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

by Неизвестный

  “We’ll have to ask her when we find her. She has been documented as violent, after all.”

  “Even Curt would have thought twice about taking those guys on. And Curt isn’t exactly a pansy.”

  “The question is whether she had some reason to attack Lundin and Nieminen.”

  “One little girl with two psychopaths in a deserted summer cabin? I can think of a reason or two,” Bublanski said.

  “Could she have had help from someone? Could there have been other people involved?”

  “There’s nothing in the report to indicate that. Salander was inside the cabin. There was a coffee cup on the table. And besides, we have a statement from Anna Viktoria Hansson, who keeps an eye on everyone’s movements. She swears that the only people who passed her were Salander and our two heroes from Svavelsjö.”

  “How did Salander get into the cabin?”

  “With a key. I’m guessing she took it from Bjurman’s apartment. You remember—”

  “The cut police tape. She’s been busy.”

  Modig drummed her fingertips on the table and then took a new approach.

  “Has it been confirmed that it was Lundin who had a part in the kidnapping of Miriam Wu?”

  “Paolo Roberto looked through mug shots of three dozen bikers. He picked him out right away, no shadow of a doubt that was the man he saw at the warehouse in Nykvarn.”

  “And Blomkvist?”

  “I haven’t gotten hold of him yet. He’s not answering his mobile.”

  “But Lundin matches his description of Salander’s attacker on Lundagatan. So we can assume that Svavelsjö MC has been hunting Salander for a while. Why?”

  Bublanski threw up his hands.

  Modig asked, “Was Salander living in Bjurman’s summer cabin all the time we were looking for her?”

  “I thought of that too. But Jerker doesn’t think so. The cabin doesn’t look as if it’s been lived in recently, and we have a witness who says she arrived on foot earlier today.”

  “Why did she go there? I don’t suppose she’d set up a meeting with Lundin.”

  “Hardly. She must have been looking for something. And the only thing we found was a bunch of files that seem to contain Bjurman’s own investigation of Salander. It’s all the material about her from social welfare, the Guardianship Agency, and old school reports. But it seems that some of the folders are missing. They were numbered. We have folders 1, 4, and 5.”

  “So 2 and 3 are missing.”

  “And maybe more with higher numbers.”

  “Which raises a question. Why would Salander be looking for information about herself?” Modig said.

  “I can think of two reasons. Either she wants to hide something that she knew Bjurman had written about her, or else she wants to find out something. But there’s another question too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why would Bjurman compile an extensive report on her and then hide it in his summer cabin? Salander seems to have found the material in the attic. He was her guardian and was assigned to handle her finances and other matters. But the material there gives the impression that he was almost obsessed with charting her life.”

  “Bjurman is looking more and more like a disreputable character. I was thinking about that today when I went through the list of johns at Millennium. I suddenly expected his name to turn up there too.”

  “Good thinking. Remember the violent porn you found on his computer. Did you find anything at Millennium?”

  “I don’t really know. Blomkvist is busy checking off the names on their list, but according to Malin Eriksson, one of the editors there, he hasn’t turned up anything of interest. Jan … I have to say one thing.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t think Salander did any of this. Enskede and Odenplan, I mean. I was just as persuaded as all the others when we started, but I don’t believe it now. And I can’t really explain why.”

  Bublanski realized that he agreed with Modig.

  The giant paced back and forth in Lundin’s house in Svavelsjö. He stopped by the kitchen window and looked down the road. They should have been back by now. He had a sinking feeling in his stomach. Something was wrong.

  He didn’t like being alone in this house. He didn’t feel at home here. There was a draft in his room upstairs, and there were always strange noises. He tried to shake off his uneasiness. It was foolish, he knew, but he had never liked being alone. He was not in the least afraid of flesh-and-blood people, but empty houses out in the country he thought were indescribably horrible. The noises got his imagination working. He couldn’t shed the sense that something dark and evil was watching him through the crack in the door. Something he believed he could hear breathing.

  When he was younger he’d been troubled by a fear of the dark. That is, he’d been troubled until he had aggressively told off his friends, his own age and sometimes a lot older, who were amused by such weaknesses. He was good at telling people off.

  But it was embarrassing. He hated darkness and being alone. He hated the creatures that inhabited darkness and solitude. He wished Lundin would come home. Lundin’s presence would restore the balance, even if they didn’t exchange a word or weren’t even in the same room. He would hear real sounds and he would know that there were people nearby.

  He tried to ward off his anxiety by playing CDs on the stereo, and restlessly he tried to find something he wanted to read on Lundin’s shelves. Lundin’s taste in books left much to be desired, and he had to settle for a collection of motorcycle magazines, men’s magazines, and paperback thrillers of the type that had never interested him. The solitude became more and more claustrophobic. He cleaned and oiled the pistol he kept in his bag, and for a while that had a calming effect.

  Eventually he had to get out of the house. He walked around the garden to get some fresh air. He stayed out of sight of the neighbouring houses, but stopped so that he could watch the lighted windows where there were people. If he stood quite still he could hear the sound of music in the distance.

  When he felt he had to go back inside Lundin’s wooden shack he stood for a long time on the steps before shaking off the oppressive feeling and resolutely going in.

  At 7:00 he watched the news on TV4. He listened with horror to the headlines and then to a report on the shoot-out at the summer cabin in Stallarholmen.

  He ran up the stairs to his room on the top floor and stuffed his belongings into a bag. Two minutes later he was driving away in his white Volvo.

  He had made his escape in the nick of time. Just two miles outside Svavelsjö two police cars with their blue lights flashing passed him, on their way into the village.

  After a great deal of patient negotiation Blomkvist was allowed to see Holger Palmgren. He was so insistent that the nurse in charge called Dr. Sivarnandan, who apparently lived nearby. Sivarnandan arrived fifteen minutes later and assumed responsibility for dealing with the stubborn journalist. At first he was not at all sympathetic. Over the past two weeks several reporters had found out where Palmgren was and had used all sorts of strategies to get a statement. Palmgren himself had refused on any account to receive such visitors, and the staff had instructions to let no-one in to see him.

  Dr. Sivarnandan had been following the case with much distress. He was shocked at the headlines that Salander had generated in the press. Palmgren had fallen into a deep depression which, Sivarnandan suspected, was a result of his inability to help Salander in any way. Palmgren had broken off his rehabilitation therapy and now spent the days reading newspapers and following the hunt for the girl on TV. Otherwise he sat in his room and brooded.

  Blomkvist remained standing at Sivarnandan’s desk and explained that of course he had no wish to subject Palmgren to any unpleasantness. He didn’t want a statement from him. He was a good friend of Salander, he was persuaded of her innocence, and he was desperately searching for information that might shed some light on certain aspects of her past.

  Dr. Sivarnanda
n was hard to convince. Blomkvist had to explain in detail his own role in the drama. Not until half an hour of discussion had passed did Sivarnandan give his consent. He asked Blomkvist to wait while he went up to ask Palmgren whether he would see him.

  Sivarnandan returned after ten minutes.

  “He’s agreed to see you. If he doesn’t like you then he’ll put you out on your ear. You are not to interview him or write anything in the press about the visit.”

  “I won’t write a line about this.”

  Palmgren had a small room containing a bed, a bureau, a table, and a couple of chairs. He was white-haired and thin as a scarecrow. He evidently had trouble with his balance, but he stood up anyway when Blomkvist was shown into the room. He did not hold out his hand, but motioned to one of the chairs by the table. Blomkvist sat down. Dr. Sivarnandan remained in the room. Blomkvist had difficulty at first understanding Palmgren’s slurred speech.

  “Who are you, claiming to be Lisbeth’s friend, and what do you want?”

  “You don’t have to say anything to me. But I ask you to listen to what I have to say before you throw me out.”

  Palmgren nodded curtly and shuffled over to the chair opposite Blomkvist.

  “I met Lisbeth Salander for the first time two years ago. I hired her to do some research for me. She visited me in another town where I was living at the time, and we worked together for several weeks.”

  He wondered how much he had to explain to Palmgren. He decided to stay as close to the truth as possible.

  “During that time two important things happened. One was that Lisbeth saved my life. The other was that we became very good friends. I came to know her well and I think very highly of her.”

  Without going into detail, Blomkvist told Palmgren how his relationship with her had suddenly ended after the Christmas holiday a year ago, when Salander left the country.

  Then he told Palmgren about his work at Millennium and about how Svensson and Johansson were murdered and how he had been drawn into the hunt for the killer.

  “I’ve heard that you’ve been bothered by reporters lately, and certainly the papers have published one idiotic story after the other. All I can do now is to assure you that I’m not here to gather material for yet another article. I’m here because of Lisbeth, as her friend. I’m probably one of the few people in the country right now who unhesitatingly, and without an ulterior motive, is on her side. I believe her to be innocent. I believe that a man named Zalachenko is behind the murders.”

  Blomkvist paused. Something had glimmered in Palmgren’s eyes when he said the name Zalachenko.

  “If you can contribute anything that would shed some light on Lisbeth’s past, this is the time to do it. If you don’t want to help her, then I’m wasting my time and yours and I’ll know where you stand.”

  Palmgren had not said a word during this monologue. As Blomkvist finished, his eyes flashed again. But he was smiling. He spoke as clearly as he could.

  “You really want to help her.”

  Blomkvist nodded.

  Palmgren leaned forward. “Describe the sofa in her living room.”

  “On the occasions I visited her she had a worn-out, extremely ugly piece of furniture with a certain curiosity value. I would guess it’s from the early fifties. It has two shapeless cushions covered in brown cloth with a yellow pattern of sorts on it. The cloth is torn in several places and the stuffing was coming out when I last saw it.”

  All of a sudden Palmgren laughed. It sounded more like he was clearing his throat. He looked at Dr. Sivarnandan.

  “He’s been to her apartment at least. Does the doctor think it would be possible to offer my guest a cup of coffee?”

  “Certainly.” Dr. Sivarnandan got up to leave. He paused in the doorway to nod at Blomkvist.

  “Alexander Zalachenko,” Palmgren said as soon as the door was closed.

  “So you know that name?”

  “Lisbeth told me the name. And I think it’s important that I tell this story to someone … should I happen to drop dead, which is all too possible.”

  “Lisbeth? How would she know anything about his existence?”

  “He is Lisbeth’s father.”

  At first Blomkvist could not make out what Palmgren was saying. Then the words sank in.

  “What the hell are you saying?”

  “Zalachenko was some sort of a political refugee—I’ve never gotten the story quite straight, and Lisbeth was always tight-lipped about it. It was something she absolutely did not want to talk about.”

  Her birth certificate. Father unknown.

  “Zalachenko is Lisbeth’s father,” Blomkvist repeated aloud.

  “On only one occasion in all the years I’ve known her did she tell me what happened. Here’s how I understood it—Zalachenko came here in the mid-seventies. He met Lisbeth’s mother in 1977, they had a relationship, and the result was two children.”

  “Two?”

  “Lisbeth and her twin sister Camilla.”

  “Good God—there are two of her?”

  “They’re very different. But that’s another story. Lisbeth’s mother’s name was in fact Agneta Sofia Sjölander. She was seventeen when she met Zalachenko. I don’t know anything else about how they met, but I gather she was quite a dependent young girl and easy prey for an older, more experienced man. She was impressed by him and probably head over heels in love with him. Zalachenko turned out to be anything but nice. I assume he was just after a willing woman and not much else. Naturally she fantasized about a secure future with him, but he wasn’t the least bit interested in marriage. They never did marry, but in 1979 she changed her name from Sjölander to Salander. That was, I suppose, her way of showing that they belonged together.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Zala. Salander.”

  “Jesus,” Blomkvist said.

  “I started looking into the whole matter just before I fell ill. She had the right to take the name because her mother, Lisbeth’s grandmother, was actually named Salander. Then what happened was that Zalachenko proved himself to be a psychopath on a grand scale. He drank and savagely abused Agneta. As far as I know, this abuse went on throughout the girls’ childhood. As long as Lisbeth can remember, Zalachenko would turn up from time to time. Sometimes he would be gone for long periods, but then he was suddenly there again in the apartment on Lundagatan. And every time it was the same old story. He came there to have sex and to get drunk, and it ended with him abusing Lisbeth’s mother in various ways. Lisbeth told me things that indicated it was more than physical abuse. He carried a gun and was threatening, and there were elements of sadism and psychological terrorizing. I gather it only got worse as the years went on. Lisbeth’s mother spent a great part of the eighties living in fear.”

  “Did he hit the children too?”

  “No. Apparently he was totally uninterested in his daughters. He hardly even said hello to them. Their mother used to send them to their room when Zalachenko turned up, and they weren’t allowed to come out without permission. On one occasion he may have spanked Lisbeth or her sister, but that was mostly because they were irritating him or were somehow in the way. All the violence was directed towards their mother.”

  “Jesus Christ. Poor Lisbeth.”

  Palmgren nodded. “Lisbeth told me all this about a month before I had my stroke. It was the first time she had spoken openly about what had happened. I’d just decided that it was time to put an end to the absurd declaration of incompetence. Lisbeth is as smart as anyone I know, and I was prepared to take up her case again with the district court. Then I had the stroke … and when I woke up I was here.”

  He waved at his confined quarters. A nurse knocked at the door and brought in coffee. Palmgren sat in silence until she left.

  “There are some aspects of Lisbeth’s story that I don’t understand,” he said. “Agneta had been forced to go to the hospital dozens of times. I read her medical record. It was perfectly obvious that she was the vict
im of aggravated assault, and social welfare should have intervened. But nothing happened. Lisbeth and Camilla had to stay at the social emergency service whenever she sought care, but as soon as she was discharged she would go back home and it would start all over again. I can only interpret this as the collapse of the whole social safety net, and Agneta was too terrified to do anything but wait for her torturer. Then something happened. Lisbeth calls it All The Evil.’”

  “What was it?”

  “Zalachenko had been gone for several months. Lisbeth had turned twelve. She had apparently begun to think that he was gone for good. But he wasn’t, of course. One day he came back. First Agneta locked Lisbeth and her sister in their room. Then she and Zalachenko went to bed. And then he started hitting her. He enjoyed beating people. But this time it wasn’t two helpless little girls who were locked up … The twins reacted quite differently. Camilla was panic-stricken that someone would find out what was going on in their apartment. She repressed everything and made out that her mother was never beaten. When the abuse was over, Camilla would go in and hug her father and pretend that everything was fine.”

  “Her way of protecting herself, no doubt.”

  “Right. But Lisbeth was a whole different story. This time she interrupted the beating. She went into the kitchen and got a knife and stabbed Zalachenko in the shoulder. She stabbed him five times before he managed to take the knife away and punch her in the face. They weren’t deep wounds, it seems, but he was bleeding like a stuck pig and he ran off.”

  “That sounds like Lisbeth.”

  Palmgren laughed. “Yes, it does. Don’t ever fight with Lisbeth Salander. Her attitude towards the rest of the world is that if someone threatens her with a gun, she’ll get a bigger gun. That’s what frightens me about what’s going on right now.”