CHAPTER 2
Friday, 8.iv
Modig and Holmberg arrived at Göteborg Central Station
just after 8.00 a.m. Bublanski had called to give them new
instructions. They could forget about finding a car to take
them to Gosseberga. They were to take a taxi to police
headquarters on Ernst Fontells Plats, the seat of the
County Criminal Police in Western Götaland. They waited
for almost an hour before Inspector Erlander arrived from
Gosseberga with Blomkvist. Blomkvist said hello to Modig,
having met her before, and shook hands with Holmberg,
whom he did not know. One of Erlander’s colleagues joined
them with an update on the hunt for Niedermann. It was a
brief report.
“We have a team working under the auspices of the
County Criminal Police. An A.P.B. has gone out, of course.
The missing patrol car was found in Alingsås early this
morning. The trail ends there for the moment. We have to
suppose that he switched vehicles, but we’ve had no report
of a car being stolen thereabouts.”
“Media?” Modig asked, with an apologetic glance at
Blomkvist.
“It’s a police killing and the press is out in force. We’ll be
holding a press conference at 10.00.”
“Does anyone have any information on Lisbeth Salander’s
condition?” Blomkvist said. He felt strangely uninterested in
everything to do with the hunt for Niedermann.
“She was operated on during the night. They removed a
bullet from her head. She hasn’t regained consciousness
yet.”
“Is there any prognosis?”
“As I understand it, we won’t know anything until she wakes
up. But the surgeon says he has high hopes that she’ll
survive, barring unforeseen complications.”
“And Zalachenko?”
“Who?” Erlander’s colleague said. He had not yet been
brought up to date with all the details.
“Karl Axel Bodin.”
“I see … yes, he was operated on last night too. He had a
very deep gash across his face and another just below one
kneecap. He’s in bad shape, but the injuries aren’t life-threatening.”
Blomkvist absorbed this news.
“You look tired,” Modig said.
“You got that right. I’m into my third day with hardly any
sleep.”
“Believe it or not, he actually slept in the car coming down
from Nossebro,” Erlander said.
“Could you manage to tell us the whole story from the
beginning?” Holmberg said. “It feels to us as though the
score between the private investigators and the police
investigators is about 3–0.”
Blomkvist gave him a wan smile. “That’s a line I’d like to
hear from Officer Bubble.”
They made their way to the police canteen to have
breakfast. Blomkvist spent half an hour explaining step by
step how he had pieced together the story of Zalachenko.
When he had finished, the detectives sat in silence.
“There are a few holes in your account,” Holmberg said at
last.
“That’s possible,” Blomkvist said.
“You didn’t say, for example, how you came to be in
possession of the Top Secret Säpo report on Zalachenko.”
“I found it yesterday at Lisbeth Salander’s apartment when
I finally worked out where she was. She probably found it in
Bjurman’s summer cabin.”
“So you’ve discovered Salander’s hideout?” Modig said.
Blomkvist nodded.
“And?”
“You’ll have to find out for yourselves where it is. Salander
put a lot of effort into establishing a secret address for
herself, and I have no intention of revealing its
whereabouts.”
Modig and Holmberg exchanged an anxious look.
“Mikael … this is a murder investigation,” Modig said.
“You still haven’t got it, have you? Lisbeth Salander is in
fact innocent and the police have violated her and
destroyed her reputation in ways that beggar belief.
‘Lesbian Satanist gang’ … where the hell do you get this
stuff? Not to mention her being sought in connection with
three murders she had nothing to do with. If she wants to
tell you where she lives, then I’m sure she will.”
“But there’s another gap I don’t really understand,”
Holmberg said. “How does Bjurman come into the story in
the first place? You say he was the one who started the
whole thing by contacting Zalachenko and asking him to kill
Salander. Why would he do that?”
“I reckon he hired Zalachenko to get rid of Salander. The
plan was for her to end up in that warehouse in Nykvarn.”
“He was her guardian. What motive would he have had to
get rid of her?”
“It’s complicated.”
“I can do complicated.”
“He had a hell of a good motive. He had done something
that Salander knew about. She was a threat to his entire
future and well-being.”
“What had he done?”
“I think it would be best if you gave Salander a chance to
explain the story herself.” He looked Holmberg steadily in
explain the story herself.” He looked Holmberg steadily in
the eye.
“Let me guess,” Modig said. “Bjurman subjected his ward to
some sort of sexual assault …”
Blomkvist shrugged and said nothing.
“You don’t know about the tattoo Bjurman had on his
abdomen?”
“What tattoo?” Blomkvist was taken aback.
“An amateurish tattoo across his belly with a message that
said: I am a sadistic pig, a pervert and a rapist. We’ve been
wondering what that was about.”
Blomkvist burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?”
“I’ve always wondered what she did to get her revenge. But
listen … I don’t want to discuss this for the same reason
I’ve already given. She’s the real victim here. She’s the one
who has to decide what she is willing to tell you. Sorry.”
He looked almost apologetic.
“Rapes should always be reported to the police,” Modig
said.
said.
“I’m with you on that. But this rape took place two years
ago, and Lisbeth still hasn’t talked to the police about it.
Which means that she doesn’t intend to. It doesn’t matter
how much I disagree with her about the matter; it’s her
decision. Anyway …”
“Yes?”
“She had no good reason to trust the police. The last time
she tried explaining what a pig Zalachenko was, she was
locked up in a mental hospital.”
*
Richard Ekström, the leader of the preliminary
investigation, had butterflies in his stomach as he asked
his team leader Inspector Bublanski to take a seat opposite
him. Ekström straightened his glasses and stroked his well-groomed goatee. He felt that the situation was chaotic and
ominous. For several weeks they had been hunting Lisbeth
Salander. He himself had proclaimed her far and wide to be
mentally imbalanced, a dangerous psychopath. He had
leaked information that would have backed him up in an
upcoming trial. Everything had looked so good.
There had been no doubt in his mind that Salander was
guilty of three murders. The trial should have been a
straightforward matter, a pure media circus with himself at
straightforward matter, a pure media circus with himself at
centre stage. Then everything had gone haywire, and he
found himself with a completely different murderer and a
chaos that seemed to have no end in sight. That bitch
Salander.
“Well, this is a fine mess we’ve landed in,” he said. “What
have you come up with this morning?”
“A nationwide A.P.B. has been sent out on this Ronald
Niedermann, but there’s no sign of him. At present he’s
being sought only for the murder of Officer Gunnar
Ingemarsson, but I anticipate we’ll have grounds for
charging him with the three murders here in Stockholm.
Maybe you should call a press conference.”
Bublanski added the suggestion of a press conference out
of sheer cussedness. Ekström hated press conferences.
“I think we’ll hold off on the press conference for the time
being,” he snapped.
Bublanski had to stop himself from smiling.
“In the first instance, this is a matter for the Göteborg
police,” Ekström said.
“Well, we do have Modig and Holmberg on the scene in
Göteborg, and we’ve begun to co-operate—”
“We’ll hold off on the press conference until we know
more,” Ekström repeated in a brittle tone. “What I want to
know is: how certain are you that Niedermann really is
involved in the murders in Stockholm?”
“My gut feeling? I’m 100 per cent convinced. On the other
hand, the case isn’t exactly rock solid. We have no
witnesses to the murders, and there is no satisfactory
forensic evidence. Lundin and Nieminen of the Svavelsjö
M.C. are refusing to say anything – they’re claiming they’ve
never heard of Niedermann. But he’s going to go to prison
for the murder of Officer Ingemarsson.”
“Precisely,” said Ekström. “The killing of the police officer is
the main thing right now. But tell me this: is there anything
at all to even suggest that Salander might be involved in
some way in the murders? Could she and Niedermann
have somehow committed the murders together?”
“I very much doubt it, and if I were you I wouldn’t voice that
theory in public.”
“So how is she involved?”
“This is an intricate story, as Mikael Blomkvist claimed from
the very beginning. It revolves around this Zala …
Alexander Zalachenko.”
Ekström flinched at the mention of the name Blomkvist.
“Go on,” he said.
“Zala is a Russian hit man – apparently without a grain of
conscience – who defected in the ’70s, and Lisbeth
Salander was unlucky enough to have him as her father.
He was sponsored or supported by a faction within Säpo
that tidied up after any crimes he committed. A police
officer attached to Säpo also saw to it that Salander was
locked up in a children’s psychiatric clinic. She was twelve
and had threatened to blow Zalachenko’s identity, his alias,
his whole cover.”
“This is a bit difficult to digest. It’s hardly a story we can
make public. If I understand the matter correctly, all this
stuff about Zalachenko is highly classified.”
“Nevertheless, it’s the truth. I have documentation.”
“Could I see it?”
Bublanski pushed across the desk a folder containing a
police report dated 1991. Ekström surreptitiously scanned
the stamp, which indicated that the document was Top
Secret, and the registration number, which he at once
identified as belonging to the Security Police. He leafed
rapidly through the hundred or so pages, reading
paragraphs here and there. Eventually he put the folder
aside.
aside.
“We have to try to tone this down, so that the situation
doesn’t get completely out of our control. So Salander was
locked up in an asylum because she tried to kill her father
… this Zalachenko. And now she has attacked him with an
axe. By any interpretation that would be attempted murder.
And she has to be charged with shooting Magge Lundin in
Stallarholmen.”
“You can arrest whoever you want, but I would tread
carefully if I were you.”
“There’s going to be an almighty scandal if Säpo’s
involvement gets leaked.”
Bublanski shrugged. His job was to investigate crimes, not
to clean up after scandals.
“This bastard from Säpo, this Gunnar Björck. What do you
know about his role?”
“He’s one of the major players. He’s on sick leave for a
slipped disc and lives in Smådalarö at present.”
“O.K…. we’ll keep the lid on Säpo’s involvement for the
time being. The focus right now is to be on the murder of a
police officer.”
“It’s going to be hard to keep this under wraps.”
“What do you mean?”
“I sent Andersson to bring in Björck for a formal
interrogation. That should be happening …” – Bublanski
looked at his watch – “… yes, about now.”
“You what?”
“I was rather hoping to have the pleasure of driving out to
Smådalarö myself, but the events surrounding last night’s
killing took precedence.”
“I didn’t give anyone permission to arrest Björck.”
“That’s true. But it’s not an arrest. I’m just bringing him in
for questioning.”
“Whichever, I don’t like it.”
Bublanski leaned forward, almost as if to confide in the
other man.
“Richard … this is how it is. Salander has been subjected
to a number of infringements of her rights, starting when
she was a child. I do not mean for this to continue on my
watch. You have the option to remove me as leader of the
investigation … but if you did that I would be forced to write
a harsh memo about the matter.”
a harsh memo about the matter.”
Ekström looked as if he had just swallowed something very
sour.
Gunnar Björck, on sick leave from his job as assistant chief
of the Immigration Division of the Security Police, opened
the door of his summer house in Smådalarö and looked up
at a powerfully built, blond man with a crewcut who wore a
black leather jacket.
“I’m looking for Gunnar Björck.”
“That’s me.”
“Curt Andersson, County Criminal Police.” The man held up
his I.D.
“Yes?”
“You are requested to accompany me to Kungsholmen to
assist the police in their investigations into the case
involving Lisbeth Salander.”
“Uh … there must be some sort of misunderstanding.”
“There’s no misunderstanding,” Andersson said.
“You don’t understand. I’m a police officer myself. Save
yourself making a big mistake: check it out with your
yourself making a big mistake: check it out with your
superior officers.”
“My superior is the one who wants to talk to you.”
“I have to make a call and—”
“You can make your call from Kungsholmen.”
Björck felt suddenly resigned. It’s happened. I’m going to
be arrested. That goddamn fucking Blomkvist. And fucking
Salander.
“Am I being arrested?” he said.
“Not for the moment. But we can arrange for that if you like.
”
“No … no, of course I’ll come with you. Naturally I’d want to
assist my colleagues in the police force.”
“Alright, then,” Andersson said, walking into the hallway to
keep a close eye on Björck as he turned off the coffee
machine and picked up his coat.
In the late morning it dawned on Blomkvist that his rental
car was still at the Gosseberga farm, but he was so
exhausted that he did not have the strength or the means
to get out there to fetch it, much less drive safely for any
distance. Erlander kindly arranged for a crime scene tech
distance. Erlander kindly arranged for a crime scene tech
to take the car back on his way home.
“Think of it as compensation for the way you were treated
last night.”
Blomkvist thanked him and took a taxi to City Hotel on
Lorensbergsgatan. He booked in for the night for 800
kronor and went straight to his room and undressed. He
sat naked on the bed and took Salander’s Palm Tungsten
T3 from the inside pocket of his jacket, weighing it in his
hand. He was still amazed that it had not been confiscated
when Paulsson frisked him, but Paulsson presumably
thought it was Blomkvist’s own, and he had never been
formally taken into custody and searched. He thought for a
moment and then slipped it into a compartment of his
laptop case where he had also put Salander’s D.V.D.
marked “Bjurman,” which Paulsson had also missed. He
knew that technically he was withholding evidence, but
these were the things that Salander would no doubt prefer
not to have fall into the wrong hands.
He turned on his mobile and saw that the battery was low,
so he plugged in the charger. He made a call to his sister,
Advokat Giannini.
“Hi, Annika.”
“What did you have to do with the policeman’s murder last
night?” she asked him at once.
He told her succinctly what had happened.
“O.K., so Salander is in intensive care.”
“Correct, and we won’t know the extent or severity of her
injuries until she regains consciousness, but now she’s
really going to need a lawyer.”
Giannini thought for a moment. “Do you think she’d want
me for her lawyer?”
“Probably she wouldn’t want any lawyer at all. She isn’t the
type to ask anyone for help.”
“Mikael … I’ve said this before, it sounds like she might
need a criminal lawyer. Let me look at the documentation
you have.”
“Talk to Erika and ask her for a copy.”
As soon as Blomkvist disconnected, he called Berger
himself. She did not answer her mobile, so he tried her
number at the Millennium offices. Henry Cortez answered.
“Erika’s out somewhere,” he said.
Blomkvist briefly explained what had happened and asked
Cortez to pass the information to Millennium’s editor-in-chief.
“Will do. What do you want us to do?” Cortez said.
“Nothing today,” Blomkvist said. “I have to get some sleep.
I’ll be back in Stockholm tomorrow if nothing else comes up.
Millennium will have an opportunity to present its version of
the story in the next issue, but that’s almost a month away.”
He flipped his mobile shut and crawled into bed. He was
asleep within thirty seconds.
Assistant County Police Chief Carina Spångberg tapped
her pen against her glass of water and asked for quiet.
Nine people were seated around the conference table in
her office at police headquarters. Three women and six
men: the head of the Violent Crimes Division and his
assistant head; three criminal inspectors including Erlander
and the Göteborg police press officers; preliminary
investigation leader Agneta Jervas from the prosecutor’s
office, and lastly Inspectors Modig and Holmberg from the
Stockholm police. They were included as a sign of goodwill
and to demonstrate that Göteborg wished to co-operate
with their colleagues from the capital. Possibly also to show
them how a real police investigation should be run.
Spångberg, who was frequently the lone woman in a male
landscape, had a reputation for not wasting time on
formalities or mere courtesies. She explained that the
county police chief was at the Europol conference in
Madrid, that he had broken off his trip as soon as he knew
that one of his police officers had been murdered, but that
he was not expected back before late that night. Then she
turned directly to the head of the Violent Crimes Division,
Anders Pehrzon, and asked him to brief the assembled
company.
“It’s been about ten hours since our colleague was
murdered on Nossebrovägen. We know the name of the
killer, Ronald Niedermann, but we still don’t have a picture
of him.”
“In Stockholm we have a photograph of him that’s about
twenty years old. Paolo Roberto got it through a boxing
club in Germany, but it’s almost unusable,” Holmberg said.
“Alright. The patrol car that Niedermann is thought to have
driven away was found in Alingsås this morning, as you all
know. It was parked on a side street 350 metres from the
railway station. We haven’t had a report yet of any car
thefts in the area this morning.”
“What’s the status of the search?”
“We’re keeping an eye on all trains arriving in Stockholm
and Malmö. There is a nationwide A.P.B. out and we’ve
alerted the police in Norway and Denmark. Right now we
have about thirty officers working directly on the
investigation, and of course the whole force is keeping
their eyes peeled.”
“No leads?”
“No, nothing yet. But someone with Niedermann’s
distinctive appearance is not going to go unnoticed for
long.”
“Does anyone know about Torstensson’s condition?” asked
one of the inspectors from Violent Crime.
“He’s at Sahlgrenska. His injuries seem to be similar to
those of a car crash victim – it’s hardly credible that
anyone could do such damage with his bare hands: a
broken leg, ribs crushed, cervical vertebrae injured, plus
there’s a risk that he may be paralysed.”
They all took stock of their colleague’s plight for a few
moments until Spångberg turned to Erlander.
“Marcus … tell us what really happened at Gosseberga.”
“Thomas Paulsson happened at Gosseberga.”
A ripple of groans greeted this response.
“Can’t someone give that man early retirement? He’s a
walking catastrophe.”
“I know all about Paulsson,” Spångberg interrupted. “But I
haven’t heard any complaints about him in the last … well,
not for the past two years. In what way has he become
harder to handle?”
“The police chief up there is an old friend of Paulsson’s,
and he’s probably been trying to protect him. With all good
intentions, of course, and I don’t mean to criticize him. But
last night Paulsson’s behaviour was so bizarre that several
of his people mentioned it to me.”
“In what way bizarre?”
Erlander glanced at Modig and Holmberg. He was
embarrassed to be discussing flaws in their organization in
front of the visitors from Stockholm.
“As far as I’m concerned, the strangest thing was that he
detailed one of the techs to make an inventory of
everything in the woodshed – where we found the
Zalachenko guy?”
“An inventory of what in the woodshed?” Spångberg
wanted to know.
“Yes … well … he said he needed to know exactly how
many pieces of wood were in there. So that the report
would be accurate.”
There was a charged silence around the conference table
before Erlander went on.
“And this morning it came out that Paulsson has been
taking at least two different antidepressants. He should
have been on sick leave, but no-one knew about his
condition.”
“What condition?” Spångberg said sharply.
“Well, obviously I don’t know what’s wrong with him –
patient’s confidentiality and all that – but the drugs he’s
taking are strong ataractics on the one hand, and
stimulants. He was high as a kite all night.”
“Good God,” said Spångberg emphatically. She looked like
the thundercloud that had swept over Göteborg that
morning. “I want Paulsson in here for a chat. Right now.”
“He collapsed this morning and was admitted to the
hospital suffering from exhaustion. It was just our bad luck
that he happened to be on rotation.”
“May I ask … Paulsson, did he arrest Mikael Blomkvist last
night?”
“He wrote a report citing offensive behaviour, aggressive
resistance to police officers, and illegal possession of a
weapon. That’s what he put in the report.”
“What does Blomkvist say?”
“He concedes that he was insulting, but he claims it was in
self-defence. He says that the resistance consisted of a
forceful verbal attempt to prevent Torstensson and
Ingemarsson from going to pick up Niedermann alone,
without back-up.”
“Witnesses?”
“Well, there is Torstensson. I don’t believe Paulsson’s claim
of aggressive resistance for a minute. It’s a typical pre-emptive retaliation to undermine potential complaints from
Blomkvist.”
“But Blomkvist managed to overpower Niedermann all by
himself, did he not?” Prosecutor Jervas said.
“By holding a gun to him.”
“So Blomkvist had a gun. Then there was some basis for
his arrest after all. Where did he get the weapon?”
“Blomkvist won’t discuss it without his lawyer being there.
And Paulsson arrested Blomkvist when he was trying to
hand in the weapon to the police.”
“Could I make a small, informal suggestion?” Modig said
cautiously.
Everyone turned to her.
“I have met Mikael Blomkvist on several occasions in the
course of this investigation. I have found him quite likeable,
even though he is a journalist. I suppose you’re the one
who has to make the decision about charging him …” She
looked at Jervas, who nodded. “All this stuff about insults
and aggressive resistance is just nonsense. I assume you
will ignore it.”
“Probably. Illegal weapons are more serious.”
“I would urge you to wait and see. Blomkvist has put the
pieces of this puzzle together all by himself; he’s way
ahead of us on the police force. It will be to our advantage
to stay on good terms with him and ensure his co-operation, rather than unleash him to condemn the entire
police force in his magazine and elsewhere in the media.”
After a few seconds, Erlander cleared his throat. If Modig
dared to stick her neck out, he could do the same.
“I agree with Sonja. I too think Blomkvist is a man we could
work with. I’ve apologized to him for the way he was treated
last night. He seems ready to let bygones be bygones.
Besides, he has integrity. He somehow tracked down where
Salander was living but he won’t give us the address. He’s
not afraid to get into a public scrap with the police … and
he’s most certainly in a position where his voice will carry
just as much weight in the media as any report from
Paulsson.”
“But he refuses to give the police any information about
Salander.”
“He says that we’ll have to ask her ourselves, if that time
ever comes. He says he absolutely won’t discuss a person
who is not only innocent but who also has had her rights so
severely violated.”
“What kind of weapon is it?” Jervas said.
“It’s a Colt 1911 Government. Serial number unknown.
Forensics have it, and we don’t know yet whether it is
connected to any known crime in Sweden. If it is, that will
put the matter in a rather different light.”
Spångberg raised her pen.
“Agneta … it’s up to you to decide whether you want to
initiate a preliminary investigation against Blomkvist. But I
advise that you wait for the report from forensics. So let’s
advise that you wait for the report from forensics. So let’s
move on. This character Zalachenko … what can our
colleagues from Stockholm tell us about him?”
“The truth is,” Modig said, “that until yesterday afternoon
we had never heard of either Zalachenko or Niedermann.”
“I thought you were busy looking for a lesbian Satanist
gang in Stockholm. Was I wrong?” one of the Göteborg
policemen said. His colleagues all frowned. Holmberg was
studying his fingernails. Modig had to take the question.
“Within these four walls, I can tell you that we have our
equivalent of Inspector Paulsson, and all that stuff about a
lesbian Satanist gang is probably a smokescreen
originating mainly from him.”
Modig and Holmberg then described in detail the
investigation as it had developed. When they had finished
there was a long silence around the table.
“If all this about Gunnar Björck is true and it comes out,
Säpo’s ears are going to be burning,” the assistant chief of
the Violent Crimes Division concluded.
Jervas raised her hand. “It sounds to me as though your
suspicions are for the most part based on assumptions and
circumstantial evidence. As a prosecutor I would be uneasy
about the lack of unassailable evidence.”
“We’re aware of that,” Holmberg said. “We think we know
what happened in broad outline, but there are questions
that still have to be answered.”
“I gather you’re still busy with excavations in Nykvarn,”
Spångberg said. “How many killings do you reckon this
case involves?”
Holmberg rubbed his eyes wearily. “We started with two,
then three murders in Stockholm. Those are the ones that
prompted the hunt for Salander: the deaths of Advokat
Bjurman, the journalist Dag Svensson, and Mia Johansson,
an academic. In the area around the warehouse in Nykvarn
we have so far found three graves, well, three bodies.
We’ve identified a known dealer and petty thief who was
found dismembered in one trench. We found a woman’s
body in a second trench – she’s still unidentified. And we
haven’t dug up the third yet. It appears to be older than the
others. Furthermore, Blomkvist has made a connection to
the murder several months ago of a prostitute in
Södertälje.”
“So, with Gunnar Ingemarsson dead in Gosseberga, we’re
talking about at least eight murders. That’s a horrendous
statistic. Do we suspect this Niedermann of all of them? If
so, he has to be treated as a madman, a mass murderer.”
Modig and Holmberg exchanged glances. It was now a
matter of how far they wanted to align themselves with such
assertions. Finally Modig spoke up.
“Even though crucial evidence is lacking, my superior,
Inspector Bublanski, and I are tending towards the belief
that Blomkvist is correct in claiming that the first three
murders were committed by Niedermann. That would
require us to believe that Salander is innocent. With
respect to the graves in Nykvarn, Niedermann is linked to
the site through the kidnapping of Salander’s friend Miriam
Wu. There is a strong likelihood that she too would have
been his victim. But the warehouse is owned by a relative
of the president of Svavelsjö Motorcycle Club, and until
we’re able to identify the remains, we won’t be able to draw
any conclusions.”
“That petty thief you identified …”
“Kenneth Gustafsson, forty-four, dealer, and delinquent in
his youth. Offhand I would guess it’s to do with an internal
shake-up of some sort. Svavelsjö M.C. is mixed up in
several kinds of criminal activity, including the distribution
of methamphetamine. Nykvarn may be a cemetery in the
woods for people who crossed them, but …”
“Yes?”
“This young prostitute who was murdered in Södertälje …
her name is Irina Petrova. The autopsy revealed that she
died as a result of a staggeringly vicious assault. She
looked as if she had been beaten to death. But the actual
cause of her injuries could not be established. Blomkvist
made a pretty acute observation. Petrova had injuries that
could very well have been inflicted by a man’s bare hands
…”
“Niedermann?”
“It’s a reasonable assumption. But there’s no proof yet.”
“So how do we proceed?” Spångberg wondered.
“I have to confer with Bublanski,” Modig said. “But a logical
step would be to interrogate Zalachenko. We’re interested
in hearing what he has to say about the murders in
Stockholm, and for you it’s a matter of finding out what was
Niedermann’s role in Zalachenko’s business. He might
even be able to point you in the direction of Niedermann.”
One of the detectives from Göteborg said: “What have we
found at the farm in Gosseberga?”
“We found four revolvers. A Sig Sauer that had been
dismantled and was being oiled on the kitchen table. A
Polish P-83 Wanad on the floor next to the bench in the
kitchen. A Colt 1911 Government – that’s the pistol that
Blomkvist tried to hand in to Paulsson. And finally a .22
Blomkvist tried to hand in to Paulsson. And finally a .22
calibre Browning, which is pretty much a toy gun alongside
the others. We rather think that it was the weapon used to
shoot Salander, given that she’s still alive with a slug in her
brain.”
“Anything else?”
“We found and confiscated a bag containing about
200,000 kronor. It was in an upstairs room used by
Niedermann.”
“How do you know it was his room?”
“Well, he does wear a size XXL. Zalachenko is at most a
medium.”
“Do you have anything on Zalachenko or Bodin in your
records?” Holmberg said.
Erlander shook his head.
“Of course it depends on how we interpret the confiscated
weapons. Apart from the more sophisticated weaponry and
an unusually sophisticated T. V. surveillance of the farm,
we found nothing to distinguish it from any other
farmhouse. The house itself is spartan, no frills.”
Just before noon there was a knock on the door and a
uniformed officer delivered a document to Spångberg.
“We’ve received a call,” she said, “about a missing person
in Alingsås. A dental nurse by the name of Anita
Kaspersson left her home by car at 7.30 this morning. She
took her child to day care and should have arrived at her
place of work by 8.00. But she never did. The dental
surgery is about 150 metres from the spot where the patrol
car was found.”
Erlander and Modig both looked at their wristwatches.
“Then he has a four-hour head start. What kind of car is it?
”
“A dark-blue 1991 Renault. Here’s the registration number.
”
“Send out an A.P.B. on the vehicle at once. He could be in
Oslo by now, or Malmö, or maybe even Stockholm.”
They brought the conference to a close by deciding that
Modig and Erlander would together interrogate
Zalachenko.
Cortez frowned and followed Berger with his gaze as she
cut across the hall from her office to the kitchenette. She
returned moments later with a cup of coffee, went back into
her office and closed the door.
Cortez could not put his finger on what was wrong.
Millennium was the kind of small office where co-workers
were close. He had worked part-time at the magazine for
four years, and during that time the team had weathered
some phenomenal storms, especially during the period
when Blomkvist was serving a three-month sentence for
libel and the magazine almost went under. Then their
colleague Dag Svensson was murdered, and his girlfriend
too.
Through all these storms Berger had been the rock that
nothing seemed capable of shifting. He was not surprised
that she had called to wake him early that morning and put
him and Lottie Karim to work. The Salander affair had
cracked wide open, and Blomkvist had got himself
somehow involved in the killing of a policeman in Göteborg.
So far, everything was under control. Karim had parked
herself at police headquarters and was doing her best to
get some solid information out of someone. Cortez had
spent the morning making calls, piecing together what had
happened overnight. Blomkvist was not answering his
telephone, but from a number of sources Cortez had a
fairly clear picture of the events of the night before.
Berger, on the other hand, had been distracted all
morning. It was rare for her to close the door to her office.
That usually happened only when she had a visitor or was
working intently on some problem. This morning she had
not had a single visitor, and she was not – so far as he
could judge – working. On several occasions when he had
knocked on the door to relay some news, he had found her
sitting in the chair by the window. She seemed lost in
thought, as listlessly she watched the stream of people
walking down below on Götgatan. She had paid scant
attention to his reports.
Something was wrong.
The doorbell interrupted his ruminations. He went to open it
and found the lawyer Annika Giannini. Cortez had met
Blomkvist’s sister a few times, but he did not know her well.
“Hello, Annika,” he said. “Mikael isn’t here today.”
“I know. I want to talk to Erika.”
Berger barely looked up from her position by the window,
but she quickly pulled herself together when she saw who it
was.
“Hello,” she said. “Mikael isn’t here today.”
Giannini smiled. “I know. I’m here for Björck’s Säpo report.
Micke asked me to take a look at it in case it turns out that I
represent Salander.”
Berger nodded. She got up, took a folder from her desk
and handed it to Giannini.
Giannini hesitated a moment, wondering whether to leave
the office. Then she made up her mind and, uninvited, sat
down opposite Berger.
“O.K…. what’s going on with you?”
“I’m about to resign from Millennium, and I haven’t been
able to tell Mikael. He’s been so tied up in this Salander
mess that there hasn’t been the right opportunity, and I
can’t tell the others before I tell him. Right now I just feel
like shit.”
Giannini bit her lower lip. “So you’re telling me instead.
Why are you leaving?”
“I’m going to be editor-in-chief of Svenska Morgon-Posten.”
“Jesus. Well, in that case, congratulations seem to be in
order rather than any weeping or gnashing of teeth.”
“Annika … this isn’t the way I had planned to end my time
at Millennium. In the middle of bloody chaos. But the offer
came like a bolt from the blue, and I can’t say no. I mean …
it’s the chance of a lifetime. But I got the offer just before
Dag and Mia were shot, and there’s been such turmoil here
that I buried it. And now I have the world’s worst guilty
conscience.”
conscience.”
“I understand. But now you’re afraid of telling Micke.”
“It’s an utter disaster. I haven’t told anybody. I thought I
wouldn’t be starting at S.M.P. until after the summer, and
that there would still be time to tell everyone. But now they
want me to start asap.”
She fell silent and stared at Annika. She looked on the
verge of tears.
“This is, in point of fact, my last week at Millennium. Next
week I’ll be on a trip, and then … I need about a fortnight
off to recharge my batteries. I start at S.M.P. on the first of
May.”
“Well, what would have happened if you’d been run over by
a bus? Then they would have been without an editor-in-chief with only a moment’s notice.”
Erika looked up. “But I haven’t been run over by a bus. I’ve
been deliberately keeping quiet about my decision for
weeks now.”
“I can see this is a difficult situation, but I’ve got a feeling
that Micke and Christer Malm and the others will be able to
work things out. I think you ought to tell them right away.”
“Alright, but your damned brother is in Göteborg today.
He’s asleep and has turned off his mobile.”
“I know. There aren’t many people who are as stubborn as
Mikael about not being available when you need him. But
Erika, this isn’t about you and Micke. I know that you’ve
worked together for twenty years or so and you’ve had
your ups and downs, but you have to think about Christer
and the others on the staff too.”
“I’ve been keeping it under wraps all this time – Mikael’s
going to—”
“Micke’s going to go through the roof, of course he is. But if
he can’t handle the fact that you screwed up one time in
twenty years, then he isn’t worth the time you’ve put in for
him.”
Berger sighed.
“Pull yourself together,” Giannini told her. “Call Christer in,
and the rest of the staff. Right now.”
Malm sat motionless for a few seconds. Berger had
gathered her colleagues into Millennium’s small conference
room with only a few minutes’ notice, just as he was about
to leave early. He glanced at Cortez and Karim. They were
as astonished as he was. Malin Eriksson, the assistant
editor, had not known anything either, nor had Monika
Nilsson, the reporter, or the advertising manager
Nilsson, the reporter, or the advertising manager
Magnusson. Blomkvist was the only one absent from the
meeting. He was in Göteborg being his usual Blomkvist
self.
Good God. Mikael doesn’t know anything about it either,
thought Malm. How on earth is he going to react?
Then he realized that Berger had stopped talking, and it
was as silent as the grave in the conference room. He
shook his head, stood up, and spontaneously gave Berger
a hug and a kiss on the cheek.
“Congrats, Ricky,” he said. “Editor-in-chief of S.M.P. That’s
not a bad step up from this sorry little rag.”
Cortez came to life and began to clap. Berger held up her
hands.
“Stop,” she said. “I don’t deserve any applause today.” She
looked around at her colleagues in the cramped editorial
office. “Listen … I’m terribly sorry that it had to be this way.
I wanted to tell you so many weeks ago, but the news sort
of got drowned out by all the turmoil surrounding Dag and
Mia. Mikael and Malin have been working like demons, and
… it just didn’t ever seem like the right time or place. And
that’s how we’ve arrived at this point today.”
Eriksson realized with terrible clarity how understaffed the
paper was, and how empty it was going to seem without
paper was, and how empty it was going to seem without
Berger. No matter what happened, or whatever problem
arose, Berger had been a boss she could always rely on.
Well … no wonder the biggest morning daily had recruited
her. But what was going to happen now? Erika had always
been a crucial part of Millennium.
“There are a few things we have to get straight. I’m
perfectly aware that this is going to create difficulties in the
office. I didn’t want it to, but that’s the way things are. First
of all: I won’t abandon Millennium. I’m going to stay on as a
partner and will attend board meetings. I won’t, of course,
have any influence in editorial matters.”
Malm nodded thoughtfully.
“Secondly, I officially leave on the last day of April. But
today is my last day of work. Next week I’ll be travelling, as
you know. It’s been planned for a long time. And I’ve
decided not to come back here to put in any days during
the transition period.” She paused for a moment. “The next
issue of the magazine is ready in the computer. There are
a few minor things that need fixing. It will be my final issue.
A new editor-in-chief will have to take over. I’m clearing my
desk tonight.”
There was absolute silence in the room.
“The selection of a new editor-in-chief will have to be
discussed and made by the board. It’s something that you
all on the staff will have to talk through.”
“Mikael,” Malm said.
“No. Never Mikael. He’s surely the worst possible editor-in-chief you could pick. He’s perfect as publisher and damned
good at editing articles and tying up loose ends in work
that is going to be published. He’s the fixer. The editor-in-chief has to be the one who takes the initiative. Mikael also
has a tendency to bury himself in his own stories and be
totally off the radar for weeks at a time. He’s at his best
when things heat up, but he’s incredibly bad at routine
work. You all know that.”
Malm muttered his assent and then said: “Millennium
functioned because you and Mikael were a good balance
for each other.”
“That’s not the only reason. You remember when Mikael
was up in Hedestad sulking for almost a whole bloody year.
Millennium functioned without him precisely the way the
magazine is going to have to function without me now.”
“O.K. What’s your plan?”
“My choice would be for you, Christer, to take over as
editor-inchief.”
“Not on your life.” Malm threw up his hands.
“But since I knew that’s what you would say, I have another
solution. Malin. You can start as acting editor-in-chief as
from today.”
“Me?” Eriksson said. She sounded shocked.
“Yes, you. You’ve been damned good as assistant editor.”
“But I—”
“Give it a try. I’ll be out of my office tonight. You can move
in on Monday morning. The May issue is done – we’ve
already worked hard on it. June is a double issue, and then
you have a month off. If it doesn’t work, the board will have
to find somebody else for August. Henry … you’ll have to
go full-time and take Malin’s place as assistant editor. Then
we’ll need to hire a new employee. But that will be up to all
of you, and to the board.”
She studied the group thoughtfully.
“One more thing. I’ll be starting at another publication. For
all practical purposes, S.M.P. and Millennium are not
competitors, but nevertheless I don’t want to know any
more than I already do about the content of the next two
issues. All such matters should be discussed with Malin,
effective immediately.”
“What should we do about this Salander story?” Cortez
said.
“Discuss it with Mikael. I know something about Salander,
but I’m putting what I know in mothballs. I won’t take it to
S.M.P.”
Berger suddenly felt an enormous wave of relief. “That’s
about it,” she said, and she ended the meeting by getting
up and going back to her office without another word.
Millennium’s staff sat in silence.
It was not until an hour later that Eriksson knocked on
Berger’s door.
“Hello there.”
“Yes?” said Berger.
“The staff would like to have a word.”
“What is it?”
“Out here.”
Berger got up and went to the door. They had set a table
with cake and Friday afternoon coffee.
with cake and Friday afternoon coffee.
“We think we should have a party and give you a real
send-off in due course,” Malm said. “But for now, coffee
and cake will have to do.”
Berger smiled, for the first time in a long time.
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