CHAPTER 26
Wednesday, April 6
Inspector Bublanski was in a dismal mood when he met Modig in the parking lot
outside the hospital just before 7:00. Blomkvist had woken him up, and he in turn
called Modig and woke her up. They met Blomkvist by the entrance and went with
him to Paolo Roberto’s room.
Bublanski could hardly grasp the bewildering details, but what was eventually clear
was that Wu had been kidnapped and that the boxer had beaten up the kidnapper.
Except that to judge by his face, it was far from obvious who had beaten up whom.
As far as Bublanski was concerned, the night’s events had lifted the investigation of
Lisbeth Salander to a whole new level of complication. Nothing in this infernal case
seemed to be normal.
How had Paolo Roberto even gotten involved in the affair?
“I’m a good friend of Lisbeth Salander’s,” he told them.
Bublanski and Modig looked at each other, surprised and sceptical.
“She sparred with me at the gym.”
Bublanski fixed his gaze somewhere on the wall behind Paolo Roberto. Modig could
not help laughing out loud. After a while they had written down all the details he
could give them.
“I’d like to make a few points,” Blomkvist said dryly.
They turned to him.
“First of all, Paolo’s description of the man who drove away from the warehouse in
the van matches the one I gave of the person who attacked Salander at the same
spot on Lundagatan. A tall guy with a light brown ponytail and a beer belly. OK?”
Bublanski nodded.
“Second, the point of the kidnapping was to force Miriam Wu to reveal where
Lisbeth Salander is hiding. So these two thugs have been looking for Salander since
at least a week before the murders. Agreed?”
Modig murmured a “yes.”
“Third, it looks less likely that Salander is the lone nutcase she has been portrayed
as. And neither of these maniacs seems, on the face of it, to be a member of a
lesbian Satanist gang.”
Neither Bublanski nor Modig said a word.
“And finally, number four. I think this story has something to do with a man called
Zala. Dag Svensson did a lot of work on him in his last two weeks. All the relevant
information is in his computer. Dag linked him to the murder of a prostitute
named Irina Petrova in Södertälje. The autopsy recorded that she was very severely
beaten. So severely that any one of three of the worst blows would have been fatal
on its own. Her injuries sound very like the ones that Miriam Wu and Paolo
Roberto have been subjected to. In both cases the instruments of this extraordinary
violence could be the hands of a gigantic thug.”
“And Bjurman?” Bublanski said. “Let’s suppose that someone had a reason to silence
Svensson. Who would have had a motive to murder Salander’s guardian?”
“All the pieces of the puzzle aren’t in place yet, but there’s a connection between
Bjurman and Zala. That’s the only credible solution. Could you agree to start
thinking along new lines? I think that these crimes have something to do with the
sex trade. And Salander would sooner die than be involved in something like that. I
told you she’s a damned moralist.”
“So what was her role? What was she doing at Svensson and Johansson’s
apartment?”
“I don’t know. Witness? Opponent? Maybe she was there to warn Dag and Mia that
their lives were in danger.”
Bublanski set the wheels in motion. He called the Södertälje police and gave them
Paolo Roberto’s directions to a dilapidated warehouse southwest of Lake Yngern.
Then he called Holmberg—he lived in Flemings-berg and was closest of the team to
Södertälje—and asked him to join up with the Södertälje police as soon as he
possibly could to assist with the crime scene investigation.
Holmberg called back an hour later. He had arrived at the crime scene. The
Södertälje police had had no difficulty finding the warehouse. Along with two
smaller storage sheds it had burned to the ground, and the fire department was
there now, mopping up. There were two discarded gasoline cans in the yard.
Bublanski felt a sense of frustration approaching fury.
What the hell was going on? Who were these thugs? Who was this Salander person
really? And why was it impossible to find her?
The situation did not improve when Ekström joined the fray at the 9:00 meeting.
Bublanski told him about the morning’s dramatic developments and proposed that
the search be reprioritized in light of the mysterious events that had taken place,
which cast doubt on the scenario that the team had been working on.
Paolo Roberto’s story reinforced Blomkvist’s account of the attack on Salander on
Lundagatan. The hypothesis that all three murders were committed by one
mentally ill woman no longer seemed valid. The suspicions regarding Salander
could not altogether be discarded—they needed an explanation for her fingerprints
being on the murder weapon—but it did mean that the investigation had to work
on the possibility of a different killer. There was only one theory at present—
Blomkvist’s belief that the murders had to do with Svensson’s imminent exposé of
the sex trade. Bublanski identified three significant points.
The prime task was to find and identify the abnormally large man and his associate
with the ponytail who had kidnapped and assaulted Miriam Wu. The giant should
be relatively easy to find.
Andersson reminded them that Salander also had an unusual appearance, and that
after three weeks of searching, the police still had no idea where she was.
The second task was to add to the investigative team a group that would actively
focus on the list of prostitutes’ clients in Svensson’s computer. There was a
logistical problem associated with this. The team had Svensson’s computer from
Millennium and the Zip disks that held the backup of his missing laptop, but they
contained several years’ worth of collected research and thousands of pages. It
would take time to catalogue and study them. The team needed reinforcements,
and Bublanski detailed Modig to head that unit.
The third task was to focus on a person who went by the name of Zala. The team
would enlist the assistance of the National Criminal Investigation Department,
since they apparently had come across the name. He assigned that task to Faste.
Finally, Andersson was to coordinate the continued search for Salander.
Bublanski’s report took six minutes, but it touched off an hour-long dispute. Faste
was vociferous in his resistance to Bublanski’s proposals, and he made no attempt
to conceal this. His opinion was that the investigation, regardless of the new—
peripheral, he called it—information, had to stay focused on Salander. The chain of
evidence was so strong that it was unreasonable to divide the effort into different
channels.
“This is all bullshit. We have a violence-prone nutcase who has grown worse and
worse over the years. Do you actually believe that all the psychiatric reports and
results from forensics are a joke? She’s tied to the crime scene. We know she’s a
hooker, and there’s a large sum of money unaccounted for in her bank account.”
“I’m aware of all that.”
“She’s also a member of some sort of lesbian sex cult. And I’ll be damned if that
dyke Cilla Norén doesn’t know more than she’s letting on.”
Bublanski raised his voice. “Faste. Stop it. You’re totally obsessed with this gay
angle. It’s way past professional.”
He at once regretted speaking out in front of the whole group. A private talk with
Faste would have been more productive. Finally Ekström interrupted the raised
voices to approve Bublanski’s plan of action.
Bublanski glanced at Bohman and Hedström.
“As I understand it, we only have you for three more days, so let’s make the best of
the situation. Bohman, can you help Andersson track down Salander? Hedström,
you’ll stay with Modig.”
Ekström raised his hand as they were about to break up.
“One last thing. We’re keeping the part about Paolo Roberto under our hats. The
media will go ballistic if one more celebrity springs to light in this investigation. So
not a word about it outside this room.”
After the meeting Modig took Bublanski aside.
“It was unprofessional of me to lose patience with Faste,” Bublanski said.
“I know how it feels,” she said with a smile. “I started on Svensson’s computer last
Monday.”
“I know. How far did you get?”
“He had a dozen versions of the manuscript and a huge amount of research
material, and I don’t know yet what’s important and what’s safe to ignore. Just
cataloguing it with meaningful names and looking through all the documents will
take several days.”
“What about Hedström?”
Modig hesitated. Then she turned and closed Bublanski’s door.
“To tell you the truth … I don’t want to trash him, but he isn’t much help.”
Bublanski frowned. “Out with it.”
“I don’t know, he’s obviously not a real policeman like Bohman. He talks a lot of
drivel. He has about the same attitude towards Miriam Wu as Faste does, and he’s
totally uninterested in the assignment. And—although I can’t put my finger on it—
he has some kind of problem with Salander.”
“How so?”
“I’ve got a feeling there’s some bad blood between them.”
Bublanski nodded slowly. “That’s a shame. Bohman’s OK, but I don’t really like
having outsiders involved in this investigation.”
“So what shall we do?”
“You’ll have to put up with him for the rest of the week. Armansky said they’ll
break it off if they don’t get results. Keep digging and count on having to do the
whole job yourself.”
Modig was interrupted after only forty-five minutes. She was called to Ekström’s
office. Bublanski was with him. Both men were red in the face. Tony Scala, the
freelance journalist, had just released a scoop with the news that Paolo Roberto
had rescued the S&M dyke Miriam Wu from an unknown kidnapper. The article
contained several details that could only be known to someone inside the
investigation. It was written in such a way as to suggest that the police were
considering filing charges against Paolo Roberto for assault.
Ekström had already received several phone calls from other papers that wanted
news about the boxer’s role. He was livid. He accused Modig of having leaked the
story. Modig vigorously objected to the accusation, but in vain. Ekström wanted her
off the investigation.
“Sonja says she didn’t leak anything,” Bublanski said. “That’s good enough for me.
It’s insane to remove an experienced detective who’s familiar with every detail of
the case.”
Ekström refused to budge.
“Modig, I can’t prove that you leaked the information, but I have no confidence in
you with regard to this investigation. You are relieved from the team, effective
immediately. Take the rest of the week off. You’ll be given other assignments on
Monday.”
Modig nodded and headed for the door. Bublanski stopped her.
“Sonja. For the record: I don’t believe one word of this, and you have my full
confidence. But I’m not the one who decides. See me in my office before you go
home, please.”
Bublanski’s face had taken on a dangerous hue. Ekström looked furious.
Modig went back to her office, where she and Hedström had been working on
Svensson’s computer. She was angry and close to tears. Hedström could tell that
something was wrong, but he said nothing and she ignored him. She sat at her desk
and stared into space. There was an oppressive silence in the room.
After a while Hedström excused himself and said he had to get a cup of coffee. He
asked if he could bring her one. She shook her head.
When he had left she got up and put on her jacket. She took her shoulder bag and
went to Bublanski’s office. He pointed to the visitor’s chair.
“Sonja, I don’t intend to yield in this matter unless Ekström removes me from the
investigation too. I won’t accept it and I’m thinking of filing a complaint. Until you
hear otherwise from me, you’ll remain on the team. At my direction. Understand?”
She nodded.
“You will not take the rest of the week off as Ekström said. I want you to go to
Millennium’s offices and have another talk with Blomkvist. Ask him for help in
guiding you through Dag Svensson’s hard drive. They have a copy there. We can
save a lot of time if we have somebody who’s already familiar with the material
picking out the things that might be important.”
Modig breathed more easily.
“I didn’t say anything to Hedström.”
“I’ll take care of him. He can help Andersson. Have you seen Faste?”
“No. He left right after the meeting.”
Bublanski sighed.
Blomkvist had arrived home from the hospital at 8:00 a.m. He had had too little
sleep and he had to be at his best for an afternoon meeting with Björck in
Smådalarö. He undressed, set the alarm for 10:30, and got two more hours of much-needed sleep. He shaved, showered, and put on a clean shirt. As he was driving past
Gullmarsplan, Modig called his mobile. Blomkvist explained that he would not be
able to meet her. She told him what she needed, and he referred her to Berger.
When she arrived at Millennium’s offices, Modig found that she liked the self-confident and slightly domineering woman with the dimples and shock of short
blond hair. She vaguely wondered whether Berger was a dyke too, since all the
women in this investigation, according to Faste, seemed to have that inclination.
But then she remembered that she had read somewhere that Berger was married to
the artist Greger Beckman.
“There’s a problem here,” Berger said, after listening to her request.
“What’s that?”
“It’s not that we don’t want to solve the murders or help the police. Besides, you
already have all the material in the computer you took from here. The dilemma is
an ethical one. The media and the police don’t work very well together.”
“Believe me, I found that out this morning,” Modig said with a smile.
“How so?”
“Nothing. Just a personal reflection.”
“OK. To maintain their credibility, the media have to keep a clear distance from the
authorities. Journalists who run to the police station and cooperate with police
investigations will end up being errand boys for the police.”
“I’ve met some of those,” Modig said. “But the opposite can also be true. And the
police end up running errands for certain newspapers.”
Berger laughed. “That’s right. I’m afraid to say that at Millennium we simply can’t
afford to be associated with that sort of mercenary journalism. This isn’t about you
wanting to question any of Millennium’s staff—which we would allow without
hesitation—but about a formal request for us to assist actively in a police
investigation by placing our journalistic material at your disposal.”
Modig nodded.
“There are two points of view on that,” Berger said. “First, one of our journalists has
been murdered. So we will help out all we can. But the second point is that there
are some things we cannot and will not give to the police. And that has to do with
our sources.”
“I can be flexible. I can pledge to protect your sources.”
“It’s not a matter of your intent or our trust in you. It is that we never reveal a
source, no matter what the circumstances.”
“Understood.”
“Then there’s the fact that at Millennium we’re conducting our own investigation
into the murders, which should be viewed as a journalistic assignment. In this case
I’m prepared to hand over information to the police when we have something
finished that we are ready to publish—but not before.” Berger frowned as she
paused to think. “I also have to be able to live with myself. Let’s do this … You can
work with Malin Eriksson. She’s familiar with the material and competent to decide
where the boundaries lie. She’ll guide you through Dag’s book—with the objective
of compiling a list of all those who might be suspects.”
As she caught the shuttle train from Södra station to Södertälje, Irene Nesser was
unaware of the drama that had occurred the night before. She was wearing a
midlength black leather jacket, dark pants, and a neat red sweater. She wore glasses
that she had pushed up on her forehead.
In Södertälje she walked to the Strängnäs bus and bought a ticket to Stallarholmen.
She got off the bus a little south of Stallarholmen just after 11:00 a.m. There were
no buildings in sight. She visualized the map in her head. Lake Mälaren was a few
miles to the northeast. It was summer-cabin country, with a scattering of year-round residences. Bjurman’s property was about two miles from the bus stop. She
took a swallow of water from her bottle and started walking. She got there about
forty-five minutes later.
She began by making a tour of the area and studying the neighbouring houses.
About a hundred and fifty yards to the right, she saw the next cabin. Nobody was
at home. To the left was a ravine. She passed two summer houses before she
reached a group of cabins where she noticed signs of life: an open window and the
sound of a radio. But that was three hundred yards from Bjurman’s cabin. She could
work undisturbed.
She had taken the keys from his apartment. Once inside, she first unscrewed a
window shutter at the back of the house, giving her an escape route in case any
unpleasantness should occur at the front. The unpleasantness she was prepared for
was that some cop might get the idea to show up at the cabin.
Bjurman’s was one of the older buildings, with one main room, one bedroom, and a
small kitchen with running water. The toilet was a compost outhouse in the
backyard. She spent twenty minutes looking through the closets, wardrobes, and
dressers. She did not find so much as one scrap of paper that could have anything
to do with Lisbeth Salander or Zala.
Then she went and searched the outhouse and woodshed. She found nothing of
interest, and no paperwork at all. The journey had apparently been in vain.
She sat on the porch and drank some water and ate an apple.
When she went to close the shutter, she stopped short in the hallway as she caught
sight of an aluminium stepladder three feet high. She went into the main room
again and examined the clapboard ceiling. The opening to the attic was almost
invisible between two roof beams. She got the stepladder, opened the trapdoor, and
immediately found two A4 file boxes, each containing several folders and various
other documents.
Things had gone all wrong. One disaster had followed another. The blond giant was
worried.
Sandström had gotten hold of the Rantas. They said he sounded terrified and
reported that the journalist Svensson had been planning an exposé about his
whoring activities and about the Rantas. So far it hadn’t been a big deal. If the
media exposed Sandström it was none of his business, and the Ranta brothers could
lie low for as long as they needed to. They had taken the Baltic Star to Estonia for a
vacation. It was unlikely that the whole mess would lead to a court case, but if the
worst should happen they had done time before. It was part of the job description.
More troublesome was that Salander had managed to elude Magge Lundin. This
was incredible, since Salander was a rag doll compared to Lundin. All he had to do
was stuff her in a car and take her to the warehouse south of Nykvarn.
Then Sandström had received another visit, and this time Svensson was after Zala.
That put everything in a whole new light. Between Bjurman’s panic and Svensson’s
continued snooping, a potentially dangerous situation had arisen.
An amateur is a gangster who is not prepared to take the consequences. Bjurman
was a rank amateur. The giant had advised Zala not to have anything to do with
Bjurman, but for Zala the name Lisbeth Salander had been irresistible. He loathed
Salander. It was a reflex, like pressing a button.
It was pure chance that he had been at Bjurman’s place the night Svensson called.
The same fucking journalist who had already caused problems for Sandström and
the Rantas. He had gone to Bjurman’s to calm him down or to threaten him, as
needed, after the abortive attempt to kidnap Salander. Svensson’s call had triggered
a wild panic in Bjurman, a reaction of unreasonable stupidity. All of a sudden he
wanted out.
To top it off, Bjurman had fetched his cowboy pistol to threaten him. The giant had
just looked at Bjurman in surprise and had taken the gun from him. He was already
wearing gloves, so fingerprints weren’t a problem. He had no choice. Bjurman had
obviously flipped out.
Bjurman knew about Zala, of course. That was why he was a liability. The giant
couldn’t really explain why he made Bjurman take off his clothes, except that he
hated the lawyer and wanted to make that clear to him. He had almost lost it
when he saw the tattoo on Bjurman’s abdomen: I AM A SADISTIC PIG, A PERVERT,
AND A RAPIST.
For a moment he almost felt sorry for the man. He was such a total idiot. But he
was in a business where such feelings could not be allowed to interfere with what
they had to do. So he had led Bjurman into the bedroom, forced him to his knees,
and used a pillow as a silencer.
He had spent five minutes searching through Bjurman’s apartment for the slightest
connection to Zala. The only thing he found was his own mobile number. To be on
the safe side he took Bjurman’s mobile with him.
Svensson was the next problem. When Bjurman was found dead, Svensson would
inevitably call the police and tell them about his call to the lawyer to ask about
Zala. Zala would then become the object of police interest.
The blond giant considered himself smart, but he had an enormous respect for
Zala’s almost uncanny strategic gifts. They had been working together for nearly
twelve years. It had been a successful decade, and he looked up to Zala with
reverence. He could listen for hours as Zala explained human nature and its
weaknesses and how one could profit from them.
But quite unexpectedly their business dealings were in trouble.
He had driven straight from Bjurman’s to Enskede and parked the white Volvo two
streets away. As luck would have it, the front door of the building was not locked.
He went up and rang the doorbell with the nameplate SVENSSON-JOHANSSON.
He had fired two shots—there was a woman in the apartment too. He didn’t search
the apartment or take any of their papers with him. He did take a computer that
was on the table in the living room. He turned on his heel, went down the stairs,
and out to his car. His only mistake had been dropping the revolver on the stairs
while he was trying to balance the laptop and at the same time fish out his car
keys. He stopped for a second, but the gun had skittered down the stairs to the
basement, and he decided it would take too much time to go down and get it. He
knew he was someone people would not forget having seen, so the important thing
was to get out of there before anyone laid eyes on him.
The dropped revolver had been at first a source of criticism until Zala realized its
implications. They were astonished when the police began a search for Salander.
His mistake had turned into an incredible stroke of luck.
It also created a new problem. Salander became the only remaining weak link. She
had known Bjurman and she knew Zala. She could put two and two together.
When he and Zala conferred about the matter they were in agreement. They had to
find Salander and bury her somewhere. It would be ideal if she were never found.
Then the murder investigation would eventually be shelved.
They had taken a chance that Miriam Wu could lead them to Salander. And then
everything had gone wrong again. Paolo Roberto. Of all people. Out of nowhere.
And according to the newspapers he was also friends with Salander.
The giant was dumbfounded.
After Nykvarn he had gone to Lundin’s house in Svavelsjö, only a hundred yards
from Svavelsjö MC’s headquarters. Not an ideal hiding place, but he didn’t have
many options. He had to find somewhere to lie low until the bruises on his face
began to fade and he could make himself scarce. He fingered his broken nose and
felt the lump on his neck. The swelling had begun to subside.
It had been a good move to go back and burn down the whole fucking place.
Then, suddenly, he went ice cold.
Bjurman. He had met Bjurman once at his summer cabin. In early February—when
Zala had accepted the job of taking care of Salander. Bjurman had had a file about
Salander that he had leafed through. How could he have forgotten that? It could
lead to Zala.
He went down to the kitchen and told Lundin to get himself to Stallarholmen as
fast as he could and start another fire.
Bublanski spent his lunch break trying to put in order the investigation he knew
was about to collapse. He spent time with Andersson and Bohman, who brought
him up to date on the hunt for Salander. Tips had come in from Göteborg and
Norrköping. Göteborg they ruled out right away, but the Norrköping sighting had
potential. They informed their colleagues, and a cautious stakeout was put on an
address where a girl who looked a little like Salander had been seen.
He tried to find Faste, but he was not in the building and did not answer his
mobile. After the stormy meeting, Faste had vanished.
Bublanski then went to see Ekström to try to defuse the problem with Modig. He
set out all his reasons for thinking the decision to take her off the case was
foolhardy. Ekström would not listen, and Bublanski decided to file a complaint after
the weekend. It was an idiotic situation.
Just after 3:00 he stepped into the corridor and saw Hedström coming out of
Modig’s office, where he was still supposed to be combing through Svensson’s hard
drive. Bublanski thought it was now a meaningless exercise, since no real detective
was looking over his shoulder to check what he might have missed. He decided
that Hedström should be with Andersson for the rest of the week.
Before he had a chance to say anything, Hedström disappeared into the toilet at the
far end of the corridor. Bublanski went over to Modig’s empty office to wait for
him to return.
Then his eye fell on Hedström’s mobile, which lay forgotten on the shelf behind his
desk.
Bublanski glanced at the door to the toilet, still closed. On pure impulse he stepped
into the office, stuffed Hedström’s mobile into his pocket, walked rapidly back to
his own office, and closed the door. He clicked up the list of calls.
At 9:57, five minutes after the morning meeting was over, Hedström had called a
number with an 070 area code. Bublanski lifted the receiver of his desk telephone
and dialled the number. Tony Scala answered.
He hung up and stared at Hedström’s mobile. Then he got up with an expression
like a thundercloud. He had taken two steps towards the door when his telephone
rang. He went back to pick it up and shouted his name into the receiver.
“It’s Jerker. I’m back at the warehouse outside Nykvarn.”
“What did you find?”
“The fire is out. We’ve been busy the last two hours. The Södertälje police brought a
corpse-sniffing dog to check the area in case there was someone in the wreckage.”
“Was there?”
“There was not. But we took a break so the dog could rest his nose for a while. The
handler says it’s necessary since the smells at an arson site are really strong.”
“Get to the point, Jerker. I’m a bit pressed here.”
“Well, he took a walk and let the dog loose away from the site of the fire. The dog
signalled a spot about seventy-five yards into the woods behind the warehouse. We
started digging. Ten minutes ago we found a human leg with a shoe. It seems to be
a man’s shoe. It was buried fairly shallow.”
“Oh shit. Jerker, you’ve got to—”
“I’ve already taken command of the site and put a stop to the digging. I want to get
forensics out here and proper techs before we proceed.”
“Very well done.”
“But that’s not all. Five minutes ago the dog marked another spot some eighty
yards from the first.”
Salander had made coffee on Bjurman’s stove and eaten another apple. She spent
two hours reading through Bjurman’s notes on her, page by page. She was actually
impressed. He had put quite a lot of effort into the task and systematized the
information. He had found material about her that she didn’t even know existed.
She read Palmgren’s journal with mixed feelings. It took up two black notebooks.
He had started keeping a diary about her when she was fifteen. She had just run
away from her third set of foster parents, an elderly couple in Sigtuna; he was a
sociologist and she was an author of children’s books. Salander had stayed with
them for twelve days and could tell that they were tremendously proud of making
a social contribution by taking her in, and that they expected her constantly to
express gratitude. She had finally had enough when her foster mother, boasting to
a neighbour, started expounding about how important it was that someone took
care of young people who had obvious problems. I’m not a fucking social project,
she wanted to scream. On the twelfth day she stole 100 kronor from their food
money and took the bus to Upplands-Väsby and the shuttle train to Stockholm
Central. The police found her six weeks later in the house of a sixty-seven-year-old
man in Haninge.
He had been an OK guy. He provided her with food and a place to live. She did not
have to do much in return. He wanted to look at her when she was naked. He
never touched her. She knew he would be considered a pedophile, but she had
never felt the least threat from him. She thought him an introverted and socially
handicapped person. She even came to experience a feeling of kinship when she
thought about him. They were both outsiders.
Someone had finally spotted her and called the police. A social worker did her best
to persuade her to report the man for sexual assault. She had obstinately refused to
say that anything untoward had occurred, and in any case she was fifteen and legal.
Fuck you. Then Palmgren had intervened and signed for her. He started a diary in
what appeared to be a frustrated attempt to allay and resolve his own doubts. The
first entries were written in December 1993:
L. increasingly appears to be the most unmanageable young person I’ve ever had to
deal with. The question is whether I’m doing the right thing when I oppose her
return to St. Stefan’s. She has now run away from three foster families in three
months and obviously risks coming to some harm during her excursions. I have to
decide soon whether I should give up the assignment and request that she be put
under the care of real experts. I don’t know what’s right and what’s wrong. Today I
had a serious talk with her.
Salander remembered every word of that serious talk. It was the day before
Christmas Eve. Palmgren had taken her to his place and installed her in his spare
room. He made spaghetti with meat sauce for supper and then put her on the
living-room sofa and sat in an armchair across from her. She remembered
wondering if Palmgren too wanted to see her naked. Instead he spoke to her as if
she were a grown-up.
In fact it had been a two-hour monologue. She had hardly uttered a word. He had
spelled out the realities, which were in effect that now she had to decide between
going back to St. Stefan’s and living with a foster family. He would do what he
could to find a family acceptable to her, and he insisted that she go with his choice.
He had decided that she should spend the Christmas holidays with him so she
would have time to think about her future. It was up to her, but on the day after
Christmas he wanted a clear answer and a promise from her that if she had
problems she would turn to him instead of running away. Then he had sent her to
bed and apparently sat down to write the first lines in his diary.
The threat of being transported back to St. Stefan’s frightened her more than
Holger Palmgren could know. She spent an unhappy Christmas suspiciously
watching every move he made. The next day he still had not attempted to paw her,
nor did he show any sign of wanting to sneak a look at her in the bath. On the
contrary, he got really angry when she tried to provoke him by marching naked
from his spare room to the bathroom. He had slammed the bathroom door hard.
Later she had made him the promises he demanded. She had kept her word. Well,
more or less.
In his journal Palmgren commented methodically on every meeting he had with
her. Sometimes it was three lines, sometimes he filled several pages with his
thoughts. Every so often she was surprised. Palmgren had been more insightful
than she had imagined, and occasionally commented on incidents when she had
tried to fool him but he had seen through her.
Then she opened the police report from 1991.
And the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. She felt as if the ground had started to
shake.
She read the medical report written by a Dr. Jesper H. Löderman, in which Dr. Peter
Teleborian figured prominently. Löderman had been the prosecutor’s trump card
when he tried to get her institutionalized at the hearing when she was eighteen.
Then she found an envelope containing correspondence between Teleborian and
some policeman called Gunnar Björck. The letters were all dated 1991, just after “All
The Evil” happened.
Nothing was said straight out in the correspondence, but suddenly a trapdoor
opened beneath Salander. It took her several minutes to grasp the implications.
Björck referred to some conversation they must have had. His wording was
irreproachable, but between the lines he was saying that it would be all right with
him if Salander were locked up in an asylum for the rest of her life.
It is important for the child to get some distance from the context. I cannot
evaluate her psychological condition or what sort of care she needs, but the longer
she can be kept institutionalized, the less risk there is that she would
unintentionally create problems regarding the current matter.
Regarding the current matter. Salander rolled the phrase around in her mind for a
while.
Teleborian was responsible for her care at St. Stefan’s. It had been no accident. The
tone of the correspondence led her to understand that these letters were never
intended to see the light of day.
Teleborian had known Björck.
Salander bit her lower lip as she pondered. She had never done any research on
Teleborian, but he had started out in forensic medicine, and even the Security
Police occasionally needed to consult a forensic medical expert or psychiatrist for
their investigations. If she started digging, she would surely find a connection. At
some point during his career, Teleborian and Björck’s paths had crossed. When
Björck needed someone who could bury Salander, he had turned to Teleborian.
That was how it had happened. What previously looked like chance now took on a
whole new dimension.
She sat still for a long time staring into space. Nobody was innocent. There were
only varying degrees of responsibility. And somebody was responsible for Salander.
She would definitely have to pay a visit to Små-dalarö. She assumed that no-one in
the shipwreck that was the state justice system would have any desire to discuss
the subject with her, and in the absence of anyone else, a talk with Gunnar Björck
would have to do.
She looked forward to that talk.
She did not need to take all the folders with her. As she read them they became
forever imprinted on her photographic memory. She took along Palmgren’s
notebooks, Björck’s police report from 1991, the medical report from 1996 when she
was declared incompetent, and the correspondence between Teleborian and Björck.
That was enough to fill her backpack.
She closed the door, but before she had time to lock it she heard the sound of
motorcycles behind her. She looked around. It was too late to try to hide, and she
didn’t have the slightest chance of outrunning two bikers on Harley-Davidsons. She
stepped down warily from the porch and met them in the driveway.
Bublanski marched furiously down the corridor and saw that Hedström had not yet
returned to Modig’s office. But the toilet was vacant. He continued down the
corridor and found him holding a plastic cup from the coffee vending machine,
talking to Andersson and Bohman.
Bublanski turned unseen at the doorway and walked up one flight to Ekström’s
office. He shoved the door open without knocking, interrupting Ekström in the
middle of a phone conversation.
“Come with me,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?” Ekström said.
“Put the telephone down and come with me.”
Bublanski’s expression was such that Ekström did as he was told. In this situation it
was easy to understand why Bublanski had been given the nickname Officer Bubble.
His face looked like a bright red antiaircraft balloon. They went downstairs.
Bublanski marched up to Hedström, took a firm grip on his hair, and turned him to
Ekström.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing? Are you crazy?”
“Bublanski!” Ekström shouted, startled.
Hedström looked nervous. Bohman’s mouth dropped open.
“Is this yours?” Bublanski asked, holding out the Sony Ericsson mobile.
“Let me go!”
“IS THIS YOUR MOBILE?”
“Yeah, damn it. Let me go.”
“Not yet. You’re under arrest.”
“I’m what?”
“You’re under arrest for breach of secrecy and for interfering with a police
investigation. Or else give us a reasonable explanation for why, according to your
list of calls, you called a journalist who answers to the name of Tony Scala at 9:57
this morning, right after the meeting and just before Scala went public with the
very information we had decided to keep secret.”
After getting instructions to go to Stallarholmen and set a fire, Lundin had
wandered over to the clubhouse in the abandoned printing factory on the outskirts
of Svavelsjö and taken Nieminen with him. It was perfect weather to roll out the
hogs for the first time since winter. He had been given detailed directions and had
studied a map. They put on their leathers and covered the distance from Svavelsjö
to Stallarholmen in no time.
Lundin did not believe his eyes when he saw Lisbeth Salander in the driveway in
front of Bjurman’s summer cabin. It was a bonus that would blow the giant’s
fucking mind. He was sure it was her, although she looked different. Was that a
wig? She was just standing there, waiting for them.
They rode up and parked six feet away on each side of her. When they switched off
their motors it was utterly silent in the woods. Lundin didn’t quite know what to
say. At last he managed to speak.
“Well, how about that? We’ve been looking for you for a while, Salander. Sonny,
meet Fröken Salander.”
He smiled. Salander regarded Lundin with expressionless eyes. She noticed that he
still had a bright red, newly healed welt on his cheek and jaw where she had cut
him with her keys. She raised her eyes and looked at the treetops behind him. Then
she lowered them again. Her eyes were disconcertingly coal black.
“I’ve had a fucking miserable week and I’m in a fucking bad mood,” she said. “You
know what the worst thing is? Every time I turn around there’s some fucking pile
of shit with a beer belly in my way acting tough. Now I’d like to leave. So move
your ass.”
Lundin’s mouth was hanging open. He thought he had heard wrong. Then he
started laughing involuntarily. The situation was ridiculous. There stood a skinny
girl who could fit into his breast pocket getting cheeky with two fully grown men
with leather vests that showed they belonged to Svavelsjö MC, which meant they
were the most dangerous of bikers and would soon be members of Hell’s Angels.
They could tear her apart and stuff her in their saddlebags.
Even if the girl was as nutty as a fruitcake—which she obviously was, according to
the newspapers and what he had just seen of her here—their emblem still ought to
command respect. And she didn’t show the smallest sign of that. This sort of
behaviour could not be tolerated, no matter how ridiculous the situation. He
glanced at Nieminen.
“I think the dyke needs some cock, Sonny,” he said, climbing off the Harley and
setting his kickstand. He took two slow steps towards Salander and looked down at
her. She did not shift an inch. Lundin shook his head and sighed. Then he lashed out
a backhand with the same considerable power with which he had struck Blomkvist
on Lundagatan.
He met nothing but thin air. At the instant his hand should have hit her face, she
took one step back and stood there just out of his reach.
Nieminen was leaning on the handlebars of his Harley and watching his fellow club
member with amusement. Lundin was red in the face and took another couple of
swings at her. She backed up again. Lundin swung faster.
Salander stopped abruptly and emptied half the contents of a Mace canister in his
face. His eyes burned like fire. The toe of her boot shot up with full force and was
transformed into kinetic energy in his crotch with a pressure of about 1,700 pounds
per square inch. Lundin dropped gasping to his knees and stayed there at a more
comfortable height for Salander. She kicked him in the face, deliberately, as if she
were taking a penalty in soccer. There was an ugly crunching sound before Lundin
toppled over like a sack of potatoes.
It took a few seconds for Nieminen to realize that something unbelievable had
happened before his eyes. He tried to set the kickstand of his Harley, missed, and
had to look down. Then he decided to play it safe and started groping for the pistol
he had in his vest’s inside pocket. As he was pulling down the zipper he caught a
movement out of the corner of his eye.
When he looked up he saw Salander coming at him like a cannonball. She jumped
with both feet and kicked him full force in the hip, which didn’t injure him but was
hard enough to knock over both him and his motorcycle. He narrowly missed
having his leg pinned under the bike and stumbled a few paces backwards before
he regained his balance.
When he had her in view again he saw her arm move, and a stone as big as his fist
flew through the air. He ducked and it missed his head by about an inch.
He finally got out his pistol and tried to flick off the safety, but when he looked up
again Salander was upon him. He saw evil in her eyes and felt for the first time a
shocked terror.
“Goodnight,” Salander said.
She shoved the Taser into his crotch and fired off 50,000 volts, holding the
electrodes against him for at least twenty seconds. Nieminen was transformed into
a vegetable.
Salander heard a noise behind her and spun around to see Lundin laboriously
getting to his knees. She looked at him with raised eyebrows. He was fumbling
blindly through the burning fog of the Mace.
“I’m going to kill you!” he roared.
He was groping around, trying to locate Salander. She watched him circumspectly.
Then he said:
“Fucking whore.”
Salander bent down and picked up Nieminen’s pistol, noticing that it was a Polish
P-83 Wanad.
She opened the magazine and checked that it was loaded with the correct 9 mm
Makarov. She cocked it. She stepped over Nieminen and went across to Lundin,
took aim with both hands, and shot him in the foot. He shrieked in shock and
collapsed again.
She wondered if she should bother asking about the identity of the hulk she had
seen him with at Blomberg’s Café. According to Sandström, the man had murdered
someone in a warehouse with Lundin’s help. Hmm. She should have waited to fire
the pistol until she had asked her questions.
Lundin did not seem to be in any condition now to carry on a lucid conversation,
and there was the possibility that someone had heard the shot. So she ought to
leave the area right away. She could always find Lundin at some later date and ask
him the question under less stressful circumstances. She secured the weapon’s
safety, zipped it into her jacket pocket, and picked up her backpack.
She had gone about ten yards down the road when she stopped and turned around.
She walked back slowly and studied Lundin’s motorcycle.
“Harley-Davidson,” she said. “Sweet.”
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