“OK, but Harriet wasn’t like you. Gottfried died before she managed to do anything. That also makes sense. When Gottfried died, Isabella sent Martin to Uppsala. He might have come home for Christmas or other holidays, but during that following year he didn’t see Harriet very often. She was able to get some distance from him.”
“And she started studying the Bible.”
“And in light of what we now know, it didn’t have to be for any religious reasons. Maybe she simply wanted to know what her father had been up to. She brooded over it until the Children’s Day celebration in 1966. Then suddenly she sees her brother on Järnvägsgatan and realises that he’s back. We don’t know if they talked to each other or if he said anything. But no matter what happened, Harriet had an urge to go straight home and talk to Henrik.”
“And then she disappeared.”
After they had gone over the chain of events, it was not hard to understand what the rest of the puzzle must have looked like. Blomkvist and Salander packed their bags. Before they left, Blomkvist called Frode and told him that he and Salander had to go away for a while, but that he absolutely wanted to see Henrik Vanger before they left.
Blomkvist needed to know what Frode had told Henrik. The man sounded so stressed on the telephone that Blomkvist felt concerned for him. Frode said that he had only told him that Martin had died in a car accident.
It was thundering again when Blomkvist parked outside Hedestad Hospital, and the sky was filled once more with heavy rain clouds. He hurried across the car park just as it started to rain.
Vanger was wearing a bathrobe, sitting at a table by the window of his room. His illness had left its mark, but Vanger had regained some colour in his face and looked as if he were on the path to recovery. They shook hands. Blomkvist asked the nurse to leave them alone for a few minutes.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” Vanger said.
Mikael nodded. “On purpose. Your family didn’t want me to come at all, but today everyone is over at Isabella’s house.”
“Poor Martin,” Vanger said.
“Henrik. You gave me an assignment to dig up the truth about what happened to Harriet. Did you expect the truth to be painless?”
The old man looked at him. Then his eyes widened.
“Martin?”
“He’s part of the story.”
Henrik closed his eyes.
“Now I have got a question for you,” Blomkvist said.
“Tell me.”
“Do you still want to know what happened? Even if it turns out to be painful and even if the truth is worse than you imagined?”
Henrik gave Blomkvist a long look. Then he said, “I want to know. That was the point of your assignment.”
“OK. I think I know what happened to Harriet. But there’s one last piece of the puzzle missing before I’m sure.”
“Tell me.”
“No. Not today. What I want you to do right now is to rest. The doctors say that the crisis is over and that you’re getting better.”
“Don’t you treat me like a child, young man.”
“I haven’t worked it all out yet. What I have is a theory. I am going out to find the last piece of the puzzle. The next time you see me, I’ll tell you the whole story. It may take a while, but I want you to know that I’m coming back and that you’ll know the truth.”
Salander pulled a tarpaulin over her motorcycle and left it on the shady side of the cabin. Then she got into Blomkvist’s borrowed car. The thunderstorm had returned with renewed force, and just south of Gävle there was such a fierce downpour that Blomkvist could hardly see the road. Just to be safe, he pulled into a petrol station. They waited for the rain to let up, so they did not arrive in Stockholm until 7:00 that evening. Blomkvist gave Salander the security code to his building and dropped her off at the central tunnelbana. His apartment seemed unfamiliar.
He vacuumed and dusted while Salander went to see Plague in Sundbyberg. She arrived at Blomkvist’s apartment at around midnight and spent ten minutes examining every nook and cranny of it. Then she stood at the window for a long time, looking at the view facing the Slussen locks.
They got undressed and slept.
At noon the next day they landed at London’s Gatwick Airport. They were met with rain. Blomkvist had booked a room at the Hotel James near Hyde Park, an excellent hotel compared to all the one-star places in Bayswater where he had always ended up on his previous trips to London.
At 5:00 p.m. they were standing at the bar when a youngish man came towards them. He was almost bald, with a blond beard, and he was wearing jeans and a jacket that was too big for him.
“Wasp?”
“Trinity?” she said. They nodded to each other. He did not ask for Blomkvist’s name.
Trinity’s partner was introduced as Bob the Dog. He was in an old VW van around the corner. They climbed in through the sliding doors and sat down on folding chairs fastened to the sides. While Bob navigated through the London traffic, Wasp and Trinity talked.
“Plague said this had to do with some crash-bang job.”
“Telephone tapping and checking emails in a computer. It might go fast, or it could take a couple of days, depending on how much pressure he applies.” Lisbeth gestured towards Blomkvist with her thumb. “Can you do it?”
“Do dogs have fleas?” Trinity said.
Anita Vanger lived in a terrace house in the attractive suburb of St. Albans, about an hour’s drive north. From the van they saw her arrive home and unlock the door some time after 7:30 that evening. They waited until she had settled, had her supper, and was sitting in front of the TV before Blomkvist rang the doorbell.
An almost identical copy of Cecilia Vanger opened the door, her expression politely questioning.
“Hi, Anita. My name is Mikael Blomkvist. Henrik Vanger asked me to come and see you. I assume that you’ve heard the news about Martin.”
Her expression changed from surprise to wariness. She knew exactly who Mikael Blomkvist was. But Henrik’s name meant that she was forced to open the door. She showed Blomkvist into her living room. He noticed a signed lithograph by Anders Zorn over the fireplace. It was altogether a charming room.
“Forgive me for bothering you out of the blue, but I happened to be in St. Albans, and I tried to call you during the day.”
“I understand. Please tell me what this is about?”
“Are you planning to be at the funeral?”
“No, as a matter of fact, I’m not. Martin and I weren’t close, and anyway, I can’t get away at the moment.”
Anita Vanger had stayed away from Hedestad for thirty years. After her father moved back to Hedeby Island, she had hardly set foot there.
“I want to know what happened to Harriet Vanger, Anita. It’s time for the truth.”
“Harriet? I don’t know what you mean.”
Blomkvist smiled at her feigned surprise.
“You were Harriet’s closest friend in the family. You were the one she turned to with her horrible story.”
“I can’t think what you’re talking about,” Anita said.
“Anita, you were in Harriet’s room that day. I have photographic proof of it, in spite of what you said to Inspector Morell. In a few days I’m going to report to Henrik, and he’ll take it from there. It would be better to tell me what happened.”
Anita Vanger stood up.
“Get out of my house this minute.”
Blomkvist got up.
“Sooner or later you’re going to have to talk to me.”
“I have nothing now, nor ever will have, anything to say to you.”
“Martin is dead,” Blomkvist said. “You never liked Martin. I think that you moved to London not only to avoid seeing your father but also so that you wouldn’t have to see Martin. That means that you also knew about Martin, and the only one who could have told you was Harriet. The question is: what did you do with that knowledge?”
Anita Vanger slammed her front door in his face.
“She picked up the telephone about twenty seconds after she nearly took the door off its hinges,” she said.
“The country code is Australia,” Trinity said, putting down the earphones on the little desk in the van. “I need to check the area code.” He switched on his laptop. “OK, she called the following number, which is a telephone in a town called Tennant Creek, north of Alice Springs in the Northern Territory. Do you want to hear the conversation?”
Blomkvist nodded. “What time is it in Australia right now?”
“About 5:00 in the morning.” Trinity started the digital player and attached a speaker. Mikael counted eight rings before someone picked up the telephone. The conversation took place in English.
“Hi. It’s me.”
“Hmm, I know I’m a morning person but…”
“I thought of calling you yesterday… Martin is dead. He seems to have driven his car into a truck the day before yesterday.”
Silence. Then what sounded like someone clearing their throat, but it might have been: “Good.”
“But we have got a problem. A disgusting journalist that Henrik dug up from somewhere has just knocked on my door, here in St. Albans. He’s asking questions about what happened in 1966. He knows something.”
Again silence. Then a commanding voice.
“Anita. Put down the telephone right now. We can’t have any contact for a while.”
“But…”
“Write a letter. Tell me what’s going on.” Then the conversation was over.
“Sharp chick,” Salander said.
They returned to their hotel just before 11:00. The front desk manager helped them to reserve seats on the next available flight to Australia. Soon they had reservations on a plane leaving at 7:05 the following evening, destination Melbourne, changing in Singapore.
This was Salander’s first visit to London. They spent the morning walking from Covent Garden through Soho. They stopped to have a caffe latte on Old Compton Street. Around 3:00 they were back at the hotel to collect their luggage. While Blomkvist paid the bill, Salander turned on her mobile. She had a text message.
“Armansky says to call at once.”
She used a telephone in the lobby. Blomkvist, who was standing a short distance away, noticed Salander turn to him with a frozen expression on her face. He was at her side at once.
“What is it?”
“My mother died. I have to go home.”
Salander looked so unhappy that he put his arms around her. She pushed him away.
They sat in the hotel bar. When Blomkvist said that he would cancel the reservations to Australia and go back to Stockholm with her, she shook her head.
“No,” she said. “We can’t screw up the job now. You’ll have to go by yourself.”
They parted outside the hotel, each of them making for a different airport.
CHAPTER 26
Tuesday, July 15 – Thursday, July 17
Blomkvist flew from Melbourne to Alice Springs. After that he had to choose either to charter a plane or to rent a car for the remaining 250-mile trip north. He chose to go by car.
An unknown person with the biblical signature of Joshua, who was part of Plague’s or possibly Trinity’s mysterious international network, had left an envelope for him at the central information desk at Melbourne airport.
The number that Anita had called belonged to a place called Cochran Farm. It was a sheep station. An article pulled off the Internet gave a snapshot guide.
Australia: population of 18 million; sheep farmers, 53,000; approx. 120 million head of sheep. The export of wool approx. 3.5 billion dollars annually. Australia exports 700 million tons of mutton and lamb, plus skins for clothing. Combined meat and wool production one of the country’s most important industries…
Cochran Farm, founded 1891 by Jeremy Cochran, Australia’s fifth largest agricultural enterprise, approx 60,000 Merino sheep (wool considered especially fine). The station also raised cattle, pigs, and chickens. Cochran Farm had impressive annual exports to the U.S.A., Japan, China, and Europe.
The personal biographies were fascinating.
In 1972 Cochran Farm passed down from Raymond Cochran to Spencer Cochran, educ. Oxford. Spencer d. in 1994, and farm run by widow. Blomkvist found her in a blurry, low-resolution photograph downloaded from the Cochran Farm website. It showed a woman with short blonde hair, her face partially hidden, shearing a sheep.
According to Joshua’s note, the couple had married in Italy in 1971.
Her name was Anita Cochran.
Blomkvist stopped overnight in a dried-up hole of a town with the hopeful name of Wannado. At the local pub he ate roast mutton and downed three pints along with some locals who all called him “mate.”
Last thing before he went to bed he called Berger in New York.
“I’m sorry, Ricky, but I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had time to call.”
“What the hell is going on?” she exploded. “Christer called and told me that Martin Vanger had been killed in a car accident.”
“It’s a long story.”
“And why don’t you answer your telephone? I’ve been calling like crazy for two days.”
“It doesn’t work here.”
“Where is here?”
“Right now I’m about one hundred twenty-five miles north of Alice Springs. In Australia, that is.”
Mikael had rarely managed to surprise Berger. This time she was silent for nearly ten seconds.
“And what are you doing in Australia? If I might ask.”
“I’m finishing up the job. I’ll be back in a few days. I just called to tell you that my work for Henrik Vanger is almost done.”
He arrived at Cochran Farm around noon the following day, to be told that Anita Cochran was at a sheep station near a place called Makawaka seventy-five miles farther west.
It was 4:00 in the afternoon by the time Mikael found his way there on dusty back roads. He stopped at a gate where some sheep ranchers were gathered around the hood of a Jeep having coffee. Blomkvist got out and explained that he was looking for Anita Cochran. They all turned towards a muscular young man, clearly the decision-maker of the group. He was bare chested and very brown except for the parts normally covered by his T-shirt. He was wearing a wide-brimmed hat.
“The boss is about eighteen miles off in that direction,” he said, pointing with his thumb.
He cast a sceptical glance at Blomkvist’s vehicle and said that it might not be such a good idea to go on in that Japanese toy car. Finally the tanned athlete said that he was heading that way and would drive Blomkvist in his Jeep. Blomkvist thanked him and took along his computer case.
The man introduced himself as Jeff and said that he was the “studs manager” at the station. Blomkvist asked him to explain what that meant. Jeff gave him a sidelong look and concluded that Blomkvist was not from these parts. He explained that a studs manager was rather the equivalent of a financial manager in a bank, although he administered sheep, and that a “station” was the Australian word for ranch.
They continued to converse as Jeff cheerfully steered the Jeep at about ten kilometres an hour down into a ravine with a 20° slope. Blomkvist thanked his lucky stars that he had not attempted the drive in his rental car. He asked what was down in the ravine and was told that it was the pasture land for 700 head of sheep.
“As I understand it, Cochran Farm is one of the bigger ranches.”
“We’re one of the largest in all of Australia,” Jeff said with a certain pride in his voice. “We run about 9,000 sheep here in the Makawaka district, but we have stations in both New South Wales and Western Australia. We have 60,000 plus head.”
They came out from the ravine into a hilly but gentler landscape. Blomkvist suddenly heard shots. He saw sheep cadavers, big bonfires, and a dozen ranch hands. Several men seemed to be carrying rifles. They were apparently slaughteri
ng sheep.
Involuntarily, he thought of the biblical sacrificial lambs.
Then he saw a woman with short blonde hair wearing jeans and a red-and-white checked shirt. Jeff stopped a few yards away from her.
“Hi, Boss. We’ve got a tourist,” he said.
Blomkvist got out of the Jeep and looked at her. She looked back with an inquisitive expression.
“Hi, Harriet. It’s been a long time,” he said in Swedish.
None of the men who worked for Anita Cochran understood what he said, but they all saw her reaction. She took a step back, looking shocked. The men saw her response, stopped their joking, and straightened up, ready to intervene against this odd stranger. Jeff’s friendliness suddenly evaporated and he advanced toward Blomkvist.
Blomkvist was keenly aware how vulnerable he was. A word from Anita Cochran and he would be done for.
Then the moment passed. Harriet Vanger waved her hand in a peaceful gesture and the men moved back. She came over to Blomkvist and met his gaze. Her face was sweaty and dirty. Her blonde hair had darker roots. Her face was older and thinner, but she had grown into the beautiful woman that her confirmation portrait had promised.
“Have we met before?” she said.
“Yes, we have. I am Mikael Blomkvist. You were my babysitter one summer when I was three years old. You were twelve or thirteen at the time.”
It took a few seconds for her puzzled expression to clear, and then he saw that she remembered. She looked surprised.
“What do you want?”
“Harriet, I’m not your enemy. I’m not here to make trouble for you. But I need to talk with you.”
She turned to Jeff and told him to takeover, then signalled to Blomkvist to follow her. They walked a few hundred feet over to a group of white canvas tents in a grove of trees. She motioned him to a camp stool at a rickety table and poured water into a basin. She rinsed her face, dried it, and went inside the tent to change her shirt. She got two beers out of a cooler.
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