She walked to Högklintavägen and rang the bell at 6:00 on the dot. Seconds later the lock on the street door clicked and she went up two flights and rang the doorbell next to the name of Svensson. She had no idea who Svensson might be or if any such person even lived in that apartment.
“Hi, Plague,” she said.
“Wasp. You only pop in when you need something.”
As usual, it was dark in the apartment; the light from a single lamp seeped out into the hall from the bedroom he used as an office. The man, who was three years older than Salander, was six foot two and weighed 330 pounds. She herself was four feet eleven and weighed 90 pounds and had always felt like a midget next to Plague. The place smelled stuffy and stale.
“It’s because you never take a bath, Plague. It smells like a monkey house in here. If you ever went out I could give you some tips on soap. They have it at the Konsum.”
He gave her a wan smile, but said nothing. He motioned her to follow him into the kitchen. He plopped down on a chair by the kitchen table without turning on a light. The only illumination came from the street light beyond the window.
“I mean, I may not hold the record in cleaning house either, but if I’ve got old milk cartons that smell like maggots I bundle them up and put them out.”
“I’m on a disability pension,” he said. “I’m socially incompetent.”
“So that’s why the government gave you a place to live and forgot about you. Aren’t you ever afraid that your neighbours are going to complain to the inspectors? Then you might fetch up in the funny farm.”
“Have you something for me?”
Salander unzipped her jacket pocket and handed him five thousand kronor.
“It’s all I can spare. It’s my own money, and I can’t really deduct you as a dependant.”
“What do you want?”
“The electronic cuff you talked about two months ago. Did you get it?”
He smiled and laid a box on the table.
“Show me how it works.”
For the next few minutes she listened intently. Then she tested the cuff. Plague might be a social incompetent, but he was unquestionably a genius.
***
Vanger waited until he once more had Blomkvist’s attention. Blomkvist looked at his watch and said, “One perplexing detail.”
Vanger said: “I was born on November 1. When Harriet was eight she gave me a birthday present, a pressed flower, framed.”
Vanger walked around the desk and pointed to the first flower. Bluebell. It had an amateurish mounting.
“That was the first. I got it in 1958.” He pointed to the next one. “1959.” Buttercup. “1960.” Daisy. “It became a tradition. She would make the frame sometime during the summer and save it until my birthday. I always hung them on the wall in this room. In 1966 she disappeared and the tradition was broken.”
Vanger pointed to a gap in the row of frames. Blomkvist felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. The wall was filled with pressed flowers.
“1967, a year after she disappeared, I received this flower on my birthday. It’s a violet.”
“How did the flower come to you?”
“Wrapped in what they call gift paper and posted in a padded envelope from Stockholm. No return address. No message.”
“You mean that…” Blomkvist made a sweeping gesture.
“Precisely. On my birthday every damn year. Do you know how that feels? It’s directed at me, precisely as if the murderer wants to torture me. I’ve worried myself sick over whether Harriet might have been taken away because someone wanted to get at me. It was no secret that she and I had a special relationship and that I thought of her as my own daughter.”
“So what is it you want me to do?” Blomkvist said.
When Salander returned the Corolla to the garage under Milton Security, she made sure to go to the toilet upstairs in the office. She used her card key in the door and took the lift straight up to the third floor to avoid going in through the main entrance on the second floor, where the duty officer worked. She used the toilet and got a cup of coffee from the espresso machine that Armansky had bought when at long last he recognised that Salander would never make coffee just because it was expected of her. Then she went to her office and hung her leather jacket over the back of her chair.
The office was a 61/2-by-10-foot glass cubicle. There was a desk with an old model Dell desktop PC, a telephone, one office chair, a metal waste paper basket, and a bookshelf. The bookshelf contained an assortment of directories and three blank notebooks. The two desk drawers housed some ballpoints, paper clips, and a notebook. On the window sill stood a potted plant with brown, withered leaves. Salander looked thoughtfully at the plant, as if it were the first time she had seen it, then she deposited it firmly in the waste paper basket.
She seldom had anything to do in her office and visited it no more than half a dozen times a year, mainly when she needed to sit by herself and prepare a report just before handing it in. Armansky had insisted that she have her own space. His reasoning was that she would then feel like part of the company although she worked as a freelancer. She suspected that Armansky hoped that this way he would have a chance to keep an eye on her and meddle in her affairs. At first she had been given space farther down the corridor, in a larger room that she was expected to share with a colleague. But since she was never there Armansky finally moved her into the cubbyhole at the end of the corridor.
Salander took out the cuff. She looked at it, meditatively biting her lower lip.
It was past 11:00 and she was alone on the floor. She suddenly felt excruciatingly bored.
After a while she got up and walked to the end of the hall and tried the door to Armansky’s office. Locked. She looked around. The chances of anyone turning up in the corridor around midnight on December 26 were almost nonexistent. She opened the door with a pirate copy of the company’s card key, which she had taken the trouble to make several years before.
Armansky’s office was spacious: in front of his desk were guest chairs, and a conference table with room for eight people was in the corner. It was impeccably neat. She had not snooped in his office for quite some time, but now that she was here… She spent a while at his desk to bring herself up to date regarding the search for a suspected mole in the company, which of her colleagues had been planted undercover in a firm where a theft ring was operating, and what measures had been taken in all secrecy to protect a client who was afraid her child was in danger of being kidnapped by the father.
At last she put the papers back precisely the way they were, locked Armansky’s door, and walked home. She felt satisfied with her day.
***
“I don’t know whether we’ll find out the truth, but I refuse to go to my grave without giving it one last try,” the old man said. “I simply want to commission you to go through all the evidence one last time.”
“This is crazy,” Blomkvist said.
“Why is it crazy?”
“I’ve heard enough. Henrik, I understand your grief, but I have to be honest with you. What you’re asking me to do is a waste of my time and your money. You are asking me to conjure up a solution to a mystery that the police and experienced investigators with considerably greater resources have failed to solve all these years. You’re asking me to solve a crime getting on for forty years after it was committed. How could I possibly do that?”
“We haven’t discussed your fee,” Vanger said.
“That won’t be necessary.”
“I can’t force you, but listen to what I’m offering. Frode has already drawn up a contract. We can negotiate the details, but the contract is simple, and all it needs is your signature.”
“Henrik, this is absurd. I really don’t believe I can solve the mystery of Harriet’s disappearance.”
“According to the contract, you don’t have to. All it asks is that you do your best. If you fail, then it’s God’s will, or – if you don’t believe in Him – it’s
fate.”
Blomkvist sighed. He was feeling more and more uncomfortable and wanted to end this visit to Hedeby, but he relented.
“All right, let’s hear it.”
“I want you to live and work here in Hedeby for a year. I want you to go through the investigative report on Harriet’s disappearance one page at a time. I want you to examine everything with new eyes. I want you to question all the old conclusions exactly the way an investigative reporter would. I want you to look for something that I and the police and other investigators may have missed.”
“You’re asking me to set aside my life and career to devote myself for a whole year to something that’s a complete waste of time.”
Vanger smiled. “As to your career, we might agree that for the moment it’s somewhat on hold.”
Blomkvist had no answer to that.
“I want to buy a year of your life. Give you a job. The salary is better than any offer you’ll ever get in your life. I will pay you 200,000 kronor a month – that’s 2.4 million kronor if you accept and stay the whole year.”
Blomkvist was astonished.
“I have no illusions. The possibility you will succeed is minimal, but if against all odds you should crack the mystery then I’m offering a bonus of double payment, or 4.8 million kronor. Let’s be generous and round it off to five million.”
Vanger leaned back and cocked his head.
“I can pay the money into any bank account you wish, anywhere in the world. You can also take the money in cash in a suitcase, so it’s up to you whether you want to report the income to the tax authorities.”
“This is… not healthy,” Blomkvist stammered.
“Why so?” Vanger said calmly. “I’m eighty-two and still in full possession of my faculties. I have a large personal fortune; I can spend it any way I want. I have no children and absolutely no desire to leave any money to relatives I despise. I’ve made my last will and testament; I’ll be giving the bulk of my fortune to the World Wildlife Fund. A few people who are close to me will receive significant amounts – including Anna.”
Blomkvist shook his head.
“Try to understand me,” Vanger said. “I’m a man who’s going to die soon. There’s one thing in the world I want to have – and that’s an answer to this question that has plagued me for half my life. I don’t expect to find the answer, but I do have resources to make one last attempt. Is that unreasonable? I owe it to Harriet. And I owe it to myself.”
“You’ll be paying me several million kronor for nothing. All I need to do is sign the contract and then twiddle my thumbs for a year.”
“You wouldn’t do that. On the contrary – you’ll work harder than you’ve ever worked in your life.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because I can offer you something that you can’t buy for any price, but which you want more than anything in the world.”
“And what would that be?”
Vanger’s eyes narrowed.
“I can give you Hans-Erik Wennerström. I can prove that he’s a swindler. He happened, thirty-five years ago, to begin his career with me, and I can give you his head on a platter. Solve the mystery and you can turn your defeat in court into the story of the year.”
CHAPTER 7
Friday, January 3
Erika set her coffee cup on the table and stood by the window looking out at the view of Gamla Stan. It was 9:00 in the morning. All the snow had been washed away by the rain over New Year’s.
“I’ve always loved this view,” she said. “An apartment like this would make me give up living in Saltsjöbaden.”
“You’ve got the keys. You can move over from your upper-class reserve any time you want,” Blomkvist said. He closed the suitcase and put it by the front door.
Berger turned and gave him a disbelieving look. “You can’t be serious, Mikael,” she said. “We’re in our worst crisis and you’re packing to go and live in Tjottahejti.”
“Hedestad. A couple of hours by train. And it’s not for ever.”
“It might as well be Ulan Bator. Don’t you see that it will look as if you’re slinking off with your tail between your legs?”
“That’s precisely what I am doing. Besides, I have to do some gaol time too.”
Christer Malm was sitting on the sofa. He was uncomfortable. It was the first time since they founded Millennium that he had seen Berger and Blomkvist in such disagreement. Over all the years they had been inseparable. Sometimes they had furious clashes, but their arguments were always about business matters, and they would invariably resolve all those issues before they hugged each other and went back to their corners. Or to bed. Last autumn had not been fun, and now it was as if a great gulf had opened up between them. Malm wondered if he was watching the beginning of the end of Millennium.
“I don’t have a choice,” Blomkvist said. “We don’t have a choice.”
He poured himself a coffee and sat at the kitchen table. Berger shook her head and sat down facing him.
“What do you think, Christer?” she said.
He had been expecting the question and dreading the moment when he would have to take a stand. He was the third partner, but they all knew that it was Blomkvist and Berger who were Millennium. The only time they asked his advice was when they could not agree.
“Honestly,” Malm said, “you both know perfectly well it doesn’t matter what I think.”
He shut up. He loved making pictures. He loved working with graphics. He had never considered himself an artist, but he knew he was a damned good designer. On the other hand, he was helpless at intrigue and policy decisions.
Berger and Blomkvist looked at each other across the table. She was cool and furious. He was thinking hard.
This isn’t an argument, Malm thought. It’s a divorce.
“OK, let me present my case one last time,” Blomkvist said. “This does not mean I’ve given up on Millennium. We’ve spent too much time working our hearts out for that.”
“But now you won’t be at the office – Christer and I will have to carry the load. Can’t you see that? You’re the one marching into self-imposed exile.”
“That’s the second thing. I need a break, Erika. I’m not functioning anymore. I’m burned out. A paid sabbatical in Hedestad might be exactly what I need.”
“The whole thing is idiotic, Mikael. You might as well take a job in a circus.”
“I know. But I’m going to get 2.4 million for sitting on my backside for a year, and I won’t be wasting my time. That’s the third thing. Round One with Wennerström is over, and he knocked me out. Round Two has already started – he’s going to try to sink Millennium for good because he knows that the staff here will always know what he’s been up to, for as long as the magazine exists.”
“I know what he’s doing. I’ve seen it in the monthly ad sales figures for the last six months.”
“That’s exactly why I have to get out of the office. I’m like a red rag waving at him. He’s paranoid as far as I’m concerned. As long as I’m here, he’ll just keep on coming. Now we have to prepare ourselves for Round Three. If we’re going to have the slightest chance against Wennerström, we have to retreat and work out a whole new strategy. We have to find something to hammer him with. That’ll be my job this year.”
“I understand all that,” Berger said. “So go ahead and take a holiday. Go abroad, lie on a beach for a month. Check out the love life on the Costa Brava. Relax. Go out to Sandhamn and look at the waves.”
“And when I come back nothing will be different. Wennerström is going to crush Millennium unless he is appeased by my having stood down. You know that. The only thing which might otherwise stop him is if we get something on him that we can use.”
“And you think that’s what you will find in Hedestad?”
“I checked the cuttings. Wennerström did work at the Vanger company from 1969 to 1972. He was in management and was responsible for strategic placements. He left in a hurry. Why s
hould we rule out the possibility that Henrik Vanger does have something on him?”
“But if what he did happened thirty years ago, it’s going to be hard to prove it today.”
“Vanger promised to set out in detail what he knows. He’s obsessed with this missing girl – it seems to be the only thing he’s interested in, and if this means he has to burn Wennerström then I think there’s a good chance he’ll do it. We certainly can’t ignore the opportunity – he’s the first person who’s said he’s willing to go on record with evidence against Wennerström.”
“We couldn’t use it even if you came back with incontrovertible proof that it was Wennerström who strangled the girl. Not after so many years. He’d massacre us in court.”
“The thought had crossed my mind, but it’s no good: he was plugging away at the Stockholm School of Economics and had no connection with the Vanger companies at the time she disappeared.” Blomkvist paused. “Erika, I’m not going to leave Millennium, but it’s important for it to look as if I have. You and Christer have to go on running the magazine. If you can… if you have a chance to… arrange a cease-fire with Wennerström, then do it. You can’t do that if I’m still on the editorial board.”
“OK, but it’s a rotten situation, and I think you’re grasping at straws going to Hedestad.”
“Have you a better idea?”
Berger shrugged. “We ought to start chasing down sources right now. Build up the story from the beginning. And do it right this time.”
“Ricky – that story is dead as a doornail.”
Dejected, Berger rested her head on her hands. When she spoke, at first she did not want to meet Blomkvist’s eyes.
“I’m so fucking angry with you. Not because the story you wrote was baseless – I was in on it as much as you were. And not because you’re leaving your job as publisher – that’s a smart decision in this situation. I can go along with making it look like a schism or a power struggle between you and me – I understand the logic when it’s a matter of making Wennerström believe I’m a harmless bimbo and you’re the real threat.” She paused and now looked him resolutely in the eye. “But I think you’re making a mistake. Wennerström isn’t going to fall for it. He’s going to keep on destroying Millennium. The only difference is that starting from today, I have to fight him alone, and you know that you’re needed more than ever on the editorial board. OK, I’d love to wage war against Wennerström, but what makes me so cross is that you’re abandoning ship all of a sudden. You’re leaving me in the lurch when things are absolutely at their worst ever.”
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