“Giannini.”
“It’s Mikael. Did you hear what happened at Sahlgrenska?”
“You could say so.”
“Where are you?”
“At the hospital. That bastard aimed at me too.”
Blomkvist sat speechless for several seconds before he fully took in what his sister had said.
“What the hell … you were there?”
“Yes. It was the most horrendous thing I’ve ever experienced.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No. But he tried to get into Lisbeth’s room. I blockaded the door and locked us in the bathroom.”
Blomkvist’s whole world suddenly felt off balance. His sister had almost . . .
“How is she?” he said.
“She’s not hurt. Or, I mean, she wasn’t hurt in today’s drama at least.”
He let that sink in.
“Annika, do you know anything at all about the murderer?”
“Not a thing. He was an older man, neatly dressed. I thought he looked rather bewildered. I’ve never seen him before, but I came up in the elevator with him a few minutes before it all happened.”
“And Zalachenko is dead, no question?”
“Yes. I heard three shots, and according to what I’ve overheard he was shot in the head all three times. But it’s been utter chaos here, with a thousand policemen, and they’re evacuating a ward for acutely ill and injured patients who really ought not to be moved. When the police arrived one of them tried to question Lisbeth before they even bothered to ask what shape she’s in. I had to read them the riot act.”
Inspector Erlander saw Giannini through the doorway to Salander’s room. The lawyer had her mobile pressed to her ear, so he waited for her to finish her call.
Two hours after the murder there was still chaos in the corridor. Zalachenko’s room was sealed off. Doctors had tried resuscitation immediately after the shooting, but they soon gave up. He was beyond all help. His body was sent to the pathologist, and the crime scene investigation proceeded as best it could under the circumstances.
Erlander’s mobile chimed. It was Fredrik Malmberg from the investigative team.
“We’ve got a positive ID on the murderer,” Malmberg said. “His name is Evert Gullberg, and he’s seventy-eight years old.”
Seventy-eight. Quite elderly for a murderer.
“And who the hell is Evert Gullberg?”
“Retired. Lives in Laholm. Apparently he was a tax lawyer. I got a call from someone at SIS, who told me that they had recently initiated a preliminary investigation against him.”
“When and why?”
“I don’t know when. But apparently he had a habit of sending crazy and threatening letters to people in government.”
“Such as who?”
“The minister of justice, for one.”
Erlander sighed. So, a madman. A fanatic.
“This morning Säpo got calls from several newspapers that had received letters from Gullberg. The Ministry of Justice also called, because Gullberg had made specific death threats against Karl Axel Bodin.”
“I want copies of the letters.”
“From Säpo?”
“Yes, damn it. Drive up to Stockholm and pick them up in person if necessary. I want them on my desk when I get back to HQ. Which will be in about an hour.”
He thought for a second and then asked one more question.
“Was it Säpo that called you?”
“That’s what I told you.”
“I mean, they called you, not vice versa?”
“Exactly.”
Erlander closed his mobile.
He wondered what had gotten into Säpo to make them, out of the blue, feel the need to get in touch with the police—of their own accord. Ordinarily you couldn’t get a word out of them.
Wadensjöö flung open the door to the room at the Section where Clinton was resting. Clinton sat up cautiously.
“Just what the hell is going on?” Wadensjöö shrieked. “Gullberg has murdered Zalachenko and then shot himself in the head.”
“I know,” Clinton said.
“You know?” Wadensjöö yelled. He was bright red in the face and looked as if he was about to have a stroke. “He shot himself, for Christ’s sake. He tried to commit suicide. Is he out of his mind?”
“You mean he’s alive?”
“For the time being, yes, but he has massive brain damage.”
Clinton sighed. “Such a shame,” he said with real sorrow in his voice.
“Shame?” Wadensjöö burst out. “Gullberg is out of his mind. Don’t you understand what—”
Clinton cut him off.
“Gullberg has cancer of the stomach, colon, and bladder. He’s been dying for several months, and in the best case he had only a few months left.”
“Cancer?”
“He’s been carrying that gun around for the past six months, determined to use it as soon as the pain became unbearable and before the disease turned him into a vegetable. But he was able to do one last favour for the Section. He went out in grand style.”
Wadensjöö was almost beside himself. “You knew? You knew that he was thinking of killing Zalachenko?”
“Naturally. His assignment was to make sure that Zalachenko never got a chance to talk. And as you know, you couldn’t threaten or reason with that man.”
“But don’t you understand what a scandal this could turn into? Are you just as nuts as Gullberg?”
Clinton got to his feet laboriously. He looked Wadensjöö in the eye and handed him a stack of faxes.
“It was an operational decision. I mourn for my friend, but I’ll probably be following him pretty soon. As far as a scandal goes … A retired tax lawyer wrote paranoid letters to newspapers, the police, and the Ministry of Justice. Here’s a sample of them. Gullberg blames Zalachenko for everything from the Palme assassination to trying to poison the Swedish people with chlorine. The letters are plainly the work of a lunatic and were illegible in places, with capital letters, underlining, and exclamation marks. I especially like the way he wrote in the margin.”
Wadensjöö read the letters with rising astonishment. He put a hand to his brow.
Clinton said: “Whatever happens, Zalachenko’s death will have nothing to do with the Section. It was just some demented retiree who fired the shots.” He paused. “The important thing is that starting from now, you have to get with the programme. And don’t rock the boat.” He fixed his gaze on Wadensjöö. There was steel in the sick man’s eyes. “What you have to understand is that the Section functions as the spearhead for the total defence of the nation. We’re Sweden’s last line of defence. Our job is to watch over the security of our country. Everything else is unimportant.”
Wadensjöö regarded Clinton with doubt in his eyes.
“We’re the ones who don’t exist,” Clinton went on. “We’re the ones nobody will ever thank. We’re the ones who have to make the decisions that nobody else wants to make. Least of all the politicians.” His voice quivered with contempt as he spoke those last words. “Do as I say and the Section might survive. For that to happen, we have to be decisive and resort to tough measures.”
Wadensjöö felt panic rise in his chest.
Cortez wrote feverishly, trying to get down every word that was said from the podium at the police press office at Kungsholmen. Prosecutor Ekström had begun. He explained that it had been decided that the investigation into the police killing in Gosseberga—for which Ronald Niedermann was being sought—would be placed under the jurisdiction of a prosecutor in Göteborg. The rest of the investigation concerning Niedermann would be handled by Ekström himself. Niedermann was a suspect in the murders of Dag Svensson and Mia Johansson. No mention was made of Advokat Bjurman. Ekström also had to investigate and bring charges against Lisbeth Salander, who was under suspicion for a long list of crimes.
He explained that he had decided to go public with the information in light of the events that had occurred
in Göteborg that day, including the fact that Salander’s father, Karl Axel Bodin, had been shot dead. The immediate reason for calling the press conference was that he wanted to deny the rumours already being circulated in the media. He had himself received a number of calls concerning these rumours.
“Based on current information, I am able to tell you that Karl Axel Bodin’s daughter, who is being held for the aggravated assault and attempted murder of her father, had nothing to do with this morning’s events.”
“Then who was the murderer?” a reporter from Dagens Eko shouted.
“The man who at 1:15 today fired the fatal shots at Karl Axel Bodin before attempting to commit suicide has now been identified. He is a seventy-eight-year-old man who has been undergoing treatment for a terminal illness and the psychiatric problems associated with it.”
“Does he have any connection to Lisbeth Salander?”
“No. The man is a tragic figure who evidently acted alone, in accordance with his own paranoid delusions. The Security Police recently initiated an investigation of this man because he had written a number of confused letters to well-known politicians and the media. As recently as this morning, newspaper and government offices received letters in which he threatened to kill Karl Axel Bodin.”
“Why didn’t the police give Bodin protection?”
“The letters naming Bodin were sent only last night, and thus arrived at the same time as the murder was being committed. There was no time to act.”
“What’s the killer’s name?”
“We will not give out that information until his next of kin have been notified.”
“What sort of background does he have?”
“As far as I understand, he previously worked as an accountant and tax lawyer. He has been retired for fifteen years. The investigation is still under way, but as you can appreciate from the letters he sent, it is a tragedy that could have been prevented if there had been more support within society.”
“Did he threaten anyone else?”
“I have been advised that he did, yes, but I do not have any details to pass on to you.”
“What will this mean for the case against Salander?”
“For the moment, nothing. We have Karl Axel Bodin’s own testimony from the officers who interviewed him, and we have extensive forensic evidence against her.”
“What about the reports that Bodin tried to murder his daughter?”
“That is under investigation, but there are strong indications that he did indeed attempt to kill her. As far as we can determine at the moment, it was a case of deep antagonism in a tragically dysfunctional family.”
Cortez scratched his ear. He noticed that the other reporters were taking notes as feverishly as he was.
Gunnar Björck felt an almost unquenchable panic when he heard the news about the shooting at Sahlgrenska hospital. He had terrible pain in his back.
It took him an hour to make up his mind. Then he picked up the phone and tried to call his old protector in Laholm. There was no answer.
He listened to the news and heard a summary of what had been said at the press conference. Zalachenko had been shot by a seventy-eight-year-old tax specialist.
Good Lord. Seventy-eight years old.
He tried again to call Gullberg, but again in vain.
Finally his uneasiness took the upper hand. He could not stay in the borrowed summer cabin in Smådalarö. He felt vulnerable and exposed. He needed time and space to think. He packed clothes, painkillers, and toiletries. He did not want to use his own phone, so he limped to the phone booth at the grocer’s to call Landsort and book himself a room in the old lighthouse. Landsort was the end of the world, and few people would look for him there. He booked the room for two weeks.
He glanced at his watch. He would have to hurry to make the last ferry. He went back to the cabin as fast as his aching back would permit. He made straight for the kitchen and checked that the coffee machine was turned off. Then he went to the hall to get his bag. He happened to look into the living room and stopped short in surprise.
At first he could not grasp what he was seeing.
In some mysterious way the ceiling lamp had been taken down and placed on the coffee table. In its place hung a rope from a hook, right above a stool that was usually in the kitchen.
Björck looked at the noose, failing to understand.
Then he heard movement behind him and felt his knees buckle.
Slowly he turned to look.
Two men stood there. They were eastern European, by the look of them. He had no will to react when calmly they took him in a firm grip under both arms, lifted him off the ground, and carried him to the stool. When he tried to resist, pain shot like a knife through his back. He was almost paralysed as he felt himself being lifted onto the stool.
Sandberg was accompanied by a man who went by the nickname of Falun and who in his youth had been a professional burglar. He had, in time, retrained as a locksmith. Hans von Rottinger had first hired Falun for the Section in 1986 for an operation that involved forcing entry into the home of the leader of an anarchist group. After that, Falun had been hired from time to time until the mid-nineties, when there was less demand for this type of operation. Early that morning Clinton had revived the contact and given Falun an assignment. Falun would make 10,000 kronor tax-free for a job that would take about ten minutes. In return he had pledged not to steal anything from the apartment that was the target of the operation. The Section was not a criminal enterprise, after all.
Falun did not know exactly what interests Clinton represented, but he assumed it had something to do with the military. He had read Jan Guillou’s books, and he did not ask any questions. But it felt good to be back in the saddle again after so many years of silence from his former employer.
His job was to open the door. He was expert at breaking and entering. Even so, it still took five minutes to force the lock to Blomkvist’s apartment. Then Falun waited on the landing as Sandberg went in.
“I’m in,” Sandberg said into a hands-free mobile.
“Good,” Clinton said into his earpiece. “Take your time. Tell me what you see.”
“I’m in the hall with a wardrobe and a hat-rack on my right. Bathroom on the left. Otherwise there’s one very large room, about five hundred square feet. There’s a small kitchen alcove at the far end on the right.”
“Is there a desk?”
“He seems to work at the kitchen table or sitting on the living-room sofa. … Wait.”
Clinton waited.
“Yes. Here we are, a folder on the kitchen table. And Björck’s report is in it. It looks like the original.”
“Very good. Anything else of interest on the table?”
“Books. P. G. Vinge’s memoirs. Power Struggle for Säpo by Erik Magnusson. Four or five more of the same.”
“Is there a computer?”
“No.”
“A safe?”
“No … not that I can see.”
“Take your time. Go through the apartment inch by inch. Mårtensson reports that Blomkvist is still at the office. You’re wearing gloves, right?”
“Of course.”
Erlander had a chat with Giannini in a brief interlude between one or the other or both of them talking on their mobiles. He went into Salander’s room and held out his hand to introduce himself. Then he said hello to Salander and asked her how she was feeling. Salander looked at him, expressionless. He turned to Giannini.
“I need to ask some questions.”
“All right.”
“Can you tell me what happened this morning?”
Giannini related what she had seen and heard and how she had reacted up until the moment she had barricaded herself with Salander in the bathroom. Erlander glanced at Salander and then back to her lawyer.
“So you’re sure that he came to the door of this room?”
“I heard him trying to push down the door handle.”
“And you’re perfectly
sure about that? It’s not difficult to imagine things when you’re scared or excited.”
“I definitely heard him at the door. He had seen me and pointed his pistol at me; he knew that this was the room I was in.”
“Do you have any reason to believe that he had planned, beforehand that is, to shoot you too?”
“I have no way of knowing. When he took aim at me I pulled my head back in and blockaded the door.”
“Which was the sensible thing to do. And it was even more sensible of you to carry your client to the bathroom. These doors are so thin that the bullets would have gone clean through them if he had fired. What I’m trying to figure out is whether he wanted to attack you personally or whether he was just reacting to the fact that you were looking at him. You were the person nearest to him in the corridor.”
“Apart from the two nurses.”
“Did you get the sense that he knew you, or perhaps recognized you?”
“No, not really.”
“Could he have recognized you from the papers? You’ve had a lot of publicity over several widely reported cases.”
“It’s possible. I can’t say.”
“And you’d never seen him before?”
“I’d seen him in the elevator; that’s the first time I set eyes on him.”
“I didn’t know that. Did you talk?”
“No. I got in at the same time he did. I was vaguely aware of him for just a few seconds. He had flowers in one hand and a briefcase in the other.”
“Did you make eye contact?”
“No. He was looking straight ahead.”
“Who got in first?”
“We got in more or less at the same time.”
“Did he look confused or—”
“I couldn’t say one way or the other. He got into the elevator and stood perfectly still, holding the flowers.”
“What happened then?”
“We got out of the elevator on the same floor, and I went to visit my client.”
“Did you come straight here?”
“Yes … no. That is, I went to the reception desk and showed my ID. The prosecutor has forbidden my client to have visitors.”
“Where was this man then?”
The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Trilogy Bundle Page 127
