CHAPTER 19
Wednesday, March 30–Friday, April 1
Blomkvist spent Wednesday combing Svensson’s material for every reference to
Zala. Just as Salander had done earlier, he discovered the folder on Svensson’s
computer and read the three documents [Irina P], [Sandström], and [Zala], and like
Salander he discovered that Svensson had a police source by the name of
Gulbrandsen. He traced him to the Criminal Police in Södertälje, but when he called
he was told that Gulbrandsen was on a trip away from the office and would not be
back until the following Monday.
He could see that Svensson had spent a great deal of time on Irina P. From the
autopsy report he learned that the woman had been killed in a slow, cruel way. The
murder had taken place at the end of February. The police had no leads as to who
the killer might have been, but since she was a prostitute they assumed that it was
one of her clients.
Blomkvist wondered why Svensson had put the [Irina P] document in the folder.
Evidently he had linked Zala to Irina P., but there were no such references in the
text. Presumably he had made the connection late on.
The document [Zala] looked like rough working notes. Zala (if indeed he existed)
seemed almost like a phantom in the criminal world. He did not seem entirely
credible, and the text lacked source references.
He closed the document and scratched his head. Solving the murders was going to
be a considerably more difficult task than he had imagined. Nor could he avoid
being assailed by doubt. Nothing told him unequivocally that Salander was
innocent. All he had to go on was his instinct.
He knew that she was not short of funds. She had exploited her skills as a hacker to
steal a sum of several billion kronor, but she didn’t know that he knew this. Apart
from when he had been forced to explain her computer talents to Berger, he had
never betrayed her secrets to any outsider.
He didn’t want to believe that Salander was guilty of the murders. He would never
be able to repay his debt to her. She had not only saved his life, she had also
salvaged his career and possibly Millennium magazine itself by delivering Hans-Erik
Wennerström’s head to them on a platter.
And he felt a great loyalty to her. Whether she was guilty or not, he was going to
do everything he could to help her when she eventually was caught.
But there was so much that he didn’t know about her. The psychiatric assessments,
the fact that she had been committed to one of the country’s most highly regarded
institutions, and that she had even been declared incompetent, all tended to
confirm that something was wrong with her. The chief of staff at St. Stefan’s
Psychiatric Clinic in Uppsala, Dr. Peter Teleborian, had been widely quoted in the
press. As was appropriate, he had not made statements specifically about Salander
but had commented on the national collapse of mental health care. Teleborian was
renowned and respected not merely in Sweden but internationally as well. He had
been thoroughly convincing and had managed to convey his sympathy for the
murder victims and their families while making it known that he was most anxious
about Salander’s well-being.
Blomkvist wondered whether he ought to get in touch with Dr. Teleborian and
whether he might be able to help in some way. But he refrained. The doctor would
have plenty of time to help Salander once she was caught.
Finally he went to the kitchenette and poured coffee into a cup with the logo of
the Moderate Unity Party and went in to see Berger.
“I have a long list of johns and pimps I have to interview,” he said.
She looked at him with concern.
“It’ll probably take a week or two to check off everyone on the list. They’re dotted
about from Strängnäs to Norrköping. I’ll need a car.”
She opened her handbag and took out the keys to her BMW.
“Is that really all right?”
“Of course it’s all right. I drive to work as rarely as I drive out to Saltsjöbaden. And
if need be I can take Greger’s car.”
“Thanks.”
“There’s one condition, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Some of these guys are serious thugs. If you’re going out to accuse pimps of
murdering Dag and Mia, I want you to take this with you and always keep it in the
pocket of your jacket.”
She put a canister of Mace on the desk.
“Where’d you get that?”
“I bought it in the States last year. I’ll be damned if I’m going to run around alone
at night without some sort of weapon.”
“There’ll be hell to pay if I get caught in possession of an illegal weapon.”
“Better that than me having to write your obituary, Mikael… I’m not sure if you
know this, but sometimes I really worry about you.”
“I see.”
“You take risks and you’re so pigheaded that you can never back down from a
stupid decision.”
Blomkvist smiled and put the Mace on Erika’s desk.
“Thanks for the concern. But I don’t need it.”
“Micke, I insist.”
“That’s fine. But I’ve already taken precautions.”
He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a canister. It was the Mace he had
taken out of Salander’s shoulder bag and had carried with him ever since.
Bublanski knocked on the open door of Modig’s office and then sat down on the
visitor’s chair by her desk.
“Dag Svensson’s computer,” he said.
“I’ve been thinking about that too,” she said. “I did a timeline of Svensson and
Johansson’s last day. There are still a few gaps, but Svensson never went to
Millennium’s offices that day. On the other hand he did go into the centre of town,
and at around 4:00 in the afternoon he ran into an old school friend. It was a
chance meeting at a café on Drottninggatan. The friend says that Svensson
definitely had his computer. He saw it and even made a comment about it.”
“And by 11:00 that night—by the time the police arrived at his apartment—the
computer was gone.”
“Correct.”
“What should we deduce from that?”
“He could have stopped somewhere else and for some reason left or forgotten his
computer.”
“How likely is that?”
“Not very likely. But he could have dropped it off for repair. Then there’s the
possibility that there was some other place he worked that we don’t know about.
For example, he once rented a desk at a freelancers’ office near St. Eriksplan. Then,
of course, there’s the possibility that the killer took the computer with him.”
“According to Armansky, Salander is very good with computers.”
“Exactly,” Modig said, nodding.
“Hmm. Blomkvist’s theory is that Svensson and Johansson were murdered because
of the research Svensson was doing. Which would all be on his computer.”
“We’re lagging a little behind. Three murder victims create so many loose ends that
we can’t really keep up, but we actually haven’t done a proper search of Svensson’s
workplace at Millennium yet.”
“I talked with Erika Berger this morning. She says they’re surprised that we haven’t
been over to take a look at what he left there.”
“We’ve been focusing too much on the hunt for Salander, and so far we don’t have
a clue about the motive. Could you …?”
“I’ve made a rendezvous with Berger at Millennium for tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
On Thursday Blomkvist was at his desk talking to Eriksson when a telephone rang
somewhere else in the offices. Through the doorway he caught a glimpse of Cortez
on his way to answer it. Then he registered somewhere in the back of his mind
that it was the phone on Svensson’s desk. He jumped to his feet.
“Stop—don’t touch that phone!” he yelled.
Cortez had his hand on the receiver. Blomkvist hurried across the room. What the
hell was the name of that phony company Svensson made up?
“Indigo Market Research, this is Mikael. May I help you?”
“Uh … hello, my name is Gunnar Björck. I got a letter saying I’ve won a mobile
phone.”
“Congratulations,” Blomkvist said. “It’s a Sony Ericsson, the latest model.”
“And it’s free?”
“That’s right, it’s free. To receive the gift you only have to be interviewed. We do
market research studies and in-depth analyses for various companies. It’ll take
about an hour to answer the questions. After that your name will be entered in
another drawing and you’ll have the chance to win 100,000 kronor.”
“I understand. Can we do it over the phone?”
“Unfortunately not. The questionnaire involves looking at company logos and
identifying them. We will also be asking about what type of advertising images you
like and we show you various alternatives. We have to send out one of our
employees.”
“I see … and how did I happen to be selected?”
“We do this type of study several times a year. Right now we’re focusing on a
number of successful men in your age group. We’ve drawn social security numbers
at random within that demographic.”
Björck finally agreed to a meeting. He told Blomkvist that he was on sick leave and
was convalescing at a summer cabin up in Smådalarö. He gave directions on how
to get there. They agreed to meet on Friday morning.
“YES!” Blomkvist cried when he hung up the phone. He punched the air with his
fist. Eriksson and Cortez exchanged puzzled glances.
Paolo Roberto landed at Arlanda at 11:30 on Thursday morning. He had slept during
much of the flight from New York, and for once did not have any jet lag.
He had spent a month in the United States talking boxing, watching exhibition
fights, and looking for ideas for a production he was planning to sell to Strix
Television. Sadly, he admitted to himself, he had left his own professional career on
the shelf, partly because of gentle persuasion from his family, but also because he
was simply feeling his age. It wasn’t so much about keeping in shape, which he did
with strenuous workouts at least once a week. He was still a name in the boxing
world, and he expected to be working in the sport in some capacity for the rest of
his life.
He collected his suitcase from the baggage carousel. At Customs he was stopped
and about to be pulled aside when one of the Customs officers recognized him.
“Hello, Paolo. All you’ve got in your case is gloves, I presume?”
He was crossing the arrivals hall to the escalator down to the Arlanda Express
when he stopped short, stunned by Salander’s face on the headlines of the evening
newspapers. He wondered if he was suffering from jet lag after all. Then he read
the headline again.
HUNT FORLISBETH SALANDER
He looked at the other headline.
EXTRA!PSYCHOPATH SOUGHTFOR TRIPLE KILLING
He bought both the evening papers and the morning ones too and then went over
to a cafeteria. He read the articles with growing astonishment.
When Blomkvist came home to Bellmansgatan at 11:00 on Thursday night he was
tired and depressed. He had planned to make it an early night to catch up on his
sleep, but he couldn’t resist the temptation to switch on his iBook and check his
email. Nothing of great interest there, but he opened the folder. His pulse
quickened when he discovered a new document entitled [MB2]. He double-clicked.
Prosecutor E. is leaking information to the media. Ask him why he didn’t leak the
old police report.
Blomkvist pondered the message, baffled. What old police report? Why did she have
to write every message like a riddle? He created a new document that he called
[Cryptic].
Hi, Sally. I’m tired as hell and I’ve been on the go nonstop since the murders. I don’t
feel like playing guessing games. Maybe you don’t give a damn, but I want to know
who killed my friends. M.
He waited at his desk. The reply [Cryptic 2] came a minute later.
What would you do if it was me?
He replied with [Cryptic 3].
Lisbeth, if it’s true that you’ve really gone over the edge, then maybe you can ask
Peter Teleborian to help you. But I don’t believe you murdered Dag and Mia. I hope
and pray that I’m right.
Dag and Mia were going to publish their exposés of the sex trade. My theory is that
could have been the reason for the murders. But I have nothing to go on.
I don’t know what went wrong between us, but you and I discussed friendship
once. I said that friendship is built on two things—respect and trust. Even if you
don’t like me, you can still depend on me and trust me. I’ve never shared your
secrets with anyone. Not even what happened to Wennerström’s billions. Trust me.
I’m not your enemy. M.
Blomkvist had almost given up hope when, nearly fifty minutes later, the file
[Cryptic 4] materialized.
I’ll think about it.
Blomkvist sighed with relief. He felt a little ray of hope. The reply meant exactly
what it said. She was going to think about it. It was the first time since, without a
word of explanation, she had vanished from his life that she had held out the
prospect of communicating with him at all. He wrote [Cryptic 5].
OK, I’ll wait. But please don’t take too long.
Inspector Faste got the call when he was on Långholmsgatan near Västerbron on
his way to work on Friday morning. The police did not have the resources to put
the apartment on Lundagatan under twenty-four-hour surveillance, so they had
arranged for a neighbour, a retired policeman, to keep an eye on it.
“The Chinese girl just came in,” the neighbour said.
Faste could hardly have been in a more convenient place. He made an illegal turn
past the bus shelter on to Heleneborgsgatan just before Västerbron and drove
down Högalidsgatan to Lundagatan. He was there less than two minutes after he
got the call and jogged across the street and through to the back building.
Miriam Wu was still standing at the door of her apartment staring at the drilled-out lock and the police tape across the door when she heard footsteps on the stairs
behind her. She turned and saw a powerfully built man looking intently at her. She
felt he was hostile and dropped her bag on the floor and prepared to resort to Thai
boxing if necessary. “Are you Miriam Wu?” he said. To her surprise he held up a
police ID. “Yes,” she said. “What’s going on here?”
“Where have you been staying the past week?”
“I’ve been away. What happened? Was there a break-in?”
“I’m going to have to ask you to come with me to Kungsholmen,” he said, putting a
hand on her shoulder.
Bublanski and Mo dig watched as Miriam Wu was escorted by Faste into the
interview room. She was plainly angry.
“Please have a seat. My name is Criminal Inspector Jan Bublanski, and this is my
colleague Inspector Sonja Modig. I’m sorry we’ve had to bring you in like this, but
we have a number of questions we need answered.”
“OK. But why? That guy isn’t very talkative.” She jerked a thumb at Faste.
“We’ve been looking for you for some time. Can you tell us where you’ve been?”
“Yes, I can. But I don’t feel like it, and as far as I’m concerned it’s none of your
business.”
Bublanski raised his eyebrows.
“I come home to find my door broken open and police tape across it, and a guy
pumped up on steroids drags me down here. Can I get an explanation?”
“Don’t you like men?” Faste said.
Miriam Wu turned and stared at him, astonished. Bublanski gave him a furious
look.
“You haven’t read any newspapers in the past week? Have you been out of the
country?”
“No, I haven’t read any papers. I’ve been in Paris visiting my parents. For two
weeks. I just came from Central Station.”
“You took the train?”
“I don’t like flying.”
“And you didn’t see any news headlines or Swedish papers today?”
“I got off the night train and took the tunnelbana home.”
Bublanski thought for a moment. There hadn’t been anything about Salander in the
headlines this morning. He stood up and left the room. When he returned he was
carrying Aftonbladet ’s Easter edition with Salander’s photograph on the front page.
Miriam Wu almost flipped.
Blomkvist followed the directions that Björck had given him to the cabin in
Smådalarö. As he parked he saw that the “cabin” was a modern one-family home
which looked to be habitable all year round. It had a view of the sea towards the
Jungfrufjärden inlet. He walked up the gravel path and rang the bell. Björck was
clearly recognizable from the passport photograph that Svensson had in his file.
“Good morning,” Blomkvist said.
“Good, you found the place.”
“Thanks to your directions.”
“Come in. We can sit in the kitchen.”
Björck appeared to be in good health, but he had a slight limp.
“I’m on sick leave,” he said.
“Nothing serious, I hope.”
“I’m waiting to have surgery on a slipped disk. Would you like coffee?”
“No thanks,” Blomkvist said and sat at the kitchen table and opened his briefcase.
He took out a folder. Björck sat down facing him.
“You look familiar. Have we met before?”
“I think not,” Blomkvist said.
“I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere.”
“Maybe in the newspapers.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Mikael Blomkvist. I’m a journalist, I work at Millennium magazine.”
Björck looked confused. Then the penny dropped. Kalle Blomkvist. The
Wennerström affair. But still he did not understand the implications.
“Millennium? I didn’t know you did market research.”
“Once in a while. I’d like to begin by asking you to look at three photographs and
tell me which one you like best.”
Blomkvist put images of three girls on the table. One had been downloaded from a
porn site on the Internet. The other two were blown-up passport photographs.
Björck turned pale as a corpse.
“I don’t get it.”
“No? This is Lidia Komarova, sixteen years old, from Minsk. Next to her is Myang So
Chin, goes by the name of Jo-Jo, from Thailand. She’s twenty-five. And lastly we
have Yelena Barasova, nineteen, from Tallinn. You bought sex from all three of these
women, and my question is: which one did you like best? Think of it as market
research.”
“To sum up, you claim that you have known Lisbeth Salander for about three years.
Without expecting to be remunerated she signed over her apartment to you this
spring and moved somewhere else. You have sex with her once in a while when she
gets in touch, but you don’t know where she lives, what kind of work she does, or
how she supports herself. Do you expect me to believe that?”
Miriam Wu glowered at him. “I don’t give a shit what you believe. I haven’t done
anything illegal, and how I choose to live my life and who I have sex with is none
of your business or anyone else’s.”
Bublanski sighed. That morning, when he had received news of Miriam Wu’s
reappearance, he had felt a great sense of relief. Finally a breakthrough. But the
information he was getting from her was anything but enlightening. It was most
peculiar, in fact. And the problem was that he believed her. She gave clear,
intelligible answers, without hesitation. She cited places and dates when she had
met Salander, and she gave such a precise account of how it came about that she
had moved to Lundagatan that Bublanski and Modig both strongly felt that such a
bizarre story had to be true.
Faste had listened to the interview with mounting exasperation, but he managed to
keep his mouth shut. He thought that Bublanski was too lenient by far with the
Chinese girl, who was an arrogant bitch and used a lot of words to avoid answering
the only question that mattered. Namely, where in burning hell was that fucking
whore Salander hiding?
But Wu did not know where Salander was. She did not know what kind of work
Salander did. She had never heard of Milton Security. She had never heard of Dag
Svensson or Mia Johansson, and consequently she could not provide a single scrap
of information of any interest. She had had no idea that Salander was under
guardianship, or that in her teens she had been committed, or that she had copious
psychiatric assessments on her CV.
On the other hand, she was willing to confirm that she and Salander had gone to
Kvarnen and kissed and then gone home to Lundagatan and parted early the next
morning. Days later Miriam Wu had taken the train to Paris and missed all the
headlines in the Swedish papers. Apart from a quick visit to return her car keys, she
had not seen Salander since that evening at Kvarnen.
“Car keys?” Bublanski asked. “Salander doesn’t own a car.”
Miriam Wu told him that she had a burgundy Honda which was parked outside the
apartment building. Bublanski got up and looked at Modig.
“Can you take over the interview?” he said and left the room.
He had to find Holmberg and have him do a forensic examination of a burgundy
Honda parked on Lundagatan. And he needed to be alone to think.
Gunnar Björck, assistant chief of the immigration division of the Security Police,
now on sick leave, sat ashen and ghostlike in the kitchen with its lovely view of
Jungfrufjärden. Blomkvist watched him with a patient, neutral gaze. By now he was
sure that Björck had had nothing to do with the murders. Since Svensson had never
managed to confront him, Björck had no idea that he was about to be exposed, his
name and photograph published in Millennium and in a book.
Björck did offer one valuable piece of information. He knew Nils Bjurman. They had
met at the police shooting club, where Björck had been an active member for
twenty-eight years. For a time he had even sat on the board along with Bjurman.
They weren’t close friends, but they had spent time together and occasionally had
dinner.
No, he had not seen Bjurman in several months. The last time he ran into him was
the previous summer, when they had been drinking in the same bar. He was sorry
that Bjurman had been murdered—and by that psychopath—but he didn’t plan to go
to the funeral.
Blomkvist worried about the coincidence but gradually ran out of questions.
Bjurman must have known hundreds of people in his professional and social life.
The fact that he happened to know someone who turned up in Svensson’s material
was neither improbable nor statistically unusual. Blomkvist was himself casually
acquainted with a journalist who also appeared in the book.
It was time to wind things up. Björck had gone through all the expected stages.
First denial, then—when shown part of the documentation—anger, threats,
attempted bribery, and, finally, pleading. Blomkvist had ignored all his outbursts.
“You’ll ruin my life if you publish this stuff,” said Björck.
“Yes.”
“And you’re going to do it.”
“Absolutely”
“Why? Can’t you give me a break? I’m not well.”
“Interesting that you bring up human kindness as an argument.”
“It doesn’t cost a thing to be compassionate.”
“You’re right about that. While you moan about me destroying your life, you’ve
enjoyed destroying the lives of young girls against whom you’ve committed crimes.
We can prove three of them. God knows how many others there are. Where was
your compassion then?”
He picked up his papers and stuffed them into his briefcase.
“I’ll find my own way out.”
As he reached the door, he turned back to Björck.
“Have you ever heard of a man named Zala?” he said.
Björck stared at him. He was still so agitated that he scarcely heard Blomkvist’s
question. Then his eyes widened.
Zala!
It’s not possible.
Bjurman!
Could it be possible?
Blomkvist noticed the change and came back to the table.
“Why do you ask about Zala?” Björck said. He looked to be almost in shock.
“He interests me,” Blomkvist said.
Blomkvist could almost see the wheels turning in Björck’s head. After a while
Björck grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the windowsill and lit one.
“If I do know something about Zala … what’s it worth to you?”
“It depends on what you know.”
Feelings and thoughts tumbled through Björck’s head.
How the hell could Blomkvist know anything about Zalachenko?
“It’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time,” Björck finally said.
“So you know who he is?”
“I didn’t say that. What are you after?”
“He’s one of the names on the list of people Svensson was investigating.”
“What’s it worth to you?” he said again.
“What’s what worth?”
“If I can lead you to Zala… Would you leave me out of your report?”
Blomkvist sat down slowly. After Hedestad he had decided never again to bargain
over a story. He did not intend to bargain with Björck either; no matter what
happened he was going to hang him out to dry. But he realized he was
unscrupulous enough to do a deal with Björck, then double-cross him. He felt no
guilt. Björck was a policeman who had committed crimes. If he knew the name of a
possible murderer, then it was his job to intervene—not to use the information to
save his own skin. Blomkvist put his hand in his jacket pocket and switched on the
tape recorder he had turned off when he got up from the table. “Let’s hear it,” he
said.
Modig was infuriated by Faste, but she did not allow her expression to reveal what
she thought of him. The interview with Miriam Wu, which had continued after
Bublanski left the room, was anything but by the book.
Modig was also surprised. She had never liked Faste and his macho style, but she
had considered him a skilful police officer. That skill was glaringly absent today. It
was obvious that Faste felt threatened by a beautiful, intelligent, and outspoken
lesbian. It was equally obvious that Wu was aware of Faste’s irritation and
ruthlessly played to it.
“So you found the strap-on in my drawer. What did you fantasize about then?”
Miriam Wu gave a curious smirk. Faste looked like he was going to explode.
“Shut up and answer the question.”
“You asked me if I ever fuck Lisbeth Salander with it. And my answer is that it’s
none of your fucking business.”
Modig raised her hand: “The interview with Miriam Wu was interrupted for a break
at 11:12 a.m.”
She turned off the tape recorder.
“Would you stay here, please, Miriam? Faste, I’d like a word with you.”
Miriam Wu smiled sweetly when Faste gave her a filthy look and slouched after
Modig into the corridor. Modig spun around and looked Faste in the eye, her nose
nearly touching his.
“Bublanski assigned me to take over the interview. Your help’s not worth shit.”
“Oh, come off it. That surly cunt is squirming like a snake.”
“Could there be some sort of Freudian symbolism in your choice of similes?”
“What?”
“Forget it. Go and find Curt and challenge him to a game of tic-tac-toe, or go and
shoot your pistol in the club room, or do whatever the hell you want. Just stay
away from this interview.”
“Why the hell are you acting this way, Modig?”
“Because you’re sabotaging my interview.”
“Are you so hot for her that you want to have her all to yourself?”
Before Modig could stop herself her hand shot out and slapped Faste across the
face. She regretted it instantly, but it was too late. She glanced up and down the
hall and saw that there were no witnesses, thank God.
At first Faste looked surprised. Then he sneered at her, tossed his jacket over his
shoulder, and walked away. Modig almost called after him to apologize but decided
against it. She waited a whole minute while she calmed down. Then she collected
two cups of coffee from the vending machine and went back to Miriam Wu.
They sat in silence, drinking the coffee. At last Modig looked up.
“I’m sorry. This is probably one of the worst interviews ever conducted in police
headquarters.”
“He seems like a great guy to work with. Let me guess: he’s heterosexual, divorced,
and in charge of cracking gay jokes during coffee breaks.”
“He’s … a relic of something. That’s all I can say.”
“And you aren’t?”
“At least I’m not homophobic.”
“I’ll buy that.”
“Miriam, I… we, all of us, have been working around the clock for ten days now.
We’re tired and pissed off. We’re trying to get to the bottom of a horrible double
murder in Enskede and an equally horrible murder near Odenplan. Your friend
Lisbeth Salander has been linked to the sites of both crimes. We have forensic
evidence. A nationwide alert has been put out for her. Please understand that,
whatever the cost, we have to apprehend her before she does harm to someone
else or maybe to herself.”
“I know Lisbeth Salander. I can’t believe she murdered anyone.”
“You can’t believe it or you don’t want to? Miriam, we don’t put out a nationwide
alert for someone without a damn good reason. But I can tell you this much: my
boss, Criminal Inspector Bublanski, isn’t convinced that she’s guilty. We’re
discussing the possibility that she had an accomplice, or that she was somehow
drawn into all this against her will. But we have to find her. You believe she’s
innocent, Miriam, but what happens if you’re wrong? You say yourself that you
don’t know that much about her.”
“I don’t know what to believe.”
“Then help us figure out the truth.”
“Am I being arrested for anything?”
“No.”
“Can I leave here when I want?”
“Technically, yes.”
“And untechnically?”
“You’ll remain a question mark in our eyes.”
Miriam Wu weighed Modig’s words. “Fire away. If your questions piss me off I
won’t answer.”
Modig turned on the tape recorder again.
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