CHAPTER 20
Friday, April 1–Sunday, April 3
Miriam Wu spent one more hour with Modig. Towards the end of the interview,
Bublanski came into the room and sat down and listened without saying a word.
Miriam Wu acknowledged him politely, but she carried on talking only to Modig.
Finally Modig looked at Bublanski and asked whether he had any more questions.
Bublanski shook his head.
“I declare the interview with Miriam Wu concluded. The time is 1:09 p.m.” She
turned off the tape recorder.
“I understand there was a little problem with Criminal Inspector Faste,” Bublanski
said.
“He had difficulty concentrating,” said Modig neutrally.
“He’s an idiot,” said Miriam Wu.
“Criminal Inspector Faste actually does have many good points, but he may not be
the best choice to interview a young woman,” said Bublanski, looking Miriam Wu in
the eye. “I shouldn’t have entrusted him with the task. I apologize.”
Miriam Wu looked surprised. “Apology accepted. I was quite unfriendly to you at
first too.”
Bublanski waved it off.
“May I ask you a few more things? With the tape recorder off?”
“Go ahead.”
“The more I hear about Lisbeth Salander, the more puzzled I become. The picture I
get from the people who know her is inconsistent with the documentation from
the social welfare and psychiatric agencies.”
“So?”
“Please give me some straight answers.”
“All right”
“The psychiatric evaluation that was done when Salander was eighteen concludes
that she is mentally retarded.”
“Nonsense. Lisbeth is probably smarter than anyone I know.”
“She never graduated from school and doesn’t even have a certificate that says she
can read and write.”
“Lisbeth reads and writes a whole lot better than I do. Sometimes she sits and
scribbles mathematical formulas. Pure algebra. I have no clue about that sort of
math.”
“Mathematics?”
“It’s a hobby she’s taken up.”
“A hobby?” asked Bublanski after a moment.
“Some sort of equations. I don’t even know what the symbols mean.”
Bublanski sighed.
“Social services wrote a report after she was brought in one time from Tantolunden
when she was seventeen. It indicated that she was supporting herself as a
prostitute.”
“Lisbeth a whore? Bullshit. I don’t know what sort of work she does, but I’m not
the least bit surprised that she had a job at that security company.”
“How does she make a living?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is she a lesbian?”
“No. Lisbeth has sex with me, but that isn’t the same thing as being a dyke. I don’t
think she knows herself what sort of sexual identity she has. I’d guess she’s
bisexual.”
“What about the fact that you two use handcuffs and that sort of thing? Is Salander
sadistically inclined, or how would you describe her?”
“You misunderstood all those sex toys. We may use handcuffs sometimes for role-playing, but it has nothing to do with sadism or violence. It’s a game.”
“Has she ever been violent towards you?”
“No. I’m usually the dominant one in our games.”
Miriam Wu smiled sweetly.
The afternoon meeting at 3:00 resulted in the first serious disagreement of the
investigation. Bublanski gave an update and then explained that he felt they should
be widening their scope.
“From day one we’ve been focusing all our energies on finding Lisbeth Salander. She
is definitely a top suspect—this is based on evidence—but our picture of her is
meeting resistance from everyone who knows her. Armansky, Blomkvist, and
Miriam Wu don’t hold with the picture of her as a psychotic killer. Therefore I want
us to expand our thinking a bit, to consider alternative killers and the possibility
that Salander herself may have had an accomplice or merely have been present
when the shots were fired.”
Bublanski’s comments triggered a vigorous debate, in which he encountered strong
opposition from Faste as well as Bohman from Milton Security. Bohman reminded
the team that the simplest explanation was most often the right one.
“It’s possible, of course, that Salander didn’t act alone, but we have no forensic
trace of any accomplice.”
“We could always follow up on Blomkvist’s leads within the police,” Faste said
acidly.
In the discussion, Bublanski was backed up only by Modig. Andersson and
Holmberg were content with making isolated comments. Hedström from Milton
was as quiet as a mouse during the whole discussion. Finally Prosecutor Ekström
raised a hand.
“Bublanski—as I understand it, you don’t want to eliminate Salander from the
investigation.”
“No, of course not. We have her fingerprints. But so far we have no motive. I want
us to start thinking along different lines. Could several people have been involved?
Could it still be related to that book about the sex trade that Svensson was writing?
Blomkvist is certainly right that several people named in the book have a motive
for murder.”
“How do you want to proceed?” Ekström said.
“I want two people to start looking at alternative killers. Sonja and Niklas can work
together.”
“Me?” said Hedström in astonishment.
Bublanski had chosen him because he was the youngest person in the room and
the one who was most likely to think outside the box.
“You’ll work with Modig. Go through everything we know so far and try to find
anything we might have missed. Faste, you, Andersson, and Bohman keep on the
hunt for Salander. That’s our number one priority.”
“What should I do?” asked Holmberg.
“Focus on Advokat Bjurman. Do a fresh examination of his apartment in case we
missed anything. Questions?”
Nobody had any.
“OK. We’ll keep it quiet that Miriam Wu has turned up. She might have more to tell
us, and I don’t want the media jumping all over her.”
Ekström agreed that they should proceed according to Bublanski’s plan.
“Right,” Hedström said, looking at Modig. “You’re the detective, you tell me what
we’re going to do.”
They were in the corridor outside the conference room.
“I think we should have another talk with Mikael Blomkvist,” she said. “But first I
have to discuss one or two things with Bublanski. I have tomorrow and Sunday off.
That means we won’t get started until Monday morning. Spend the weekend going
through the case material.”
They said goodbye to each other. Modig walked into Bublanski’s office as Ekström
was leaving.
“Do you have a minute?” she said.
“Sit down.”
“I got so angry with Faste that I lost my temper.”
“He mentioned that you really laid into him.”
“He said that I obviously wanted to be alone with Wu because I was turned on by
her.”
“That qualifies as sexual harassment. Would you like to file a complaint?”
“I slapped his face. That was enough.”
“You were extremely provoked.”
“I was.”
“Faste has problems with strong women.”
“I’ve noticed that.”
“You’re a strong woman and a very good cop.”
“Thanks.”
“But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t beat up the staff.”
“It won’t happen again. I didn’t even get a chance to go through Svensson’s desk at
Millennium today.”
“Go home and take it easy over the weekend. We’ll get started with the new
approach on Monday.”
Hedström stopped off at Central Station and had a coffee at George Café. He felt
depressed. All week he had been waiting for the news that Salander had been
caught. If she had resisted arrest, with a little luck some right-minded cop might
have shot her.
And that was an appealing fantasy.
But Salander was still at liberty. Not only that, but Bublanski was floating the idea
that she might not be the murderer. Not a positive development.
Being subordinate to Bohman was bad enough—the man was one of the most
boring and least imaginative people at Milton—but now he had been put under
Inspector Modig, and she was the most sceptical of the Salander lead. She was
probably the one who had put doubts in Bublanski’s mind. He wondered whether
the famous Officer Bubble had something going on with that bitch. It wouldn’t
surprise him. He seemed thoroughly pussy-whipped by her. Of all the officers in the
investigation, only Faste had enough balls to say what he thought.
Hedström was thinking hard. That morning he and Bohman had had a brief
meeting at Milton with Armansky and Fräklund. A week of investigating had turned
up nothing, and Armansky was frustrated that nobody had found any explanation
for the murders. Fräklund had suggested that Milton Security should rethink its
involvement—there were other more pressing tasks for Bohman and Hedström than
to work as unpaid labour for the police.
Armansky decided that Bohman and Hedström should stay on for one more week.
If by then there was no result, the assignment would be called off.
In other words, Hedström had only a week before the door to his involvement in
the investigation would slam shut. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do.
After a while he took out his mobile and called Tony Scala, a freelance journalist
who made a living writing drivel for men’s magazines. Hedström had met him a
few times. He told Scala that he had one or two bits of information about the
investigation into the murders in Enskede. He explained how he had ended up right
in the middle of the hottest police investigation in years. Scala took the bait at
once: it might turn into a scoop for a major magazine. They agreed to meet for a
coffee an hour later at the Aveny on Kungsgatan.
Scala was fat. Seriously fat.
“If you want information from me there are two preconditions,” Hedström said.
“Shoot.”
“First, no mention of Milton Security in the article. Our role is as consultants only.”
“Although it is newsworthy given that Salander worked at Milton.”
“Cleaning and stuff like that,” Hedström said, brushing him off. “That’s no news.”
“If you say so.”
“Second, you have to slant the article so it sounds as though a woman leaked the
information.”
“How come?”
“To divert suspicion from me.”
“All right. So what have you got?”
“Salander’s lesbian girlfriend just showed up.”
“OK, excellent! The chick she signed over the Lundagatan apartment to? The one
who disappeared?”
“Miriam Wu. Is that worth anything to you?”
“You’d better believe it. Where was she?”
“Out of the country. She claims she hadn’t even heard about the murders.”
“Is she a suspect at all?”
“No. Not yet anyway. She was interviewed today and released three hours ago.”
“I see. Do you believe her story?”
“I think she’s lying through her teeth. She knows something.”
“Great stuff, Niklas.”
“But check her out. We’re talking about a girl who goes in for S&M with Salander.”
“You know this for a fact?”
“She admitted to it during the interview. We found handcuffs, leather outfits,
whips, and the whole shebang when we searched the place.”
The stuff about the whips was an exaggeration. All right, it was a total lie, but
surely that Chinese cunt played with whips too.
“Are you kidding?” Scala said.
Paolo Roberto was one of the last to leave the library. He had spent the afternoon
reading every line that had been written about the hunt for Salander.
He came out on Sveavägen feeling depressed and confused. And hungry. He went
into McDonald’s, ordered a burger, and sat down at a corner table.
Lisbeth Salander a triple murderer. He could hardly believe it. Not that skinny little
fucking freaky chick. But should he do something about it? And if so, what?
Miriam Wu took a cab back to Lundagatan and slowly took in the devastation of
her newly decorated apartment. Cupboards, wardrobes, storage boxes, and desk
drawers had been emptied out. There was fingerprint powder on every surface. Her
highly private sex toys were heaped on the bed. But as far as she could tell, nothing
had been taken.
She put on the coffeemaker and shook her head. Lisbeth, Lisbeth, what the fuck
have you got yourself mixed up in?
She took out her mobile and called Salander’s number, but got the message that
the subscriber could not be reached. She sat for a long time at her kitchen table
and tried to work out what was real and what wasn’t. The Salander she knew was
no psychotic killer, but on the other hand she didn’t know her very well. Salander
was hot in bed, sure, but she could be a very cold fish if her mood changed.
She promised herself not to make up her mind before she saw Salander and got her
own explanation. She felt like crying and spent two hours cleaning up.
By 7:00 p.m. the apartment was more or less habitable again. She took a shower
and was in the kitchen dressed in a black-and-gold Oriental silk robe when the
doorbell rang. At the door was an unshaven, exceptionally fat man.
“Hi, Miriam, my name is Tony Scala. I’m a journalist. Can I ask you a few
questions?”
Standing next to him was a photographer who took a flash picture right in her
face.
Miriam Wu contemplated a dropkick and an elbow to his nose, but she had the
presence of mind to realize that it would only give them more photo ops.
“Have you been out of the country with Lisbeth Salander? Do you know where she
is?”
Miriam Wu shut the door in their faces and locked it with the newly installed dead
bolt. Scala pushed open the mail slot.
“Miriam, sooner or later you’ll have to talk to the press. I can help you.”
She balled up her fist and smashed it down on Scala’s fingers. She heard a wail of
pain. Then she closed the inner door and lay on the bed, closing her eyes. Lisbeth,
I’m going to wring your neck when I find you.
After his trip to Smådalarö, Blomkvist spent the afternoon visiting another of the
men that Svensson had planned to name. So far that week he had crossed off six of
the thirty-seven names. The latest one was a retired judge living in Tumba; he had
presided over several cases involving prostitution.
Refreshingly, the wretched man did not attempt denials, threats, or pleas for mercy.
On the contrary, he cheerfully conceded that he had screwed whores from the East.
No, he did not feel a grain of remorse. Prostitution was an honourable profession
and he considered he was doing the girls a favour by being their customer.
Blomkvist was driving through Liljeholmen around 10:00 p.m. when Eriksson called
him.
“Hi,” she said. “Did you read the online edition of the Morgon-Posten?”
“No, what’ve they got?”
“Salander’s girlfriend came home today.”
“What? Who?”
“That dyke Miriam Wu who lives in her apartment on Lundagatan.”
Wu, Blomkvist thought. SALANDER-WU on the nameplate.
“Thanks. I’m on my way.”
Wu had unplugged the phone in her apartment and turned off her mobile. By 7:30
that evening news of her homecoming had appeared on the website of one of the
morning papers. Soon after that Aftonbladet called, and three minutes later
Expressen. Aktuellt ran the story without naming her, but by 9:00 no fewer than
sixteen reporters from various media had tried to get a comment out of her.
Twice the doorbell had rung. She had not opened the door, and she turned off all
the lights in the apartment. She felt like breaking the nose of the next reporter who
hassled her. In the end she turned on her mobile and called a girlfriend who lived
within walking distance down by Hornstull and asked if she could spend the night
there.
She slipped out the entrance door on Lundagatan less than five minutes before
Blomkvist rang her doorbell.
• • •
Bublanski called Modig just after 10:00 on Saturday morning. She had slept until
9:00 and then played with the children before her husband took them out for a
Saturday treat.
“Have you read the papers today?”
“No, not yet. I’ve only been up an hour, and busy with the kids. Did something
happen?”
“Somebody on our team is leaking stuff to the press.”
“We’ve known that all along. Someone leaked Salander’s psychiatric report several
days ago.”
“That was Ekström.”
“It was?” Modig said.
“Of course, though he’ll never admit it. He’s trying to generate interest because it’s
to his advantage. But not this. A freelancer called Tony Scala talked to someone
who told him all kinds of stuff about Miriam Wu. Among other things, details from
what was said in the interview yesterday. That was something we wanted to keep
quiet, and Ekström has gone through the roof.”
“Damn it.”
“The reporter didn’t name anyone. The source was described as a person with a
‘central position in the investigation.’”
“Shit,” Modig said.
“The article describes the source as a ‘she.’”
Modig said nothing for ten seconds. She was the only woman on the investigative
team.
“Bublanski… I haven’t said one word to a single journalist. I haven’t discussed the
investigation with anyone outside our corridor. Not even with my husband.”
“I don’t for a second believe that you would leak information. But unfortunately
Prosecutor Ekström does. And Faste, who’s on weekend duty, is brimming with
insinuations.”
Modig felt quite weary. “So what happens now?”
“Ekström is insisting that you be taken off the investigation while the charge is
checked out.”
“What charge? This is absurd. How am I supposed to prove—”
“You don’t have to prove a thing. The person making the accusation has to come up
with the proof.”
“I know, but… damn it all. How long is this going to take?”
“It’s already over.”
“What?”
“I’ve just asked you. You said that you hadn’t leaked any information. So the
investigation is done and I write a report. I’ll see you at 9:00 on Monday in
Ekström’s office, and I’ll handle the questions.”
“Thank you, Bublanski.”
“My pleasure.”
“There is one problem.”
“I know.”
“Since I didn’t leak anything, somebody else on the team must have.”
“Any suggestions?”
“My first guess would be Faste, but I don’t really think he could be the one.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you. He can be a total prick, but he was genuinely
outraged at the leak.”
Bublanski liked his walks, depending on the weather and how much time he had. It
was exercise he enjoyed. He lived on Katarina Bangata in Södermalm, not so far
from Millennium’s offices, or from Milton Security for that matter, where Salander
had worked, and Lundagatan, where she had lived. It was also within walking
distance of the synagogue on St. Paulsgatan. On Saturday afternoon he walked to all
of these places.
His wife Agnes accompanied him for the first part of the walk. They had been
married for twenty-three years, and in all that time he had never strayed.
They stopped at the synagogue for a while and talked to the rabbi. Bublanski was a
Polish Jew, while Agnes’ family—the few who had survived Auschwitz—were
originally from Hungary.
After visiting the synagogue they parted—Agnes to go shopping, Bublanski to keep
walking. He needed to be alone, to think about the investigation. He went back
over the measures he had taken since the job had landed on his desk on the
morning of Maundy Thursday, and he could identify only a couple of mistakes.
One was that he hadn’t immediately sent someone to go through Svensson’s desk
at Millennium. When eventually he remembered to do it—and he had done it
himself—Blomkvist had already cleaned out God knows what.
Another mistake was missing the fact that Salander had bought a car. But
Holmberg had reported that the car contained nothing of interest.
Apart from these two errors, the investigation had been as thorough as could have
been expected.
He stopped at a kiosk near Zinkensdamm and stared at a newspaper headline. The
passport photograph of Salander had been cropped to a small but easily
recognizable size and the focus had shifted to a more sensational line of news:
POLICE TRACKINGLESBIAN SATANIST CULT
He bought a copy and found the spread, which was dominated by a photograph of
five girls in their late teens dressed in black leather jackets with rivets, torn black
jeans, and tight T-shirts. One of the girls was holding up a flag with a pentagram
and another was making a sign with her index and little fingers. The caption read:
Lisbeth Salander hung out with a death-metal band that played in small clubs. In
1996 the group paid homage to the Church of Satan and had a hit with “Etiquette
of Evil.”
The name Evil Fingers was not mentioned, and the newspaper had blacked out their
eyes, but friends of the rock group would certainly recognize the girls.
The story was mainly about Miriam Wu and was illustrated with a picture taken
from a show at Bern’s in which she had performed. She was topless and wearing a
Russian army officer’s cap. Her eyes were blacked out too.
SALANDER’S GIRLFRIEND WROTE ABOUTLESBIAN S&M SEX
The 31-year-old woman is well known in Stockholm’s trendy nightspots. She makes
no secret that she picks up women and likes to dominate her partner.
The reporter had even found a girl he called Sara who, according to her own
testimony, had been the object of the woman’s pickup attempts. Her boyfriend had
been “disturbed” by the incident. The article went on to say that the band was an
obscure and elitist feminist variant on the fringes of the gay movement, and that it
had acquired a certain fame for hosting a “bondage workshop” at the Gay Pride
Festival. The rest of the article was based on a deliberately provocative piece Wu
had written six years earlier for a feminist fanzine. Bublanski scanned the text and
then tossed the paper into a trash can.
He brooded over Faste and Modig, both competent detectives. But Faste was a
problem; he got on people’s nerves. He would have to have a talk with the man,
but he didn’t think he was the source of the leaks.
When Bublanski got his bearings again he was standing on Lundagatan staring at
the front door of Salander’s building. It had not been a conscious decision to walk
there.
He walked up the steps to upper Lundagatan, where he stood for a long time
thinking about Blomkvist’s story of Salander’s attack. That didn’t lead anywhere
either. There was no police report, no names of persons involved, and not even an
adequate description of the attacker. Blomkvist had claimed that he could not read
the licence plate of the van that drove away from the scene.
Assuming any of it had happened at all.
Another dead end.
Bublanski looked down Lundagatan at the burgundy Honda that was still parked in
the street, and at that moment Blomkvist walked up to the front door.
Miriam Wu awoke late in the day, tangled in the sheets. She sat up and looked
around at the unfamiliar room.
She had used the torrent of media attention as an excuse to call a girlfriend. But
she had also left the apartment, she realized, because she was afraid that Salander
might knock on her door. Her interview with the police and the newspaper
coverage had affected her profoundly, and even though she had resolved not to
make up her mind one way or the other until Salander had a chance to explain
what had happened, she had started to suspect that her friend might actually be
guilty.
She glanced down at Viktoria Viktorsson—known as Double-V and 100 percent dyke.
She was lying on her stomach and mumbling in her sleep. Miriam slipped out of
bed and took a shower. Then she went out to buy rolls for breakfast. It was not
until she was standing at the cash register of the shop next to Café Cinnamon on
Verkstadsgatan that she saw the headlines. She fled back to Double-V’s apartment.
• • •
Blomkvist punched in the entry code and went inside. He was gone for two
minutes before he reappeared. Nobody home. He looked up and down the street,
apparently undecided. Bublanski watched him intently.
What bothered Bublanski was that if Blomkvist had lied about the attack on
Lundagatan then he was playing some kind of game, which in the worst case could
mean that he was involved in the murders. But if he was telling the truth there was
still a hidden element in the drama; there were more players than those who were
visible, and the murders could be considerably more complex than an attack of
insanity in a pathologically disturbed girl.
As Blomkvist moved towards Zinkensdamm, Bublanski called after him. Blomkvist
stopped, saw the detective, and walked over to him. They met at the foot of the
steps.
“Hello, Blomkvist. Looking for Lisbeth Salander?”
“As a matter of fact, no. I’m looking for Miriam Wu.”
“She isn’t home. Somebody leaked the news to the press that she had resurfaced.”
“What did she have to say?”
Bublanski gave Blomkvist a searching look. Kalle Blomkvist.
“Walk with me,” Bublanski said. “I need a cup of coffee.”
They passed Högalid Church in silence. Bublanski took him to Café Lillasyster, near
to where Liljeholmsbron crosses the Norrström to the southern suburb of
Liljeholmen. Bublanski ordered a double espresso with a teaspoonful of cold milk
and Blomkvist a caffè latte. They sat in the smoking section.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had such a frustrating case,” Bublanski said. “How
much can I discuss with you without having to read it in Expressen tomorrow
morning?”
“I don’t work for Expressen.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Bublanski—I don’t believe Lisbeth is guilty.”
“And now you’re doing your own private investigation? Is that why they call you
Kalle Blomkvist?”
Blomkvist smiled. “They tell me you’re called Officer Bubble.”
Bublanski gave him a stiff smile. “Why do you think Salander is innocent?”
“I don’t know a thing about her guardian, but she had no reason whatsoever to
murder Dag and Mia. Especially not Mia. Lisbeth loathes men who hate women, and
Mia was in the process of putting the screws to a whole bunch of prostitutes’
clients. What Mia was doing was completely in line with what Lisbeth herself
would have done. She is a very moral creature.”
“I can’t seem to piece together a coherent picture of her. A retarded psycho case or
a skilled researcher?”
“Lisbeth is just different. She’s abnormally antisocial, but there is definitely nothing
wrong with her intelligence. On the contrary, she’s probably smarter than you or
me.”
Bublanski sighed. Blomkvist was giving him the same story that Miriam Wu had.
“She has to be caught, come what may. I can’t go into the details, but she was at
the murder scene, and she has been linked to the murder weapon.”
“I suppose that means you found her fingerprints on it. That doesn’t prove she fired
the shots.”
Bublanski nodded. “Dragan Armansky doesn’t believe it either. He’s too cautious to
say it straight out, but he’s also looking for proof that she’s innocent.”
“And you? What do you think?”
“I’m a detective. I arrest people and question them. Right now things look dismal
for Fröken Salander. We’ve put away murderers on considerably weaker
circumstantial evidence.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I don’t know. If she did turn out to be innocent… Who do you think would have a
motive for killing both her guardian and your two friends?”
Blomkvist took out a pack of cigarettes and offered it to Bublanski, who shook his
head. He did not want to lie to the police. He ought to say something about the
man known as Zala. He should also tell Bublanski about Superintendent Gunnar
Björck of the Security Police.
But Bublanski and his colleagues had access to Svensson’s material, which
contained the same folder. All they had to do was read it. Instead they were
charging along like a steamroller and feeding salacious details about Salander to the
press.
He had an idea, but didn’t know where it would lead. He didn’t want to name
Björck before he was sure. Zalachenko. That was the link between Bjurman and Dag
and Mia. The problem was that Björck so far hadn’t told him anything.
“Let me dig a little deeper, then I’ll give you an alternative theory.”
“No police traces, I hope.”
“Not yet. What did Miriam Wu say?”
“Just about the same as you. They had a relationship.”
“None of my business,” Blomkvist said.
“She and Salander have known each other for three years. She says she knows
nothing about Salander’s background and didn’t even know where she worked. It’s
hard to believe, but I think she’s telling the truth.”
“Lisbeth is obsessively private,” Blomkvist said. “Do you have Miriam Wu’s phone
number?”
“Yes.”
“Can I have it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Mikael, this is police business. We don’t need private investigators with wild
theories.”
“I don’t have any theories yet. On the other hand, I think the answer lies
somewhere in Svensson’s material.”
“You could get in touch with Wu if you made an effort.”
“Probably, but the simplest way is to ask somebody who already has the number.”
Bublanski sighed.
Blomkvist was suddenly very annoyed with him. “Are policemen more talented than
normal people, the ones you call private investigators?”
“No, I don’t think that. But the police have the training and it’s their job to solve
crimes.”
“Ordinary people have training too,” Blomkvist said slowly. “And sometimes a
private investigator is better at working things out than a real detective.”
“So you believe.”
“I know it. Take the Rahman case.* A bunch of policemen sat on their backsides
with their eyes closed for five years while Rahman was locked up, innocent of the
murder of an old lady. He would still be locked up today if a schoolteacher hadn’t
devoted several years to a serious investigation. She did it without the resources
you have at your disposal. Not only did she prove that he was innocent, but she
also identified the person who in all probability was the real killer.”
“We did lose face in the Rahman case. The prosecutor refused to listen to the facts.”
“Bublanski… I’m going to tell you something. At this very moment you’re losing face
in the Salander case as well. I’m damn sure that she did not kill Dag and Mia, and
I’m going to prove it. I’m going to produce another killer for you, and when that
happens I am also going to write an article that you and your colleagues are going
to find painful reading.”
On his way home to Katarina Bangata, Bublanski felt an urge to talk with God
about the case, but instead of going to the synagogue he went to the Catholic
church on Folkungagatan. He sat in one of the pews at the back and did not move
for over an hour. As a Jew he had no business being in a church, but it was a
peaceful place that he regularly visited when he felt the need to sort out his
thoughts, and he knew that God did not mind. There was a difference, besides,
between Catholicism and Judaism. He went to the synagogue when he needed
company and fellowship with other people. Catholics went to church to seek peace
in the presence of God. The church invited silence and visitors would always be left
to themselves.
He brooded about Salander and Wu. And he wondered what Berger and Blomkvist
might be withholding from him—certainly they knew something about Salander
that they hadn’t told him. What sort of research had Salander done for Blomkvist?
For a moment Bublanski considered whether she might have worked on the
Wennerström exposé, but then dismissed that possibility. Salander couldn’t have
contributed anything of value there, no matter how good she was at personal
investigations.
Bublanski was worried: he did not like Blomkvist’s cocksure certainty that Salander
was innocent. It was one thing for him as a detective to be beset by doubt—
doubting was his job. It was quite another thing for Blomkvist to deliver an
ultimatum as a private investigator.
He didn’t care for private investigators because they often produced conspiracy
theories, which prompted headlines in the newspapers but also created a lot of
unnecessary extra work for the police.
This had developed into the most exasperating murder investigation he had ever
been involved in. Somehow he had lost his focus. There had to be a chain of logical
consequences.
If a teenager is found stabbed to death on Mariatorget, it’s a matter of tracking
down which skinhead gang or other mob was rampaging through Söder station an
hour earlier. There are friends, acquaintances, and witnesses, and very soon there
are suspects.
If a man is killed with three bullets in a bar in Skärholmen and it turns out he was
a heavy in the Yugoslav mafia, then it’s a matter of finding out which thugs are
trying to take control of cigarette smuggling.
If a young woman with a decent background and normal lifestyle is found
strangled in her apartment, it’s a matter of finding out who her boyfriend was, or
who was the last person she talked to at the bar the night before.
Bublanski had run so many investigations like these that he could do them in his
sleep.
The current investigation had started off so well. After only a few hours they had
found a prime suspect. Salander was practically designed for the role—an obvious
psycho case, known to have suffered from violent, uncontrollable outbursts her
whole life. It was simply a matter of picking her up and getting a confession or,
depending on the circumstances, putting her into psychiatric care.
But after the promising beginning everything had gone to hell. Salander did not live
at her address. She had friends like Armansky and Blomkvist. She had a relationship
with a lesbian who liked sex with handcuffs, and that put the media in a new
frenzy. She had 2.5 million kronor in the bank and no known employer. Then
Blomkvist shows up with theories about trafficking and conspiracies—and as a
celebrity journalist he has the political clout to create utter chaos in the
investigation with a single article.
Above all, the prime suspect had proven to be impossible to locate, despite the fact
that she was no taller than a hand’s breadth and had tattoos all over her body. It
had been almost two weeks since the murders and there wasn’t so much as a
whisper as to where she might be hiding.
Björck had had a wretched day since Blomkvist stepped across his threshold. He
had a continuous dull ache in his back, but he paced back and forth in his
borrowed house, incapable either of relaxing or of taking any initiative. He couldn’t
make any sense of the story. The pieces of the puzzle would not fall into place.
When he’d first heard the news about Bjurman’s murder, he was aghast. But he
hadn’t been surprised when Salander was almost immediately identified as the
prime suspect and then the hue and cry for her began. He had followed every
report on TV, and he bought all the daily papers he could get hold of and read
every word written about the case.
He didn’t doubt for a second that Salander was mentally ill and capable of killing.
He had no reason to question her guilt or the assumptions of the police—on the
contrary, everything he knew about Salander told him that she really was a
psychotic madwoman. He had been just about to call in and offer his advice to the
investigation, or at least check that the case was being handled properly, but then
he realized that it actually no longer concerned him. Besides, a call from him might
attract the sort of attention that he wanted to avoid. Instead he kept following the
breaking news developments with absentminded interest.
Blomkvist’s visit had turned his peace and quiet upside down. Björck never had any
inkling that Salander’s orgy of murder might involve him personally—that one of
her victims had been a media swine who was about to expose him to the whole of
Sweden.
He had even less of an idea that the name Zala would crop up in the story like a
hand grenade with its pin pulled, and least of all that the name would be known to
a journalist like Blomkvist. It defied all common sense.
The day after Blomkvist’s visit Björck telephoned his former boss, who was seventy-eight years old and living in Laholm. He had to try to worm out the context
without letting on that he was calling for any reason other than pure curiosity and
professional concern. It was a relatively short conversation.
“This is Björck. I assume you’ve read the papers.”
“I have. She’s popped up again.”
“And she doesn’t seem to have changed much.”
“It’s no longer our concern.”
“You don’t think that—”
“No, I don’t. All that is dead and buried. There’s no connection.”
“But Bjurman, of all people. I presume it wasn’t by chance that he became her
guardian.”
There were several seconds of silence on the line.
“No, it was no accident. It seemed like a good idea two years ago. Who could have
predicted this?”
“How much did Bjurman know?”
His former boss chuckled. “You know quite well what Bjurman was like. Not the
most talented actor.”
“I mean… did he know about the connection? Could there be something among his
papers or personal effects that would lead anyone to—”
“No, of course not. I understand what you’re getting at, but don’t worry. Salander
has always been the loose cannon in this story. We arranged it so that Bjurman got
the assignment, but that was only so we’d have someone we could check up on.
Better that than an unknown quantity. If she had started blabbing, he would have
come to us. Now this will all work out for the best.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, after this, Salander is going to be sitting in a psychiatric ward for a long, long
time.”
“That makes sense.”
“Don’t worry. Go and enjoy your sick leave in peace and quiet.”
But that was exactly what Björck was unable to do. Blomkvist had seen to that. He
sat at the kitchen table and looked out over Jungfrufjärden as he tried to sum up
his own situation. He was being threatened from two flanks.
Blomkvist was going to hang him out to dry as a john. There was a serious risk that
he would end his police career by being convicted of breaking the sex-trade law.
But even more serious was the fact that Blomkvist was trying to track down
Zalachenko. Somehow he was mixed up in the story too. And Zala would lead him
back to Björck’s front door.
His former boss had apparently been assured that there was nothing among
Bjurman’s personal effects that could provide a further lead. But there was. The
report from 1991. And Bjurman had gotten it from Björck.
He tried to visualize the meeting with Bjurman more than three months earlier.
They had met in Gamla Stan. Bjurman had called him one afternoon at work and
suggested they have a beer. They talked about the shooting club and everything
under the sun, but Bjurman had sought him out for a particular reason. He needed
a favour. He had asked about Zalachenko …
Björck got up and stood by the kitchen window. He had been a little tipsy at the
meeting. In fact he was quite drunk. What had Bjurman asked him?
“Speaking of which … I’m in the middle of doing something for an old acquaintance
who’s popped up …”
“Oh yeah, who’s that?”
“Alexander Zalachenko. Do you remember him?”
“Are you kidding? He’s not an easy man to forget.”
“Whatever happened to him?”
Technically, it was none of Bjurman’s business. In fact there was good reason to put
Bjurman under the microscope just for having asked… but he was Salander’s
guardian. He said he needed the old report. And I gave it to him.
Björck had made a serious mistake. He had assumed that Bjurman had already been
informed—anything else would have seemed unthinkable. And Bjurman had
presented the matter as though he was only trying to take a shortcut through the
plodding bureaucratic procedure in which everything was stamped “confidential”
and hush-hush and could drag on for months. In particular anything that had to do
with Zalachenko.
I gave him the report. It was still stamped “confidential,” but it was for a good and
understandable reason, and Bjurman was not someone who would spill the beans.
He was stupid, but he had never been a gossip. What could it hurt? It was so many
years ago.
Bjurman had made a fool of him. The more Björck thought about it, the more
convinced he was that Bjurman had chosen his words deliberately, very cautiously.
But what the fuck was Bjurman after? And why would Salander have murdered
him?
Blomkvist went to the apartment in Lundagatan four more times on Saturday in
the hope of finding Miriam Wu, but she was never there.
He spent a good part of the day at the Kaffebar on Hornsgatan with his iBook,
rereading the emails that Svensson had received at his Millennium address and the
contents of the folder named . In the weeks before he was murdered, Svensson had
spent more and more time researching Zala.
Blomkvist wished he could phone Svensson and ask him why the document about
Irina P. was in the folder. The only reasonable conclusion was that Svensson had
suspected Zala of murdering her.
At 5:00 p.m. Bublanski called and gave him Miriam Wu’s phone number. He didn’t
know what had made the detective change his mind, but now that he had the
number he tried it about once every half hour. Not until 11:00 p.m. did she answer.
It was a short conversation.
“Hello, Miriam. My name is Mikael Blomkvist.”
“And who the hell are you?”
“I’m a journalist and I work at a magazine called Millennium.”
Miriam Wu expressed her feelings in a pithy way. “Ah yes. That Blomkvist. Go to
hell, journalist creep.”
She broke off the connection before Blomkvist had a chance to explain what he
wanted. He directed some bad thoughts at Tony Scala and tried to call back. She did
not answer. In the end he sent a text message.
Please call me. It’s important.
She never called.
Late that night Blomkvist shut down his computer, undressed, and crawled into
bed. He wished he had Berger to keep him co
* Joy Rahman was sentenced to life in prison in 1994 for the murder of a seventy-two-year-old woman. He was granted a retrial in 2002, exonerated by the
Stockholm Court of Appeal, and received 10.2 million kronor in damages, the largest
damages claim ever awarded in Sweden.
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