a popular person at Milton Security. Most
of the staff who had ever had anything to do with her thought she was a pain. But
no-one had any idea how profoundly Hedström loathed her.
Life had been unfair to Hedström. He was good-looking, he was young, and he was
clever too. But he was forever denied the possibility of becoming what he had
always wanted to be—a policeman. His Achilles heel was a microscopic hole in his
pericardium that caused a heart murmur and meant that the wall of one chamber
was compromised. He had had an operation and the problem was fixed, but having
a heart condition meant that he was once and for all deprived of a place on the
police force. He was relegated to second-class.
When he was given the chance to work for Milton Security he accepted, but
without the slightest enthusiasm. Milton was a dump for has-beens—police officers
who were too old and couldn’t cut it anymore. He too had been turned down by
the police—but in his case through no fault of his own.
When he started at Milton one of his first assignments had been to work with the
operations unit on a personal protection analysis for a famous female singer. She
had been frightened by an over-enthusiastic admirer, who also happened to be a
mental patient on the run. The singer lived alone in a villa in Södertörn, and Milton
had installed surveillance equipment and alarms and provided an on-site
bodyguard.
Over a two-week period Hedström had regularly visited the villa in Södertörn along
with other Milton employees. He thought the singer was a snobbish and
standoffish old bitch. She gave him only a bewildered look when he turned on the
charm, but she ought to have been grateful that any fan remembered her at all.
He hated the way Milton’s staff sprang to do her bidding. But of course he didn’t
say a word about how he felt.
One afternoon, the singer and two of the Milton staff were by her pool while he
was in the house taking photographs of windows and doors that might need
reinforcing. He had gone from room to room, and when he came to her bedroom
he could not resist the temptation to open her desk. He found a dozen photograph
albums from when she was a big star in the seventies and eighties and had toured
the world. He also found a box with some very private pictures of the singer. The
pictures were relatively innocent, but with a little imagination they might be
viewed as “erotic studies.” God, what a stupid cow she was. He stole five of the
most risqué images, which had obviously been taken by some lover.
He photographed the images there and then and put the originals back. He waited
several months before he sold them to a British tabloid. He was paid 9,000 pounds
for the photographs and they gave rise to sensational headlines.
He still did not know how Salander had managed it, but after the photographs
were published, he had a visit from her. She knew that he was the one who had
sold them. She was going to expose him to Armansky if he ever did anything like
that again. She would have exposed him immediately if she could have proved it—
but she obviously could not. From that day on he had felt her watching him. He
had seen her little piggy eyes every time he turned around.
He felt stressed and frustrated. The only way to get back at her was to undermine
her credibility by adding his contributions to the gossip about her in the canteen.
But not even that had been very successful. He did not dare draw attention to
himself, since for some unknown reason she was under Armansky’s protection. He
wondered what sort of hold she had over Milton’s CEO, or if it was possible that
the old bastard was fucking her in secret. But even though nobody at Milton was
especially enamoured of Salander, the staff had great respect for Armansky and so
they accepted her peculiar presence. It was a monumental relief to him when she
began to play less of a role and finally stopped working at Milton altogether.
Now an opportunity had presented itself for him to get even. And it was risk-free.
She could accuse him of anything she liked—nobody would believe her. Not even
Armansky would take the word of a pathologically sick murderer.
Bublanski saw Faste coming out of the elevator with Bohman and Hedström from
Milton. He had been sent down to bring these new colleagues through security.
Bublanski was not entirely enchanted with the idea of giving outsiders access to a
murder investigation, but the decision had been made way over his head and …
what the hell, Bohman was a real police officer with a lot of miles on him.
Hedström had graduated from the police academy and so could not be an outright
idiot. Bublanski pointed towards the conference room.
The hunt for Salander was in its sixth day and it was time for a major evaluation.
Prosecutor Ekström did not take part in the meeting. The group consisted of
criminal inspectors Modig, Faste, Andersson, and Holmberg, reinforced by four
officers from the search unit of the National Criminal Police. Bublanski began by
introducing their new colleagues from Milton Security and asking if either of them
wanted to say a few words. Bohman cleared his throat.
“It’s been a while since I was last in this building, but some of you know me and
know that I was a police officer for many years before I switched to the private
sector. The reason we’re here is that Salander worked for Milton over several years
and we feel a measure of responsibility. Our job is to try and assist in her arrest. We
can contribute some personal knowledge of her, but we’re not here in any way to
mess up the investigation or to try to trip you up.”
“Tell us what she was like to work with,” Faste said.
“She wasn’t exactly a person you warmed to,” Hedström said. He stopped when
Bublanski held up his hand.
“We’ll have a chance to talk in detail during the meeting. But let’s take things one
by one and get a grip on where we stand. After this meeting, you two will have to
go to Prosecutor Ekström and sign a confidentiality statement. Let’s begin with
Sonja.”
“It’s frustrating. We had a breakthrough just a few hours after the murders and
were able to identify Salander. We found where she lived—or at least where we
thought she lived. After that, not a trace. We’ve received around thirty calls from
people who think they’ve seen her, but so far they’ve all been false alarms. She
seems to have gone up in smoke.”
“That’s a little hard to believe,” Andersson said. “She looks unusual and has tattoos
and shouldn’t be that hard to find.”
“The police in Uppsala went in with their weapons drawn yesterday after receiving
a tip. They surrounded and scared the hell out of a fourteen-year-old boy who did
look a lot like Salander. The parents were quite upset.”
“It’s a handicap that we’re searching for someone who looks like a fourteen-year-old. She could melt into any crowd of teenagers.”
“But with the attention she’s been getting in the media, someone should have seen
something,” Andersson said. “They’re running her picture on Sweden’s Most Wanted
this week, so maybe that will lead to something new.”
“I doubt it, considering that she’s already been on the front page of every
newspaper in the country,” Faste said.
“Which suggests that maybe we should change our approach,” Bublanski said. “With
accomplices, she could have slipped out of the country, but it’s more probable that
she’s gone to ground.”
Bohman held up his hand. Bublanski nodded to him.
“The profile we have of her is that she’s self-destructive. On the other hand, she’s a
strategist who plans all her actions carefully. She does nothing without analysing
the consequences. At least that’s what Dragan Armansky thinks.”
“That was the assessment her one-time psychiatrist gave as well. But let’s hold off
on the characterization for a while,” Bublanski said. “Sooner or later she’ll have to
make a move. Jerker, what sort of resources does she have?”
“Now here’s something you can sink your teeth into,” Holmberg said. “She’s had a
bank account for several years at Handelsbanken. That’s the income she declares.
Or rather, the income that her guardian, Nils Bjurman, declared. A year ago the
account held about 100,000 kronor. In the autumn of 2003 she withdrew the entire
amount.”
“She needed cash in the autumn of 2003. That was when she stopped working for
Milton Security,” Bohman said.
“Possibly. The account stood at zero for about two weeks. And then she put the
same amount back into it.”
“She thought she needed money for something, but she didn’t spend it and put the
money back?”
“Possibly. In December 2003 she used the account to pay a number of bills,
including her rent for a year in advance. The account dropped to 70,000 kronor.
After that the account wasn’t touched for a year, except for a deposit of around
9,000 kronor. I’ve checked—it was an inheritance from her mother. In March this
year she took out this sum—the exact amount was 9,312 kronor—and that’s the only
time she’s touched the account.”
“So what the hell does she live on?”
“Listen to this. In January of this year she opened a new account. This one at
Svenska Enskilda Banken. She deposited two million kronor.”
“Where did the money come from?” Modig asked.
“The money was transferred to her account from a bank in the Channel Islands.”
Silence descended over the conference room.
“I don’t understand any of this,” Modig said after a moment.
“So this is money she hasn’t declared?” Bublanski asked.
“No, but technically she doesn’t have to until next year. What’s interesting is that
the sum is not recorded in Bjurman’s report on her assets, and he filed a report
every month.”
“So—either he didn’t know about it or else they were running a scam together.
Jerker, where do we stand on forensics?”
“I had a report from the leader of the preliminary investigation yesterday evening.
This is what we know. One: we can tie Salander to both crime scenes. We found
her fingerprints on the murder weapon and on the shards of a broken coffee cup in
Enskede. We’re waiting for results from all the DNA samples we gathered, but
there’s no doubt that she was there in the apartment. Two: we have her prints on
the box we found in Bjurman’s apartment, the one the gun came in. Three: we
finally have a witness who can place her at the site of the murders in Enskede. The
owner of a corner shop telephoned to say that Salander was definitely in his shop
on the night of the murders. She bought a pack of Marlboro Lights.”
“And he comes out with this days after we asked the public for information?”
“He was away over the holidays, like everybody else. In any case”—Holmberg
pointed at a map—“the corner shop is here, about two hundred yards from the
crime scene. She came in just as he was closing at 10:00 p.m. He gave a perfect
description of her.”
“Tattoo on her neck?” Andersson said.
“He was a bit vague about that. He thought he saw a tattoo. But he definitely saw
that she had a pierced eyebrow.”
“What else?”
“Not that much in the way of technical evidence. But it should hold up.”
“Faste—the apartment on Lundagatan?”
“We’ve got her prints, but we don’t think she lives there. We’ve turned the place
upside down, and it seems that a Miriam Wu is living there. Her name was added
to the contract as recently as February this year.”
“What do we know about Wu?”
“No police record. Known lesbian. She appears in shows at the Gay Pride Festival.
Seems to be studying sociology and is part owner of Domino Fashion, a sex shop on
Tegnérgatan.”
“Sex shop?” Modig said with raised eyebrows.
On one occasion she had bought, to her husband’s delight, some sexy lingerie at
Domino Fashion. And she had absolutely no intention of revealing that to the men
in the room.
“Yeah, they sell handcuffs and whore outfits and stuff like that. Need a whip?”
“It’s not a sex shop. It’s a fashion boutique for people who like sexy underwear.”
“Same shit.”
“Go on,” Bublanski said angrily. “Is there any sign of Fröken Wu?”
“Not a trace.”
“She could have gone away for Easter,” Modig said.
“Or else Salander whacked her too,” Faste said. “Maybe she wants to make a clean
sweep of all her acquaintances.”
“Wu is a lesbian. Should we conclude that she and Salander are a couple?”
“I think we can draw the conclusion that there’s a sexual relationship,” Andersson
said. “First, we found Salander’s prints on and around the bed in the apartment. We
also found her prints on a pair of handcuffs.”
“Then she’ll appreciate the cuffs I’ve got ready for her,” Faste said.
Modig groaned.
“Go on,” Bublanski said to Andersson.
“We got a tip that Miriam Wu was seen at Kvarnen kissing a girl who matched
Salander’s description. That was about two weeks ago. The informant claimed that
he knows who Salander is and has run into her there before, although he hadn’t
seen her in the past year. I haven’t had time to double-check with the staff, but I’ll
do it this afternoon.”
“In her casebook at social welfare it doesn’t mention a thing about her being a
lesbian. A number of times in her teens she ran away from her foster families and
picked up men in bars. She was noticed by the police several times in the company
of older men.”
“Which doesn’t mean shit if she was a whore,” Faste said.
“What do we know about people she knows? Curt?”
“Hardly anything. She hasn’t had a run-in with the police since she was eighteen.
She knows Dragan Armansky and Mikael Blomkvist, we know that much. And she
knows Miriam Wu, of course. The same source that tipped us off about her and Wu
at Kvarnen says that she used to hang out with a bunch of girls there a while back.
Some kind of girl band called Evil Fingers.”
“Evil Fingers?” Bublanski repeated.
“Seems to be something occult.”
“Don’t tell me Salander is some damned Satanist too,” Bublanski said. “The media
are going to go nuts.”
“Lesbian Satanists,” Faste said helpfully.
“Hans, you’ve got a view of women from the Middle Ages,” Modig said. “Even I’ve
heard of Evil Fingers.”
“You have?” Bublanski said.
“It was a girl rock band in the late nineties. No superstars, but they were pretty
famous for a while.”
“So, hard-rocking lesbian Satanists,” Faste said.
“OK, enough goofing around,” Bublanski said. “Hans, you and Curt check out who
was in Evil Fingers and talk to them. Does Salander have any other friends?”
“Not many, other than her former guardian, Holger Palmgren. He’s in long-term
care now after a stroke and is apparently unwell. To be honest, I can’t say that I
found any circle of friends, though we haven’t seen her address book. For that
matter, we still don’t know where she lives.”
“Nobody can go around without leaving traces, like some kind of ghost. What do
we think about Mikael Blomkvist?”
“We haven’t had him under direct surveillance, but we’ve checked in with him off
and on over the holiday,” Faste said. “On the chance that Salander might pop up,
that is. He went home after work on Thursday and doesn’t seem to have left his
apartment all weekend.”
“I can’t see him having anything to do with the murders,” Modig said. “His story
holds up, and he can account for every minute of that night.”
“But he does know Salander. He’s the link between her and the couple in Enskede.
And besides, we have his statement that a man attacked Salander a week before the
murders took place. What are we supposed to make of that?” Bublanski said.
“Other than the fact that Blomkvist was the only witness to the attack?” Faste said.
“You think Blomkvist is imagining things or lying?”
“Don’t know. But it sounds to me like a bullshit story. How come a full-grown man
couldn’t take care of a tiny girl who weighs less than ninety pounds?”
“Why would Blomkvist lie?”
“To muddle our thinking about Salander?”
“But none of this really adds up. Blomkvist’s hypothesis is that his friends were
killed because of the book that Svensson was writing.”
“Bullshit,” Faste said. “It’s Salander. Why would anybody murder their guardian to
shut Dag Svensson up? And who else could it be … a policeman?”
“If Blomkvist goes public with his hypothesis, we’re going to see a hell of a lot of
police conspiracy theories,” said Andersson.
Everyone at the table murmured agreement.
“All right,” Modig said. “Why did she shoot Bjurman?”
“And what does the tattoo mean?” Bublanski said, pointing at a photograph of
Bjurman’s lower abdomen.
I AM A SADISTIC PIG, A PERVERT, AND A RAPIST.
“What does the pathologist’s report say?” Bohman said.
“The tattoo is between one and three years old. That’s measured by the extent of
bleed-through in the skin,” Modig said.
“I think we can rule out the likelihood of Bjurman actually having commissioned
it.”
“There are plenty of crazies around, but it can hardly be a standard motif among
tattoo enthusiasts.”
Modig waved her index finger. “The pathologist says that the tattoo has to have
been done by a rank amateur. The needle penetrated to different depths, and it’s a
very large tattoo on a sensitive part of the body. All in all, it must have been a very
painful procedure, comparable to aggravated assault.”
“Except for the fact that Bjurman never filed a police report,” Faste said.
“I wouldn’t file a police report either, if somebody tattooed that on me,” Andersson
said.
“One more thing,” Modig said. “And this might reinforce the confession, as it were,
in the tattoo.” She opened a folder of photographic printouts and passed them
around. “I printed out some samples from a folder on Bjurman’s hard drive. They’re
downloaded from the Internet. His computer contains about two thousand images
of a similar nature.”
Faste whistled and held up a photograph of a woman bound in a brutally
uncomfortable position. “This may be something for Domino Fashion or Evil
Fingers,” he said.
Bublanski gestured in annoyance for Faste to shut up.
“What are we supposed to make of this?” Bohman said.
“Suppose the tattoo is about two years old,” Bublanski said. “It would have been
done around the time that Bjurman got sick. No medical records indicate that he
had any illness, other than high blood pressure. So we can assume that there was a
connection.”
“Salander changed during that year,” Bohman said. “She stopped working for Milton
and without warning, I understand, went overseas.”
“Should we assume that there’s a connection there too? The message in the tattoo
plainly says that Bjurman raped someone. Salander is a likely victim. And that
would be a motive for murder.”
“There are other ways to interpret this, of course,” Faste said. “I can imagine a
scenario where Salander and the Chinese girl are running some sort of escort
service with S&M overtones. Bjurman could be one of those nuts who gets off on
being whipped by small girls. He could have been in some sort of dependence
relationship with Salander and things went wrong.”
“But that doesn’t explain what she was doing in Enskede.”
“If Svensson and Johansson were about to expose the sex trade, they may have
stumbled on Salander and Wu. That may be your motive for Salander to commit
murder.”
“So far this is mere speculation,” said Modig.
The meeting went on for another hour, and also dealt with the fact that Svensson’s
laptop was missing. When they broke for lunch they were all frustrated. The
investigation was fraught with more question marks than ever.
Berger called Magnus Borgsjö, CEO of Svenska Morgon-Posten, as soon as she
reached the office on Tuesday morning.
“I’m interested,” she said.
“I thought you would be.”
“I meant to let you know right after the Easter holiday. But as you’ll have heard,
chaos has broken out here.”
“The murder of Dag Svensson. I’m so sorry. A terrible thing.”
“Then you’ll understand that this is no time for me to announce my resignation.”
He was silent for a moment.
“We have a problem,” Borgsjö said. “The last time we spoke, we said that the job
would start on August 1. But the thing is, our editor in chief, Håkan Morander,
whom you would be replacing, is in very poor health. He has heart problems and
has to cut back on work. He talked to his doctor a few days ago, and this weekend
I learned that he’s now planning to retire on July 1. The idea was that he would still
be here until fall, and that you could work in tandem through August and
September. But the way the situation looks now, we have a crisis. Erika—we’re
going to need you to start on May 1, and certainly no later than May 15.”
“God. That’s only weeks away.”
“Are you still interested?”
“Yes, of course … but that means I have only a month to tidy things up here at
Millennium.”
“I know. I’m sorry to do it, Erika, but I have to rush you. A month should be enough
time to straighten out affairs at a magazine with only half a dozen employees.”
“But it means leaving in the midst of a crisis.”
“You’d have to leave in any case. All we’re doing is bringing forward your departure
date by a few weeks.”
“I do have some conditions.”
“Let me hear them.”
“I’ll have to remain on Millennium’s board of directors.”
“That might not be appropriate. Millennium is much smaller, of course, and a
monthly magazine besides, but technically we’re competitors.”
“That can’t be helped. I won’t have anything to do with Millennium’s editorial
work, but I won’t sell my share of the business. So I have to stay on the board.”
“OK, we can probably deal with that.”
They agreed to meet with his board during the first week of April to iron out the
details and draw up a contract.
Blomkvist had a feeling of déjà vu when he studied the list of suspects that he and
Eriksson had put together over the weekend. Thirty-seven names, all people Dag
Svensson was leaning on hard in his book, twenty-one of whom were johns he had
identified.
It reminded Blomkvist of the gallery of suspects from when he had set out to track
a murderer in Hedestad two years before.
At 10:00 on Tuesday morning he asked Eriksson to come into his office at
Millennium. He closed the door behind her. They sat for a few moments, drinking
their coffee. Then he passed her the list of names.
“What should we do?” Eriksson said.
“First we have to show the list to Erika—maybe in ten minutes. Then we have to
check them off one by one. It’s possible, it’s even probable, that one of these people
has a connection to the murders.”
“And how do we check them off?”
“I’m thinking of focusing on the twenty-one johns. They have more to lose than the
others. I’m thinking of following in Dag’s footsteps, of going to see them one by
one.”
“And what do I do?”
“Two jobs. First, there are seven people here who aren’t identified. Your assignment
over the next couple of days is to try and identify them. Some of the names are in
Mia’s thesis; there may be ways of cross-referencing that would help you work out
their real identities. Second, we know very little about Nils Bjurman, Lisbeth’s
guardian. There was a brief CV in the papers, but my guess is that half of it is made
up.”
“So I should ferret out his background.”
“Precisely. Everything you can find.”
Harriet Vanger called Blomkvist at 5:00 in the afternoon.
“Can you talk?”
“For a minute.”
“This girl the police are looking for … it’s the same one who helped you track me
down, isn’t it?”
Harriet Vanger and Salander had never met.
“That’s right,” Blomkvist said. “I’m sorry I haven’t had time to call and update you.
But, yes, she’s the one.”
“What does it mean?”
“As far as you’re concerned? Nothing, I hope.”
“But she knows everything about me and what happened.”
“Yes, she knows everything that happened.”
Harriet was quiet on the other end of the line.
“Harriet, I don’t think she did it. I’m working on the assumption that she’s innocent
of all these murders. I trust her.”
“If I’m to believe what’s in the newspapers, then—”
“But you shouldn’t believe what’s in the papers. And as far as it affects you, it’s
quite simple: she gave her word that she would keep her mouth shut. I believe
she’ll keep that promise for the rest of her life. Everything I know about her tells
me that she is extremely principled.”
“And if she didn’t do it?”
“I don’t know. Harriet, I’m doing everything in my power to discover what actually
happened. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried, but I do want to be prepared for the worst. How are you holding
up, Mikael?”
“So-so. We’ve been going nonstop.”
“Mikael… I’m in Stockholm right now. I’m flying to Australia tomorrow—I’ll be gone
for a month.”
“I see.”
“I’m at the hotel.”
“I don’t know, Harriet. I feel spread really thin. I have to work tonight and I
wouldn’t be very good company.”
“You don’t have to be good company. Come over and relax for a while.”
Mikael got home at one in the morning. He was tired and felt like saying the hell
with everything and going to bed, but instead he booted up his iBook and checked
his email. There was no new mail of any interest.
He opened the folder and discovered a new document. It was named [To MikBlom],
next to the document he had called [To Sally].
It was almost a physical shock to see the document on his computer. She’s here.
Salander has been in my computer. Maybe she’s even connected right now. He
double-clicked.
He was not sure what he had expected. A letter. An answer. A protestation of
innocence. An explanation. Salander’s reply was exasperatingly brief. The message
consisted of one word, four letters.
Zala.
Mikael stared at the name.
Svensson had mentioned Zala in his last phone call, three hours before he was
murdered.
What is she trying to say? Is Zala the link between Bjurman and Dag and Mia?
How? Why? Who is he? And how did Salander know that? How is she involved?
He opened the document properties and saw that the text had been created not
fifteen minutes before. Then he smiled. The document showed Mikael Blomkvist as
its author. She had created the document in his computer with his own licenced
Word programme. That was better than email and did not leave an IP address that
could be traced, even though Blomkvist was sure that Salander in any case would
be impossible to trace through the Internet. And it proved beyond all doubt that
Salander had done a hostile takeover—her term—of his computer.
He stood by the window and looked out at City Hall. He couldn’t shake the feeling
that he was being watched at that very moment by Salander, almost as if she were
there in the room staring at him through the screen of his iBook. She could, of
course, be anywhere in the world, but he suspected that she was close. Somewhere
in Södermalm. Within a radius of a couple of miles from where he was.
He sat down and created a new Word document that he called [Sally-2] and placed
it on the desktop. He wrote a pithy message.
Lisbeth,
You damn troublesome person. Who the hell is Zala? Is he the link? Do you know
who murdered Dag & Mia? If so, tell me so we can solve this mess and go to sleep.
Mikael.
She was inside Blomkvist’s iBook now. The reply came within a minute. A new
document appeared in the folder on his desktop, this time called [Kalle Blomkvist].
You’re the journalist. Find out.
Blomkvist frowned. She was teasing him and using the nickname she knew he
loathed. And she gave him not the slightest help. He wrote the document [Sally-3]
and put it on his desktop.
Lisbeth,
A journalist finds out things by asking questions of people who know. I’m asking
you. Do you know why Dag and Mia were murdered and who killed them? If you
do, please tell me. Give me something to go on. Mikael.
For several hours he waited for another reply. At 4:00 a.m. he gave up and went to
bed.
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