CHAPTER 8
Monday, February 14–Saturday, February 19
Armansky looked up when he heard the light knock on the doorjamb and saw
Salander in the doorway. She was balancing two cups from the espresso machine.
He put down his pen and pushed the report away.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi.”
“This is a social call,” she said. “May I come in?”
Armansky closed his eyes for a second. Then he pointed at the visitor’s chair. He
glanced at the clock. It was 6:30 in the evening. Salander gave him one of the cups
and sat down. They took stock of each other for a moment.
“More than a year,” Armansky said.
Salander nodded.
“Are you mad?”
“Should I be?”
“I didn’t say goodbye.”
Armansky pursed his lips. He was shocked to see her, but at the same time relieved
to discover that at least she wasn’t dead. He suddenly felt a strong sense of
irritation and weariness.
“I don’t know what to say,” he said. “You don’t have any obligation to tell me what
you’re working on. What do you want?”
His voice sounded cooler than he had intended.
“I’m not sure. I mostly just wanted to say hello.”
“Do you need a job? I’m not going to employ you again.”
She shook her head.
“Are you working somewhere else?”
She shook her head again. She seemed to be trying to formulate her words.
Armansky waited.
“I’ve been travelling,” she said at last. “I’m only recently back.”
Armansky studied her. There was a new kind of… maturity in her choice of clothes
and her bearing. And she had stuffed her bra with something.
“You’ve changed. Where have you been?”
“Here and there …” she said, but when she saw his annoyance she added, “I went to
Italy and kept going, to the Middle East, to Hong Kong via Bangkok. I was in
Australia for a while and New Zealand, and I island-hopped my way across the
Pacific. I was in Tahiti for a month. Then I travelled through the U.S. and I spent the
last few months in the Caribbean. I don’t know why I didn’t say goodbye.”
“I’ll tell you why: because you don’t give a shit about other people,” Armansky said
matter-of-factly.
Salander bit her lower lip. “Usually it’s other people who don’t give a shit about
me.”
“Bullshit,” Armansky said. “You’ve got an attitude problem and you treat people like
dirt when they’re trying to be your friends. It’s that simple.”
Silence.
“Do you want me to leave?”
“You do as you like. You always have. But if you leave now I never want to see you
again.”
Salander was suddenly afraid. Someone she respected was about to reject her. She
did not know what to say.
“It’s been two years since Holger Palmgren had his stroke. You haven’t once visited
him,” Armansky went on relentlessly.
Salander stared at Armansky, shocked. “Palmgren is alive?”
“You don’t even know if he’s alive or dead.”
“The doctors said that he—”
“The doctors said a lot about him,” Armansky interrupted. “He was in a very bad
way and couldn’t communicate with anyone. But in the last year he’s recovered
quite a bit. He doesn’t articulate too well—you have to listen carefully to
understand what he’s saying. He needs help with a lot of things, but he can go to
the toilet by himself. People who care about him call in to spend time with him.”
Salander sat dumbfounded. She was the one who had found Palmgren after he had
his stroke two years earlier. She had called the ambulance and the doctors had
shaken their heads and said that the prognosis was not encouraging. She had lived
at the hospital for three days until a doctor told her that Palmgren was in a coma
and it was extremely unlikely that he would come out of it. She had stood up and
left the hospital without looking back. And obviously without checking to find out
what had happened.
She frowned. She had had Nils Bjurman foisted on her at the same time, and he had
absorbed a lot of her attention. But nobody, not even Armansky, had told her that
Palmgren was still alive, or that he was getting better. She had never considered
that possibility.
Her eyes filled with tears. Never in her life had she felt like such a selfish shit. And
never had she been savaged in such a furious manner. She bowed her head.
They sat in silence until Armansky said, “How are you doing?”
Salander shrugged.
“How are you making a living? Do you have work?”
“No, I don’t, and I don’t know what kind of work I want. But I’ve got a certain
amount of money, so I’m getting by.”
Armansky scrutinized her with searching eyes.
“I just came by to say hello … I’m not looking for a job. I don’t know … maybe I’d do
a job for you if you need me sometime, but it would have to be something that
interests me.”
“I don’t suppose you want to tell me what happened up in Hedestad last year.”
Salander did not answer.
“Well, something happened. Martin Vanger drove his car into a truck after you’d
been back here to borrow surveillance gear, and somebody threatened you. And his
sister came back from the dead. It was a sensation, to put it mildly.”
“I’ve given my word I wouldn’t talk about it.”
“And you don’t want to tell me what role you played in the Wennerström affair
either.”
“I helped Kalle Blomkvist with research.” Her voice was suddenly much cooler.
“That was all. I didn’t want to get involved.”
“Blomkvist has been looking for you high and low. He’s called here once a month to
ask if I’ve heard anything from you.”
Salander remained silent, but Armansky saw that her lips were now pressed into a
tight line.
“I can’t say that I like him,” Armansky said. “But he cares about you too. I met him
once last autumn. He didn’t want to talk about Hedestad either.”
Salander did not want to discuss Blomkvist. “I just came to say hello and tell you
that I’m back. I don’t know if I’ll be staying. This is my mobile number and my new
email address if you need to get hold of me.”
She handed Armansky a piece of paper and stood up. She was already at the door
when he called after her.
“Wait a second. What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to say hello to Holger Palmgren.”
“OK. But I mean … what kind of work will you be doing?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you have to make a living.”
“I told you, I have enough to get by.”
Armansky leaned back in his chair. He was never quite sure how to interpret her
words.
“I’ve been so fucking angry that you vanished without a word that I almost decided
never to trust you again.” He made a face. “You’re so unreliable. But you’re a
damned good researcher. I might have a job coming up that would be a good fit for
you.”
She shook her head, but she came back to his desk.
“I don’t want a job from you. I mean, I don’t need one. I’m serious. I’m financially
independent.”
Armansky frowned.
“OK, you’re financially independent, whatever that means. I’ll take your word for it.
But when you need a job …”
“Dragan, you’re the second person I’ve visited since I got home. I don’t need your
work. But for several years now you’ve been one of the few people that I respect.”
“Everybody has to make a living.”
“Sorry, but I’m no longer interested in doing personal investigations. Let me know if
you run into a really interesting problem.”
“What sort of problem?”
“The kind you can’t make heads or tails of. If you get stuck and don’t know what to
do. If I’m going to do a job for you, you’ll have to come up with something special.
Maybe on the operations side.”
“Operations side? You? But you disappear without a trace whenever you feel like it.”
“I’ve never skipped out on a job that I agreed to do.”
Armansky looked at her helplessly. The term operations was jargon, but it meant
field work. It could be anything from bodyguard duty to surveillance assignments
for art exhibitions. His operations personnel were confident, stable veterans, many
of them with a police background, and 90 percent of them were men. Salander was
the polar opposite of all the criteria he had set out for personnel in the operations
unit of Milton Security.
“Well…” he said dubiously, but she had vanished out the door. Armansky shook his
head. She’s weird. She’s really weird.
The next second Salander was back in the doorway.
“Oh, by the way … You’ve had two guys spending a month protecting that actress
Christine Rutherford from the nutcase who writes her threatening letters. You
think it’s an inside job because the letter writer knows so many details about her.”
Armansky stared at Salander. An electric shock went through him. She’s done it
again. She’s flung out a line about a case she absolutely cannot know a thing about.
“So …?”
“It’s a fake. She and her boyfriend have been writing the letters as a publicity stunt.
She’s going to get another letter in the next few days, and they’ll leak it to the
media next week. They’ll probably accuse Milton of leaking it. Cross her off your
client list now.”
Before Armansky could say anything she was gone. He stared at the empty
doorway. She could not possibly have known a single detail of the case. She must
have an insider at Milton who kept her updated. But only four or five people apart
from himself knew about it—the operations chief and the few people who reported
on the threats—and they were all stable pros. Armansky rubbed his chin.
He looked down at his desk. The Rutherford file was locked inside it. The office had
a burglar alarm. He glanced at the clock again and realized that Harry Fransson,
chief of the technical department, would have finished for the day. He started up
his email and sent a message asking Fransson to come to his office the following
morning to install a surveillance camera.
Salander walked straight home to Mosebacke. She hurried because she had a feeling
it was urgent.
She called the hospital in Söder and after some stalling from the switchboard
managed to find out Palmgren’s whereabouts. For the past fourteen months he had
been in a rehabilitation home in Ersta. All of a sudden she had a vision of
Äppelviken. When she called she was told that he was asleep, but that she was
welcome to visit him the next day.
Salander spent the evening pacing back and forth in her apartment. She was in a
foul mood. She went to bed early and fell asleep almost at once. She woke at 7:00
a.m., showered, and had breakfast at the 7-Eleven. At 8:00 she walked to the car
rental agency on Ringvägen. I’ve got to get my own car. She rented the same Nissan
Micra she had driven to Äppelviken a few weeks earlier.
She was unaccountably nervous when she parked near the rehabilitation centre,
but she gathered up her courage and went inside.
The woman at the front desk consulted her papers and explained that Holger
Palmgren was in the gym for therapy just then and would not be available until
after 11:00. Salander was welcome to take a seat in the waiting room or come back
later. She went and sat in the car and smoked three cigarettes while she waited. At
11:00 she went back to the front desk. She was told to go to the dining hall, down
the corridor to the right and then to the left.
She stopped in the doorway and recognized Palmgren in the half-empty dining
room. He sat facing her, but was focusing all his attention on his plate. He held his
fork in an awkward grip and steered the food to his mouth with great
concentration. Every third time or so he missed and the food fell off the fork.
He looked shrunken; he might be a hundred years old. His face seemed strangely
immobile. He was sitting in a wheelchair. Only then did Salander take it in that he
was alive, that Armansky had not just been punishing her.
Palmgren swore silently as he tried for the third time to spear a bite of macaroni
and cheese onto his fork. He was resigned to being unable to walk properly, and he
accepted that there was a great deal he would be unable to do. But he hated not
being able to eat properly and the fact that sometimes he drooled like a baby.
He knew exactly what it was he should do: lower the fork at the right angle, push
it forward, lift it, and guide it to his mouth. The problem was with the
coordination. His hand had a life of its own. When he instructed it to lift, it would
slide slowly to the side of the plate. If he did manage to steer it towards his mouth,
it would often change direction at the last moment and land on his cheek or his
chin.
But the rehabilitation was producing results. Six months earlier his hand would
shake so much that he could not get a single spoonful into his mouth. His meals
might still be taking a long time, but at least he was eating by himself, and he was
going to go on working at it until he once again had full control over his limbs.
As he lowered his fork to collect another mouthful, a hand appeared from behind
him and gently took it from him. He watched as the fork shovelled up some of the
macaroni and cheese and raised it. He thought he knew the thin, doll-like hand and
turned his head to meet Salander’s eyes. Her gaze was expectant. She seemed
anxious.
For a long moment Palmgren stared at her face. His heart was suddenly pounding
in a most unreasonable way. Then he opened his mouth and accepted the food.
She fed him one bite at a time. Normally Palmgren hated being spoon-fed, but he
understood Salander’s need. It was not because he was a helpless piece of baggage.
She was feeding him as a gesture of humility—in her case an extraordinarily rare
occurrence. She put the right-size portions on the fork and waited until he was
finished chewing. When he pointed at the glass of milk with the straw, she held it
up so he could drink.
When he had swallowed the last mouthful, she put the fork down and gave him a
questioning look. He shook his head. They had not said a word to each other during
the entire meal.
Palmgren leaned back in his wheelchair and took a deep breath. Salander picked up
the napkin and wiped around his mouth. He felt like a Mafia boss in an American
movie where a capo di tutti capi was showing respect. He imagined how she would
kiss his hand and smiled at the absurdity of this fantasy.
“Do you think it would be possible to get a cup of coffee in this place?” she said.
He slurred his words. His lips and tongue could not shape the sounds.
“Srvg tab rond corn.” The serving table is around the corner, she worked it out.
“You want a cup? Milk, no sugar, as always?”
He signalled yes with a hand. She carried his tray away and came back a minute
later with two cups of coffee. He noticed that she drank hers black, which was
unusual. He smiled when he saw that she had saved the straw from his milk for
the coffee cup. Palmgren had a thousand things to say but he could not formulate a
single syllable. But their eyes kept meeting, time after time. Salander looked terribly
guilty. Finally she broke the silence.
“I thought you’d died,” she said. “If I’d known you were alive I would never have… I
would have come to see you a long time ago. Forgive me.”
He bowed his head. He smiled, a twist of the lips.
“You were in a coma when I left you and the doctors told me you were going to
die. They said you would be dead within a few days and I just walked away. I’m so
sorry.”
He lifted his hand and laid it on her little fist. She took his hand in a firm grip.
“Ju dsperd.” You disappeared.
“Dragan Armansky told you?”
He nodded.
“I was off travelling. I needed to get away. I didn’t say goodbye to anybody, just left.
Were you worried?”
He shook his head from side to side, slowly.
“You don’t ever have to worry about me.”
“I nv word bow ju. Ju alws get ba. Bt Armshy’s word.” I never worried about you.
You always get by. But Armansky was worried.
She smiled her usual crooked smile at him and Palmgren relaxed. He studied her,
comparing his memory of her with the woman he saw before him. She had
changed. She was whole and clean and rather well dressed. She had taken out the
ring that was in her lip and … hmm … the wasp tattoo on her neck was gone too.
She looked grown up. He laughed for the first time in many weeks. It sounded like
a coughing fit.
Salander’s smile grew bigger and she suddenly felt a warmth that she had not felt
in a long time filling her heart.
“Ju dd gd.” You did good. He aimed a hand at her clothes. She nodded.
“I’m doing fine.”
“Howz z noo gardn?” How is the new guardian?
Palmgren noticed Salander’s face darken. Her mouth tightened. She looked at him
frankly.
“He’s OK … I can handle him.”
Palmgren’s eyebrows questioned her. Salander looked around the dining room and
changed the subject.
“How long have you been here?”
Palmgren may have had a stroke and he still had difficulty speaking and
coordinating his movements, but his mind was intact and his radar instantly picked
up a false tone in Salander’s voice. In all the years he had known her, he had come
to realize that she never lied to him directly, but neither was she totally candid.
Her way of not telling him the truth was to distract his attention. There was
obviously some problem with her new guardian. Which did not surprise Palmgren.
He felt a deep sense of remorse. How many times had he thought about calling his
colleague Nils Bjurman—a fellow lawyer after all, if not a friend—to ask how
Salander was doing, but then neglected to do so? And why had he not contested
her declaration of incompetence while he still had the power? He knew why—he
had wanted, selfishly, to keep his contact with her alive. He loved this damned
difficult child like the daughter he never had, and he wanted to have an excuse to
maintain the relationship. Besides, it was physically too difficult. He had enough
trouble just opening his fly when he tottered to the toilet. He felt as if he were the
one who had let Lisbeth Salander down. But she’ll always survive… She’s the most
competent person I’ve ever met.
“Dscrt.”
“I didn’t understand.”
“Dstrc crt.”
“The district court? What do you mean?”
“Gtta cancl yr d … dc … dclrash incmp …”
Palmgren’s face turned red and he grimaced when he could not pronounce the
words. Salander put a hand on his arm and pressed gently.
“Holger … don’t worry about me. I have plans to take on my declaration of
incompetence soon. It’s not your worry any longer, but I may need your help
eventually. Is that OK? Will you be my lawyer if I need you?”
He shook his head.
“Tu old.” He rapped his knuckle on the arm of his wheelchair. “Dum ld man.”
“Yeah, you’re a dumb old man if you have that attitude. I need a legal advisor and I
want you. You may not be able to give a statement in court, but you can give me
advice when the time comes. Would you?”
He shook his head again, and then he nodded.
“Wrk?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Wut ju work on? Not Armshi.” What are you working on? Not Armansky
Salander hesitated while she debated how to explain her situation. It was
complicated.
“I’m not working for Armansky anymore. I don’t need to work for him to make a
living. I have my own money and I’m doing fine.”
Palmgren’s eyebrows knitted together again.
“I’ll come and visit you a lot, starting today. I’ll tell you all about… but let’s not get
stressed about things. Right now there’s something else I want to do.”
She bent down and lifted a bag to the table and took out a chessboard.
“I haven’t had the chance to sweep the floor with you for two whole years.”
He gave up. She was up to some mischief that she did not want to talk about. He
was quite sure he would have severe reservations, but he trusted her enough still
to know that whatever she was up to might be dubious in the eyes of the law but
not a crime against God’s laws. Unlike most other people who knew her, Palmgren
was sure that Salander was a genuinely moral person. The problem was that her
notion of morality did not always coincide with that of the justice system.
She set out the chessmen in front of him and he recognized with shock that it was
his own board. She must have pinched it from the apartment after he fell ill. As a
keepsake? She gave him white. All of a sudden he was as happy as a child.
Salander stayed with Palmgren for two hours. She had crushed him three times
before a nurse interrupted their bickering over the board, announcing that it was
time for his afternoon physical therapy. Salander collected the chessmen and folded
up the board.
“Can you tell me what kind of physical therapy he’s getting?” she said.
“It’s strength and coordination training. And we’re making progress, aren’t we?”
Palmgren nodded grimly.
“You can already walk several steps. By summer you’ll be able to walk by yourself
in the park. Is this your daughter?”
Salander’s and Palmgren’s eyes met.
“Ster dotr.” Foster daughter.
“How nice that you came to visit.” Where the hell have you been all this time?
Salander ignored the unmistakable meaning. She leaned forward and kissed
Palmgren on the cheek.
“I’ll come again on Friday.”
Palmgren stood up laboriously from his wheelchair. She walked with him to an
elevator. As soon as the elevator doors had closed she went to the front desk and
asked to speak to whoever was responsible for the patients. She was referred to a
Dr. A. Sivarnandan, whom she found in an office further down a corridor. She
introduced herself, explaining that she was Palmgren’s foster daughter.
“I’d like to know how he’s doing and what’s going to happen with him.”
Dr. Sivarnandan looked up Palmgren’s casebook and read the introductory pages.
His skin was pitted by smallpox and he had a thin moustache which Salander found
absurd. Finally he sat back. To her surprise he spoke with a Finnish accent.
“I have no record of Herr Palmgren having a daughter or foster daughter. In fact,
his nearest relative would seem to be an eighty-six-year-old cousin in Jämtland.”
“He took care of me from when I was thirteen until he had his stroke. I was
twenty-four at the time.”
She dug into the inside pocket of her jacket and threw a pen on to the desk in
front of the doctor.
“My name is Lisbeth Salander. Write my name in his casebook. I’m the closest
relation he has in the world.”
“That may be,” replied Dr. Sivarnandan firmly. “But if you are his closest relation
you certainly took a long time letting us know. As far as I know, he has only had a
few visits from a person who, while not related to him, is to be notified in case the
state of his health worsens or if he should pass away.”
“That would be Dragan Armansky.”
Dr. Sivarnandan raised his eyebrows.
“That’s correct. You know him?”
“You can call him and verify that I am who I say I am.”
“That won’t be necessary. I believe you. I was told that you sat and played chess
with Herr Palmgren for two hours. But I cannot discuss the state of his health with
you without his permission.”
“And you’ll never get it from that stubborn devil. You see, he suffers from the
delusion that he shouldn’t burden me with his troubles and that he is still
responsible for me, and not the other way around. This is how it is: for two years I
thought he was dead. Yesterday I discovered that he was alive. If I’d known that he
… it’s complicated to explain, but I’d like to know what sort of prognosis he has and
whether he will recover.”
Dr. Sivarnandan picked up the pen and wrote Salander’s name neatly into
Palmgren’s casebook. He asked for her social security number and telephone
number.
“OK, now you’re formally his foster daughter. This may not be completely by the
book, but considering that you’re the first person to visit him since last Christmas
when Herr Armansky stopped by … You saw him today—you can see for yourself
that he has problems with coordination and speech. He had a stroke.”
“I know. I was the one who found him and called the ambulance.”
“Aha. Then you should know that he was in intensive care for three months. He
was in a coma for a long time. Most patients never wake up from a coma like that,
but it does happen. Obviously he wasn’t ready to die. First he was put in the
dementia ward for chronic long-term patients who are completely unable to take
care of themselves. Against all the odds he showed signs of improvement and was
moved here for rehabilitation nine months ago.”
“Tell me what chances he has of getting his mobility and speech back.”
Dr. Sivarnandan threw out his hands. “Have you got a crystal ball that’s better than
mine? The truthful answer is that I have no idea. He could die from a cerebral
haemorrhage tonight. Or he could live a relatively normal life for another twenty
years. I have no way of knowing. You might say it’s God who decides.”
“And if he lives another twenty years?”
“It’s been a laborious rehabilitation for him, and it’s only in the past few months
that we have been able to see improvements. Six months ago he couldn’t eat
without assistance. One month ago he could hardly get out of his chair, which is
partly due to muscle atrophy from being in bed for so long. Now at least he can
walk by himself for short distances.”
“Can he get better?”
“Yes. Even a lot better. The first threshold was hard, but now we’re seeing progress
every day. He has lost almost two years of his life. In a few months, by the summer,
I hope he’ll be able to walk in the park.”
“And his speech?”
“His problem is that both his speech centre and his ability to move were knocked
out. He was helpless for a long time. Since then he has been forced to learn how to
control his body and talk again. He doesn’t always remember which words to use,
and he has to learn some words again. But it’s not like teaching a child to talk—he
knows the meaning of the word, he just can’t articulate it. Give him a couple of
months and you’ll see how his speech has improved compared with today. The
same is true of his ability to get around. Nine months ago he couldn’t tell left from
right, or up from down in the elevator.”
Salander thought about this for a minute. She discovered that she liked this Dr. A.
Sivarnandan with the Indian looks and the Finnish accent.
“What does the A stand for?” she asked.
He gave her an amused look. “Anders.”
“Anders?”
“I was born in Sri Lanka but then adopted by a couple in Åbo when I was three
months old.”
“OK, Anders, how can I help?”
“Visit him. Give him intellectual stimulation.”
“I can come every day.”
“I don’t want you to be here every day. If he likes you, I want him to look forward
to your visits, not get bored with them.”
“Could any type of special care improve his odds? I can pay whatever it costs.”
He smiled at Salander. “I’m afraid that we’re all the special care there is. Of course I
wish we had more resources and that the cutbacks didn’t affect us, but I assure you
that he’s getting very competent care.”
“And if you didn’t have to worry about the cutbacks, what else could you offer
him?”
“The ideal for patients like Holger Palmgren, of course, would be if I could offer
him a full-time personal trainer. But it’s been quite a while since we had resources
like that in Sweden.”
“Hire one.”
“Excuse me?”
“Hire him a personal trainer. Find the best you can. Please do it first thing
tomorrow. And make sure he has everything he needs in the way of technical
equipment. I’ll see to it that the funds are available by the end of the week to pay
for it.”
“Are you pulling my leg, young lady?”
Salander gave Dr. Anders Sivarnandan her hard, steady look.
Johansson braked and pulled her Fiat over to the curb outside Gamla Stan
tunnelbana station. Svensson opened the door and slipped into the passenger seat.
He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek as she drew away behind a bus.
“Hello, you,” she said without taking her eyes off the traffic. “You look so serious.
Has something happened?”
Svensson sighed as he fastened his seat belt.
“No, nothing major. A little problem with the manuscript is all.”
“What problem?”
“Two months till the deadline. I’ve done only nine of the twenty-two
confrontations we planned. I’m having trouble with Björck at the Security Police.
The bastard is on long-term sick leave and he’s not answering his home telephone.”
“Is he in hospital?”
“Don’t know. Have you ever tried getting information out of Säpo? They won’t even
admit that he works there.”
“Did you try his parents?”
“Both dead. He’s not married. He has a brother who lives in Spain. I just have no
idea how to get hold of him.”
Johansson glanced at her partner as she navigated across Slussen to the tunnel
leading to Nynäsvägen.
“Worst-case scenario, we jettison the section on Björck. Blomkvist insists that
everyone we’re planning to expose must have a chance to comment before being
hung out to dry.”
“But it would be a shame to miss out on a representative of the Security Police who
runs around with prostitutes. What are you going to do?”
“Find him, of course. How are you doing? Nervous?”
He poked her carefully in the side.
“Actually, no. In two months I have to defend my dissertation and become a full-fledged doctor, and I feel as cool as a cucumber.”
“You know the subject backwards. Why be nervous?”
“Look behind you.”
Svensson turned and saw an open box on the backseat.
“Mia—it’s printed!” he said in delight. He held up a copy of the bound thesis.
From Russia with LoveTrafficking, Organized Crime, and Society’s Responseby Mia
Johansson
“It wasn’t going to be ready until next week. Damn … we’re going to have to crack
open a bottle when we get home. Congratulations, Doctor!”
He leaned over and kissed her again.
“Calm down. I won’t be a doctor for another two months. And keep your hands
under control while I’m driving.”
Svensson laughed. Then he turned serious.
“By the way, fly in the ointment and all that… you interviewed a girl named Irina P.
about a year ago.”
“Irina P., twenty-two, from St. Petersburg. She first came here in 1999 and has made
some return trips. What about her?”
“I ran into Gulbrandsen today. The policeman involved in the Södertälje brothel
investigation. Did you read last week that they’d found a girl floating in the canal
there? There were headlines in the evening papers. It was Irina P.”
“Oh no. That’s horrible.”
They drove in silence past Skanstull.
“She’s in my thesis,” Johansson said at last. “I gave her the pseudonym Tamara.”
Svensson turned to the interview section of “From Russia with Love” and leafed
through it to find “Tamara.” He read with concentration as Mia passed
Gullmarsplan and the Globe Arena.
“She was brought here by somebody you call Anton.”
“I can’t use real names. I might get criticism for it during my oral exams, but I
cannot name the girls. It would put them in real, mortal danger. And obviously I
can’t identify the johns either, since they could work out which of the girls I had
talked to. So in all the case studies I only use pseudonyms.”
“Who’s Anton?”
“His name is probably Zala. I’ve never been able to pin down who he is, but I think
he’s a Pole or a Yugoslav and that’s not his real name. I talked with Irina P. four or
five times, and it wasn’t until our last meeting that she told me his name. She was
trying to straighten out her life and get out of the business, but she was certainly
really afraid of him.”
“I’m just wondering … I ran into the name Zala a week or so ago.”
“Where was that?”
“I confronted Sandström—the john who’s a journalist. A complete bastard.”
“In what way?”
“He’s not a real journalist. He does advertising newsletters for various companies.
And he has sick fantasies about rape that he’d get off on with that girl…”
“I know. I was the one who interviewed her.”
“But did you know that he did the text for a brochure about sexually transmitted
diseases for the Public Health Institute?”
“I didn’t know that.”
“I confronted him last week. He totally lost it when I laid out all the evidence and
asked why he uses teenage prostitutes from the East to live out his rape fantasies.
Gradually I got some sort of explanation out of him.”
“And what was it?”
“Sandström had gotten into a situation where he wasn’t just another customer. He
also ran errands for the sex mafia. He gave me the names he knew, including this
Zala. He didn’t say anything specific about him, but it’s not a common name.”
Johansson glanced at him.
“Do you know who he is?” Svensson said.
“No. I’ve never been able to identify him. He’s just a name that crops up now and
then. The girls all seem terrified of him, and none of them was willing to tell me
anything else.”
0 comments:
Post a Comment