Stieg Larsson [Millennium 02] The Girl Who Played with Fire v5.0 (LIT)

by Неизвестный

  “You misunderstood all those sex toys. We may use handcuffs sometimes for role-playing, but it has nothing to do with sadism or violence. It’s a game.”

  “Has she ever been violent towards you?”

  “No. I’m usually the dominant one in our games.”

  Miriam Wu smiled sweetly.

  The afternoon meeting at 3:00 resulted in the first serious disagreement of the investigation. Bublanski gave an update and then explained that he felt they should be widening their scope.

  “From day one we’ve been focusing all our energies on finding Lisbeth Salander. She is definitely a top suspect—this is based on evidence—but our picture of her is meeting resistance from everyone who knows her. Armansky, Blomkvist, and Miriam Wu don’t hold with the picture of her as a psychotic killer. Therefore I want us to expand our thinking a bit, to consider alternative killers and the possibility that Salander herself may have had an accomplice or merely have been present when the shots were fired.”

  Bublanski’s comments triggered a vigorous debate, in which he encountered strong opposition from Faste as well as Bohman from Milton Security. Bohman reminded the team that the simplest explanation was most often the right one.

  “It’s possible, of course, that Salander didn’t act alone, but we have no forensic trace of any accomplice.”

  “We could always follow up on Blomkvist’s leads within the police,” Faste said acidly.

  In the discussion, Bublanski was backed up only by Modig. Andersson and Holmberg were content with making isolated comments. Hedström from Milton was as quiet as a mouse during the whole discussion. Finally Prosecutor Ekström raised a hand.

  “Bublanski—as I understand it, you don’t want to eliminate Salander from the investigation.”

  “No, of course not. We have her fingerprints. But so far we have no motive. I want us to start thinking along different lines. Could several people have been involved? Could it still be related to that book about the sex trade that Svensson was writing? Blomkvist is certainly right that several people named in the book have a motive for murder.”

  “How do you want to proceed?” Ekström said.

  “I want two people to start looking at alternative killers. Sonja and Niklas can work together.”

  “Me?” said Hedström in astonishment.

  Bublanski had chosen him because he was the youngest person in the room and the one who was most likely to think outside the box.

  “You’ll work with Modig. Go through everything we know so far and try to find anything we might have missed. Faste, you, Andersson, and Bohman keep on the hunt for Salander. That’s our number one priority.”

  “What should I do?” asked Holmberg.

  “Focus on Advokat Bjurman. Do a fresh examination of his apartment in case we missed anything. Questions?”

  Nobody had any.

  “OK. We’ll keep it quiet that Miriam Wu has turned up. She might have more to tell us, and I don’t want the media jumping all over her.”

  Ekström agreed that they should proceed according to Bublanski’s plan.

  “Right,” Hedström said, looking at Modig. “You’re the detective, you tell me what we’re going to do.”

  They were in the corridor outside the conference room.

  “I think we should have another talk with Mikael Blomkvist,” she said. “But first I have to discuss one or two things with Bublanski. I have tomorrow and Sunday off. That means we won’t get started until Monday morning. Spend the weekend going through the case material.”

  They said goodbye to each other. Modig walked into Bublanski’s office as Ekström was leaving.

  “Do you have a minute?” she said.

  “Sit down.”

  “I got so angry with Faste that I lost my temper.”

  “He mentioned that you really laid into him.”

  “He said that I obviously wanted to be alone with Wu because I was turned on by her.”

  “That qualifies as sexual harassment. Would you like to file a complaint?”

  “I slapped his face. That was enough.”

  “You were extremely provoked.”

  “I was.”

  “Faste has problems with strong women.”

  “I’ve noticed that.”

  “You’re a strong woman and a very good cop.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t beat up the staff.”

  “It won’t happen again. I didn’t even get a chance to go through Svensson’s desk at Millennium today.”

  “Go home and take it easy over the weekend. We’ll get started with the new approach on Monday.”

  Hedström stopped off at Central Station and had a coffee at George Café. He felt depressed. All week he had been waiting for the news that Salander had been caught. If she had resisted arrest, with a little luck some right-minded cop might have shot her.

  And that was an appealing fantasy.

  But Salander was still at liberty. Not only that, but Bublanski was floating the idea that she might not be the murderer. Not a positive development.

  Being subordinate to Bohman was bad enough—the man was one of the most boring and least imaginative people at Milton—but now he had been put under Inspector Modig, and she was the most sceptical of the Salander lead. She was probably the one who had put doubts in Bublanski’s mind. He wondered whether the famous Officer Bubble had something going on with that bitch. It wouldn’t surprise him. He seemed thoroughly pussy-whipped by her. Of all the officers in the investigation, only Faste had enough balls to say what he thought.

  Hedström was thinking hard. That morning he and Bohman had had a brief meeting at Milton with Armansky and Fräklund. A week of investigating had turned up nothing, and Armansky was frustrated that nobody had found any explanation for the murders. Fräklund had suggested that Milton Security should rethink its involvement—there were other more pressing tasks for Bohman and Hedström than to work as unpaid labour for the police.

  Armansky decided that Bohman and Hedström should stay on for one more week. If by then there was no result, the assignment would be called off.

  In other words, Hedström had only a week before the door to his involvement in the investigation would slam shut. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do.

  After a while he took out his mobile and called Tony Scala, a freelance journalist who made a living writing drivel for men’s magazines. Hedström had met him a few times. He told Scala that he had one or two bits of information about the investigation into the murders in Enskede. He explained how he had ended up right in the middle of the hottest police investigation in years. Scala took the bait at once: it might turn into a scoop for a major magazine. They agreed to meet for a coffee an hour later at the Aveny on Kungsgatan.

  Scala was fat. Seriously fat.

  “If you want information from me there are two preconditions,” Hedström said.

  “Shoot.”

  “First, no mention of Milton Security in the article. Our role is as consultants only.”

  “Although it is newsworthy given that Salander worked at Milton.”

  “Cleaning and stuff like that,” Hedström said, brushing him off. “That’s no news.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Second, you have to slant the article so it sounds as though a woman leaked the information.”

  “How come?”

  “To divert suspicion from me.”

  “All right. So what have you got?”

  “Salander’s lesbian girlfriend just showed up.”

  “OK, excellent! The chick she signed over the Lundagatan apartment to? The one who disappeared?”

  “Miriam Wu. Is that worth anything to you?”

  “You’d better believe it. Where was she?”

  “Out of the country. She claims she hadn’t even heard about the murders.”

  “Is she a suspect at all?”

  “No. Not yet anyway. She was interviewed today and releas
ed three hours ago.”

  “I see. Do you believe her story?”

  “I think she’s lying through her teeth. She knows something.”

  “Great stuff, Niklas.”

  “But check her out. We’re talking about a girl who goes in for S&M with Salander.”

  “You know this for a fact?”

  “She admitted to it during the interview. We found handcuffs, leather outfits, whips, and the whole shebang when we searched the place.”

  The stuff about the whips was an exaggeration. All right, it was a total lie, but surely that Chinese cunt played with whips too.

  “Are you kidding?” Scala said.

  Paolo Roberto was one of the last to leave the library. He had spent the afternoon reading every line that had been written about the hunt for Salander.

  He came out on Sveavägen feeling depressed and confused. And hungry. He went into McDonald’s, ordered a burger, and sat down at a corner table.

  Lisbeth Salander a triple murderer. He could hardly believe it. Not that skinny little fucking freaky chick. But should he do something about it? And if so, what?

  Miriam Wu took a cab back to Lundagatan and slowly took in the devastation of her newly decorated apartment. Cupboards, wardrobes, storage boxes, and desk drawers had been emptied out. There was fingerprint powder on every surface. Her highly private sex toys were heaped on the bed. But as far as she could tell, nothing had been taken.

  She put on the coffeemaker and shook her head. Lisbeth, Lisbeth, what the fuck have you got yourself mixed up in?

  She took out her mobile and called Salander’s number, but got the message that the subscriber could not be reached. She sat for a long time at her kitchen table and tried to work out what was real and what wasn’t. The Salander she knew was no psychotic killer, but on the other hand she didn’t know her very well. Salander was hot in bed, sure, but she could be a very cold fish if her mood changed.

  She promised herself not to make up her mind before she saw Salander and got her own explanation. She felt like crying and spent two hours cleaning up.

  By 7:00 p.m. the apartment was more or less habitable again. She took a shower and was in the kitchen dressed in a black-and-gold Oriental silk robe when the doorbell rang. At the door was an unshaven, exceptionally fat man.

  “Hi, Miriam, my name is Tony Scala. I’m a journalist. Can I ask you a few questions?”

  Standing next to him was a photographer who took a flash picture right in her face.

  Miriam Wu contemplated a dropkick and an elbow to his nose, but she had the presence of mind to realize that it would only give them more photo ops.

  “Have you been out of the country with Lisbeth Salander? Do you know where she is?”

  Miriam Wu shut the door in their faces and locked it with the newly installed dead bolt. Scala pushed open the mail slot.

  “Miriam, sooner or later you’ll have to talk to the press. I can help you.”

  She balled up her fist and smashed it down on Scala’s fingers. She heard a wail of pain. Then she closed the inner door and lay on the bed, closing her eyes. Lisbeth, I’m going to wring your neck when I find you.

  After his trip to Smådalarö, Blomkvist spent the afternoon visiting another of the men that Svensson had planned to name. So far that week he had crossed off six of the thirty-seven names. The latest one was a retired judge living in Tumba; he had presided over several cases involving prostitution.

  Refreshingly, the wretched man did not attempt denials, threats, or pleas for mercy. On the contrary, he cheerfully conceded that he had screwed whores from the East. No, he did not feel a grain of remorse. Prostitution was an honourable profession and he considered he was doing the girls a favour by being their customer.

  Blomkvist was driving through Liljeholmen around 10:00 p.m. when Eriksson called him.

  “Hi,” she said. “Did you read the online edition of the Morgon-Posten?”

  “No, what’ve they got?”

  “Salander’s girlfriend came home today.”

  “What? Who?”

  “That dyke Miriam Wu who lives in her apartment on Lundagatan.”

  Wu, Blomkvist thought. SALANDER-WU on the nameplate.

  “Thanks. I’m on my way.”

  Wu had unplugged the phone in her apartment and turned off her mobile. By 7:30 that evening news of her homecoming had appeared on the website of one of the morning papers. Soon after that Aftonbladet called, and three minutes later Expressen. Aktuellt ran the story without naming her, but by 9:00 no fewer than sixteen reporters from various media had tried to get a comment out of her.

  Twice the doorbell had rung. She had not opened the door, and she turned off all the lights in the apartment. She felt like breaking the nose of the next reporter who hassled her. In the end she turned on her mobile and called a girlfriend who lived within walking distance down by Hornstull and asked if she could spend the night there.

  She slipped out the entrance door on Lundagatan less than five minutes before Blomkvist rang her doorbell.

  • • •

  Bublanski called Modig just after 10:00 on Saturday morning. She had slept until 9:00 and then played with the children before her husband took them out for a Saturday treat.

  “Have you read the papers today?”

  “No, not yet. I’ve only been up an hour, and busy with the kids. Did something happen?”

  “Somebody on our team is leaking stuff to the press.”

  “We’ve known that all along. Someone leaked Salander’s psychiatric report several days ago.”

  “That was Ekström.”

  “It was?” Modig said.

  “Of course, though he’ll never admit it. He’s trying to generate interest because it’s to his advantage. But not this. A freelancer called Tony Scala talked to someone who told him all kinds of stuff about Miriam Wu. Among other things, details from what was said in the interview yesterday. That was something we wanted to keep quiet, and Ekström has gone through the roof.”

  “Damn it.”

  “The reporter didn’t name anyone. The source was described as a person with a ‘central position in the investigation.’”

  “Shit,” Modig said.

  “The article describes the source as a ‘she.’”

  Modig said nothing for ten seconds. She was the only woman on the investigative team.

  “Bublanski… I haven’t said one word to a single journalist. I haven’t discussed the investigation with anyone outside our corridor. Not even with my husband.”

  “I don’t for a second believe that you would leak information. But unfortunately Prosecutor Ekström does. And Faste, who’s on weekend duty, is brimming with insinuations.”

  Modig felt quite weary. “So what happens now?”

  “Ekström is insisting that you be taken off the investigation while the charge is checked out.”

  “What charge? This is absurd. How am I supposed to prove—”

  “You don’t have to prove a thing. The person making the accusation has to come up with the proof.”

  “I know, but… damn it all. How long is this going to take?”

  “It’s already over.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve just asked you. You said that you hadn’t leaked any information. So the investigation is done and I write a report. I’ll see you at 9:00 on Monday in Ekström’s office, and I’ll handle the questions.”

  “Thank you, Bublanski.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “There is one problem.”

  “I know.”

  “Since I didn’t leak anything, somebody else on the team must have.”

  “Any suggestions?”

  “My first guess would be Faste, but I don’t really think he could be the one.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you. He can be a total prick, but he was genuinely outraged at the leak.”

  Bublanski liked his walks, depending on the weather and how much time he had. It was exercise he
enjoyed. He lived on Katarina Bangata in Södermalm, not so far from Millennium’s offices, or from Milton Security for that matter, where Salander had worked, and Lundagatan, where she had lived. It was also within walking distance of the synagogue on St. Paulsgatan. On Saturday afternoon he walked to all of these places.

  His wife Agnes accompanied him for the first part of the walk. They had been married for twenty-three years, and in all that time he had never strayed.

  They stopped at the synagogue for a while and talked to the rabbi. Bublanski was a Polish Jew, while Agnes’ family—the few who had survived Auschwitz—were originally from Hungary.

  After visiting the synagogue they parted—Agnes to go shopping, Bublanski to keep walking. He needed to be alone, to think about the investigation. He went back over the measures he had taken since the job had landed on his desk on the morning of Maundy Thursday, and he could identify only a couple of mistakes.

  One was that he hadn’t immediately sent someone to go through Svensson’s desk at Millennium. When eventually he remembered to do it—and he had done it himself—Blomkvist had already cleaned out God knows what.

  Another mistake was missing the fact that Salander had bought a car. But Holmberg had reported that the car contained nothing of interest.

  Apart from these two errors, the investigation had been as thorough as could have been expected.

  He stopped at a kiosk near Zinkensdamm and stared at a newspaper headline. The passport photograph of Salander had been cropped to a small but easily recognizable size and the focus had shifted to a more sensational line of news:

  POLICE TRACKING

  LESBIAN SATANIST CULT

  He bought a copy and found the spread, which was dominated by a photograph of five girls in their late teens dressed in black leather jackets with rivets, torn black jeans, and tight T-shirts. One of the girls was holding up a flag with a pentagram and another was making a sign with her index and little fingers. The caption read: Lisbeth Salander hung out with a death-metal band that played in small clubs. In 1996 the group paid homage to the Church of Satan and had a hit with “Etiquette of Evil.”

  The name Evil Fingers was not mentioned, and the newspaper had blacked out their eyes, but friends of the rock group would certainly recognize the girls.