“How much of a motive does a psychotic nutcase need?”
“I haven’t been in the bedroom yet. How does it look?”
“I found the body prostrate against the bed. He was kneeling on the floor as if he were saying his prayers. He’s naked. Shot in the back of the neck.”
“One shot, just like in Enskede?”
“As far as I could see. It seems that Salander, if she’s the one who did it, forced him onto his knees by the bed before she fired. The bullet went up through the back of his head and exited through his face.”
“Like an execution, then.”
“Precisely.”
“I was thinking … somebody must have heard the shot.”
“His bedroom overlooks the rear courtyard, and the neighbours above and below had left for the holiday. The window was closed. Besides, she used a pillow to muffle the sound.”
“Smart thinking.”
At that moment Gunnar Samuelsson from forensics stuck his head in the door.
“Hi, Bubble,” he said, and then turned to his colleague. “Modig, we were thinking of removing the body, so we turned him over. There’s something you ought to take a look at.”
They all went into the bedroom. Bjurman’s body had been placed on its back on a wheeled stretcher, the first stop on the way to the pathologist. There was no doubt about the cause of death. His forehead bore a wound four inches across, and a large part of his skull was hanging by a flap of skin. The blood splattered across the bed and the wall told the tale.
Bublanski pouted.
“What are we supposed to be looking at?” Modig asked.
Samuelsson lifted the plastic sheet which covered Bjurman’s lower body. Bublanski put on his glasses when he and Modig stepped closer to read the text tattooed on Bjurman’s abdomen. The letters were irregular and clumsy—obviously whoever wrote them was a novice tattoo artist—but the message could not have been clearer: I AM A SADISTIC PIG, A PERVERT, AND A RAPIST.
Modig and Bublanski looked at each other in astonishment.
“Are we possibly looking at a motive?” Modig said at last.
Blomkvist bought a pasta meal from the 7-Eleven on his way home and put the paper carton in the microwave as he undressed and stood under the shower for three minutes. He got a fork and ate standing up, right out of the carton. He was hungry, but he had no appetite for food; he just wanted to take it on board as fast as he could. When it was finished he opened a Vestfyn Pilsner beer and drank it straight from the bottle.
Without turning on a lamp he stood by the window overlooking Gamla Stan for more than twenty minutes, while he tried to stop thinking.
Twenty-four hours ago he had been at his sister’s house when Svensson had called him on his mobile. He and Johansson had still been alive.
Blomkvist had not slept for thirty-six hours, and the days when he could skip a night’s sleep with impunity were long gone. And he knew that he would not be able to sleep without thinking about what he had seen. The images from Enskede felt ingrained in his memory for all time.
Finally he turned off his mobile and crept under the covers. At 11:00 he was still awake. He got up and brewed some coffee. He put on the CD player and listened to Debbie Harry singing “Maria.” He wrapped himself in a blanket and sat on the living-room sofa and drank coffee while he worried about Salander.
What did he actually know about her? Hardly anything.
She had a photographic memory and she was a hell of a hacker. He knew that she was a peculiar, introverted woman who didn’t like to talk about herself, and that she had absolutely no trust in authority of any kind.
She could be viciously violent. He owed his life to that.
But he had had no idea that she had been declared incompetent or was under guardianship, or that she had spent any part of her teenage years in a psychiatric clinic.
He had to choose whose side he was on.
Sometime after midnight he decided that he couldn’t accept the police’s assumption that she had murdered Svensson and Johansson. At the very least, he owed her a chance to explain herself before he passed judgment.
He had no idea when he nodded off, but at 4:30 a.m. he woke up on the sofa. He staggered into the bedroom and fell instantly back to sleep.
CHAPTER 16
Good Friday, March 25–
Easter Saturday, March 26
Eriksson leaned back into Blomkvist’s sofa. Without thinking, she put her feet up on the coffee table—exactly as she would have done at home—and quickly took them off again. Blomkvist gave her a smile.
“That’s OK,” he said. “Make yourself at home.”
She grinned and put her feet up again.
On Good Friday Blomkvist had brought the copies of Svensson’s papers from the Millennium offices to his apartment. He had laid out the material on the floor of the living room, and he and Eriksson had spent eight hours going through emails, notes, jottings in Svensson’s notebook, and above all the manuscript of the book.
On Saturday morning Annika Giannini had come to see her brother. She brought the evening newspapers from the day before with their glaring headlines and a huge reproduction of Salander’s passport photograph on the front page. One read:
WANTED FOR
TRIPLE MURDER
The other had opted for the more sensational headline:
POLICE HUNT
PSYCHOTIC MASS MURDERER
They talked for an hour, during which Blomkvist explained his relationship with Salander and why he couldn’t believe that she was guilty. Finally he asked his sister whether she would consider representing Salander if or when she was caught.
“I’ve represented women in various cases of violence and abuse, but I’m not really a criminal defence lawyer,” she said.
“You’re the shrewdest lawyer I know, and Lisbeth is going to need somebody she can trust. I think in the end she would accept you.”
Annika thought for a while before reluctantly agreeing to at least have a discussion with Salander if they ever got to that stage.
At 1:00 on Saturday afternoon, Inspector Modig called and asked if she could come over to pick up Salander’s shoulder bag. The police had evidently opened and read the letter he sent to Salander’s address on Lundagatan.
Modig arrived only twenty minutes later, and Blomkvist asked her to have a seat with Eriksson at the table in the living room. He went into the kitchen and took the bag down from the shelf next to the microwave. He hesitated a moment, then opened the bag and took out the hammer and the Mace canister. Withholding evidence. Mace was an illegal weapon and possession was a punishable offence. The hammer would only serve to support those who believed in Salander’s violent tendencies. That wasn’t necessary, Blomkvist thought.
He offered Modig some coffee.
“May I ask you some questions?” the inspector said.
“Please.”
“In your letter to Salander which my colleagues found at Lundagatan, you wrote that you are in her debt. What exactly did you mean by that?”
“Lisbeth Salander did me an enormous favour.”
“What manner of favour was that?”
“It was a favour strictly between her and me, which I don’t intend to discuss.”
Modig looked at him intently. “This is a murder investigation we’re carrying out here.”
“And I hope that you will catch the bastard who killed Dag and Mia as soon as possible.”
“You don’t think Salander is that killer?”
“No, I do not.”
“In that case, who do you think did shoot your friends?”
“I don’t know. But Dag was intending to expose a large number of people who had a great deal to lose. One of them could be the killer.”
“And why would such a person also shoot the lawyer, Nils Bjurman?”
“I don’t know. At least not yet.”
His gaze was steady with his own conviction. Modig suddenly smiled. She knew that he was nicknamed Kalle Blom
kvist after the detective in Astrid Lindgren’s books. Now she understood why.
“But you intend to find out?”
“If I can. You can tell that to Inspector Bublanski.”
“I’ll do that. And if Salander gets in touch, I hope you’ll let us know.”
“I don’t expect her to contact me and confess that she’s guilty of the murders, but if she does I’ll do everything I can to persuade her to give herself up. In that case I would support her in any way I can—she’s going to need a friend.”
“And if she says she’s not guilty?”
“Then I just hope she can shed some light on what happened.”
“Herr Blomkvist, just between us and off the record, I hope you realize that Lisbeth Salander has to be apprehended. Don’t do anything stupid if she gets in touch with you. If you’re wrong and she is responsible for these killings, it could be extremely dangerous for you.”
Blomkvist nodded.
“I hope we won’t have to put you under surveillance. You know, of course, that it is illegal to give help to a fugitive. Aiding and abetting anyone wanted for murder is a serious offence.”
“For my part, I hope that you will devote some time to looking at the possibility that Salander had nothing to do with these killings.”
“We will. Next question. Do you happen to know what sort of computer Dag Svensson worked on?”
“He had a secondhand Mac iBook 500, white, with a fourteen-inch screen. Just like mine but with a larger display.” Blomkvist pointed to his machine on the table next to them.
“Do you have any idea where he kept it?”
“He usually carried it in a black bag. I assume it’s in his apartment.”
“It’s not. Could it be at the office?”
“No. I’ve been through his desk and it definitely isn’t there.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
“Do I take it that Dag’s computer is missing?” Blomkvist said at last.
Blomkvist and Eriksson had made a list of the people who might theoretically have had a motive for killing Svensson. Each name had been written on large sheets of paper that Blomkvist taped up on his livingroom wall. All of them were men, either johns or pimps, and they all appeared in the book. By 8:00 that night they had thirty-seven names, of which thirty were readily identified. Seven had been given pseudonyms in Svensson’s text. Twenty-one of the men identified were johns who on various occasions had exploited one or another of the girls. The practical problem—from the point of view of whether they should publish the book—was that many of the claims were based on information that only Svensson or Johansson possessed. A writer who knew—inevitably—less about the subject would have to verify the information independently.
They estimated that about 80 percent of the existing text could be published without any great problems, but a good deal of legwork was going to have to be done before Millennium could risk publishing the remaining 20 percent. They didn’t doubt the accuracy of the contents, but weren’t sufficiently familiar with the detailed work behind the book’s most explosive findings. If Svensson were still alive they would have been able to publish without question—he and Johansson could have easily dealt with and refuted any objections.
Blomkvist looked out the window. Night had fallen and it was raining. He asked if Eriksson wanted more coffee. She did not.
“We’ve got the manuscript under control,” she said. “But we aren’t any closer to pinpointing Dag and Mia’s killer.”
“It could be one of the names on the wall,” Blomkvist said.
“It could be somebody who doesn’t have anything whatsoever to do with the book. Or it could be your girlfriend.”
“Lisbeth,” Blomkvist said.
Eriksson stole a glance at him. She had worked at Millennium for eighteen months. She joined right in the middle of the chaos of the Wennerström affair. After years of temp jobs, Millennium was her first full-time position. She was doing splendidly. Working at Millennium was status. She had a close bond with Berger and the rest of the staff, but she had always felt a little uncomfortable in Blomkvist’s company. There was no clear reason for it, but of all the people at Millennium, Blomkvist was the one she found the most reserved and unapproachable.
During the past year he had been coming in late and sitting in his office by himself a lot, or in Berger’s office. He had often been away, and during her first few months at the magazine she seemed to see him more frequently on some sofa in a TV studio than in real life. He did not encourage small talk, and from the comments she heard from other staff members, he appeared to have changed. He was quieter and harder to talk to.
“If I’m going to work on trying to figure out why Dag and Mia were shot, I’ll have to know more about Salander. I don’t really know where to start, if …”
She left the sentence hanging. Blomkvist looked at her. Finally he sat down in the armchair at ninety degrees to her and put his feet up next to hers.
“Do you like working at Millennium?” he said, disconcertingly. “I mean, you’ve been working for us for a year and a half now, but I’ve been running around so much that we’ve never had a chance to get to know each other.”
“I like working there a lot,” she said. “Are you happy with me?”
“Erika and I have said over and over that we’ve never had such a valuable managing editor. We think you’re a real find. And forgive me for not telling you as much before now.”
Eriksson smiled contentedly. Praise from the great Blomkvist was extremely gratifying.
“But that’s not what I was actually asking about,” she said.
“You’re wondering about Lisbeth Salander’s links with Millennium.”
“You’ve never said anything, and Erika is pretty tight-lipped about her.”
Blomkvist met her gaze. He and Berger might have complete confidence in her, but there were things he just could not discuss.
“I agree with you,” he said. “If we’re going to dig into the murders, you’re going to need more information. I’m a firsthand source, and also the link between Lisbeth and Dag and Mia. Go ahead and ask me questions, and I’ll answer them as best I can. And when I can’t answer, I’ll say so.”
“Why all the secrecy? Who is Lisbeth Salander, and what does she have to do with Millennium in the first place?”
“This is how it is. Two years ago I hired her as a researcher for an extremely complicated job. That’s the problem. I can’t tell you what she worked on for me. Erika knows what it was, and she’s bound by confidentiality.”
“Two years ago … that was before you cracked Wennerström. Should I assume that she was doing research connected with that case?”
“No, you shouldn’t assume that. I’m neither going to confirm or deny it. But I can tell you that I hired Lisbeth for an altogether different project and that she did an outstanding job.”
“OK, that’s when you were living like a hermit in Hedestad, as far as I’ve heard. And Hedestad didn’t exactly go unnoticed on the media map that summer. Harriet Vanger resurfacing from the dead and all that. Strangely enough, we at Millennium haven’t written a word about her resurrection.”
“The reason we didn’t write about Harriet is that she’s on our board. We’ll let the rest of the media scrutinize her. And as far as Salander is concerned, take my word for it when I tell you that what she did for me in the earlier project has absolutely no bearing on what happened in Enskede.”
“I do take your word for it.”
“Let me give you a piece of advice. Don’t guess. Don’t jump to conclusions. Just accept that she worked for me and that I cannot and will not discuss what it involved. She did something else for me. During that time she saved my life. Literally.”
Eriksson looked up in surprise. She had not heard a word about that at Millennium.
“So that means you know her rather well.”
“As well as anyone can know Lisbeth Salander, I suppose,” Blomkvist said. “She is
the most introverted person I’ve ever met.”
He sprang to his feet and looked out into the darkness.
“I don’t know if you want one, but I think I’ll make myself a vodka and lime juice,” he said at last.
“Sounds much better than another cup of coffee.”
Armansky spent the Easter weekend at his cabin on the island of Blidö thinking about Salander. His children were grown up and had chosen not to spend the holiday with their parents. Ritva, his wife of twenty-five years, noticed that he seemed sometimes far away. He would subside into silent brooding and answered absentmindedly when she spoke to him. He drove every day to the nearest shop to buy the newspapers. He would sit by the window on the veranda and read about the hunt for Salander.
Armansky was disappointed that he had so terribly misjudged her. He had known for several years that she had mental problems. The idea that she could be violent and seriously injure someone who was threatening her did not surprise him. The idea that she had attacked her guardian—whom she would without a doubt perceive as someone who meddled in her affairs—was understandable. She viewed any attempt to control her life as provocative and possibly hostile.
On the other hand, he could not for the life of him understand what would have prompted her to murder two people who, according to all available information, were utterly unknown to her.
Armansky kept waiting for a link to be established between Salander and the couple in Enskede. But no such link was reported in the newspapers; instead there was speculation that the mentally ill woman must have had some sort of breakdown.
Twice he telephoned Inspector Bublanski and asked about developments, but not even the director of the investigation could give him a connection. Blomkvist knew both Salander and the couple, but there was nothing to suggest that Salander knew or had even heard of Svensson and Johansson. If the murder weapon had not had her fingerprints on it, and had there not been an unchallengable link to Bjurman, the police would have been fumbling in the dark.
“So let’s sum up,” Eriksson said. “The assignment is to find out whether Salander murdered Dag and Mia, as the police claim. Where to begin?”
The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Trilogy Bundle Page 80
