The Girl Who Takes an Eye for an Eye: Continuing Stieg Larsson's Millennium Series

by David Lagercrantz

  Another was extreme discretion. Hilda was certain that someone was after her, and what Blomkvist had said only made her anxiety worse. According to Lotta, the information had derailed her. Accordingly, Blomkvist had not told anyone where he was going, not even Erika.

  Now he was sitting at a café by the main meeting point in Stockholm Central Station, waiting for Malin. He needed to talk to her – he must leave no stone unturned, he wanted to test his theories to see if they held water. Malin arrived ten minutes late. She looked gorgeous in jeans and a blue blouse, even though, like half of Stockholm, she was flustered and sweating.

  “Really sorry,” she said. “I had to drop off Linus at my mother’s.”

  “You could have brought him along. I only have a few questions.”

  “I know. But I’m on my way somewhere.”

  He gave her a quick kiss and got straight to the point.

  “When you met Leo at the Fotografiska Museum, did you notice any differences beyond the fact that he seemed to be right-handed?”

  “Such as?”

  Blomkvist glanced up at the station clock.

  “Well, a birthmark, for example, on one side rather than the other. Or a cowlick pointing in a new direction. His hair’s pretty curly, isn’t it?”

  “You’re scaring me, Mikael. What do you mean?”

  “I’m working on a story about identical twins separated at birth. Can’t say more than that for the moment. Please don’t tell anyone, O.K.?”

  All of a sudden Malin looked terrified and grabbed him by the arm.

  “So you’re saying …”

  “I’m not saying anything, not yet. But I do wonder …” He paused. “Identical twins have identical genes, pretty much,” he said. “Certain genetic changes, small mutations, take place in all of us.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “I’m giving you some simple facts – otherwise the whole thing’s incomprehensible. Identical twins are formed from a single egg which splits relatively quickly in the uterus. The question here is how soon that split takes place. If it’s more than four days after fertilization, the twins share a placenta, and that increases the risk to the foetuses. And if the split occurs even later, between seven and twelve days, say, the babies can turn out to be mirror-image twins. In fact, 20 per cent of all identical twins are mirror-image twins.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “That they’re identical, except they’re each other’s mirror image. One becomes left-handed, the other right-handed. In rare cases their hearts can be on opposite sides of their bodies.”

  “So you’re saying that …” She stuttered over the words and Blomkvist laid his hand on her cheek to reassure her.

  “The whole idea may be off the wall,” he said. “And even if it isn’t, even if the person you met at Fotografiska really was Leo’s mirror-image twin, that doesn’t necessarily mean a crime has been committed. It’s not identity theft like in The Talented Mr Ripley. Maybe they’ve just swapped roles, they’ve been having a bit of fun, trying something new. Can you walk with me towards the train? I’m going to run out of time.”

  Malin sat there as if turned to stone. Then they stood up and took the escalator to the level below and walked past the shops to platform 11. He told her that he was off to Linköping on an assignment. He wanted to leave as few leads as possible.

  “I’ve been reading about identical twins who met only as adults and had been unaware of each other’s existence until then,” he went on. “They almost always describe this first meeting as fantastic, Malin. Apparently it’s the most earth-shattering experience ever. Imagine: You think you’re one of a kind, unique – and then another one pops up. They say that identical twins who meet late in life can’t get enough of each other. They run through everything: talents, shortcomings, habits, gestures, memories – the works. They become whole, they grow. They’re happier than ever before. Some of these stories really moved me, Malin. You yourself said that Leo had been euphoric for a while.”

  “That’s right – but then soon after he no longer was.”

  “True.”

  “He left the country and we lost contact.”

  “Exactly,” Blomkvist said. “I’ve thought about that too. Is there anything – either in his appearance or elsewhere – that could help me understand what’s been going on?”

  They had reached the platform. The train was already there.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “Think!”

  “Well, maybe one thing. Do you remember I told you he’d got engaged to Julia Damberg?

  “That upset you, didn’t it?”

  “Not really.”

  He did not entirely believe her.

  “More than anything I was surprised,” she said. “Julia used to work for us. Then she moved to Frankfurt and none of us heard from her for a few years. But towards the end of my time at the firm she called and wanted to speak to Leo. I’m not sure he ever called her back, in fact. Julia said something odd.”

  “What?”

  “She asked me if I knew that Leo played the guitar even better than the piano. He was a virtuoso, she said. I’d never heard Leo mention it, so I asked him.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing. He just blushed and laughed. It was during that time when he was deliriously happy.”

  Blomkvist was no longer paying attention. The words “guitar” and “virtuoso” had struck a troubling note. He was deep in thought as he said goodbye to Malin and got on the train.

  December, a year and a half earlier

  For a few days Dan stayed away. It was a worrying time. He either read in his cabin on the hostel ship or took nervous walks on Skeppsholmen and Djurgården. Sometimes he went for a run. In the evenings, in the bar on board, he drank more than he normally would. When he could not sleep at night he wrote about his life in red, leather-bound notebooks. On Wednesday, December 13, he headed back to Norrmalmstorg, but he could not bring himself to approach Leo then either.

  Then, on Friday, December 15, he took along his guitar and sat on the bench next to the restaurant in the middle of the square. It was snowing again, the temperature had dropped and his coat was no longer adequate to keep out the cold, but he couldn’t afford anything warmer. He was running out of money, and he could not bear the idea of playing for random jazz groups just to make a living. He could think only of Leo. Nothing else was important.

  That day, Leo emerged from the office early. Dressed in a dark-blue cashmere coat and a white scarf, he set off at a brisk pace. Dan followed, keeping closer this time, which was a mistake. Outside the Park cinema Leo turned suddenly and looked around, as if he had sensed that there was someone on his tail. But he did not see Dan. The street was full of people and Dan, wearing his woollen hat and sunglasses, turned away and looked in the direction of Stureplan. Leo kept walking and crossed Karlavägen.

  Dan stopped outside the Malaysian embassy on Floragatan and watched as Leo went into his apartment building. The door closed behind him with a bang, and Dan stood in the cold and waited, just as he had waited before. He knew it would be a while. Lights came on in the top apartment after a few minutes. They shone like the aura of a more beautiful world. Occasional notes could be heard from a grand piano, and when Dan recognized the harmonies his eyes filled with tears. But he was also freezing, and he swore under his breath. Sirens wailed in the distance. A bitter wind was blowing.

  As he approached the building and took off his sunglasses, he heard footsteps behind him. An elderly lady in a black hat and bright-green coat came past him with a pug on a lead. She smiled.

  “Don’t you feel like going home today, Leo?”

  For a second, no more, he looked at her in panic. Then he smiled back, as if he found her question witty and appropriate in the circumstance.

  “Sometimes you just don’t know what you want,” he said.

  “How true. But come on in now. It’s much too cold to be standing around outsid
e, philosophizing.”

  She punched in the door code and they went in together and stood waiting for the lift. She smiled at him again and said, “What’s that old coat you’re wearing?”

  He felt a stab of nerves.

  “This old thing?”

  The woman laughed.

  “‘This old thing?’ That’s what I say when I’ve put on my very best party frock, fishing for compliments.”

  He tried to laugh at that too, but he was clearly not convincing and the woman bit her lip and looked serious. He was sure that she had seen through his deception; not only his clothes but his clumsy way with words must have betrayed his lack of style.

  “I’m sorry, Leo. I know it must be hard for you right now. How is Viveka?”

  He could tell by her tone that “Fine” would not be an appropriate answer.

  “So-so,” he said.

  “Let’s hope she won’t have to suffer too long.”

  “Let’s hope,” he said, and realized that he would not be able to handle a ride in the lift with her. “You know what? I need some exercise. I’ll take the stairs.”

  “Nonsense, Leo. You’re as slender as a gazelle. Give Viveka a hug from me. Tell her I’m thinking of her.”

  “I certainly will,” Dan said, and he bounded up the stairs with his guitar.

  As he approached Leo’s apartment he slowed. If Leo’s hearing was even half as good as his own, he would have to be as quiet as a mouse. He tiptoed the last few metres. It was the only apartment on the top floor, which was good – it was set apart. Making as little noise as possible, he sat on the floor with his back against the wall. What should he do now? His heart pounded. His mouth was dry.

  The hallway smelled of polish and cleaning products. His eyes fixed on the ceiling, painted as a blue sky. Who would think to paint a fresco onto the ceiling of a stairwell? From downstairs came the sound of footsteps, the shuffling of feet, television sets, a chair being moved, a door unlocked. A note on the piano from inside the apartment. It was an A.

  There were some tentative bass notes, as if Leo had not quite made up his mind to play. Then he got started. He was improvising – or perhaps not. It was a dark, disquieting loop, with Leo always ending on the seventh tone in the minor key, just as he had done in the recording at the Stockholm Concert Hall. There was something almost ritual and obsessive about it, but also sophisticated, mature. Somehow he managed to conjure up a feeling of something broken and lost, at least that’s how it seemed to Dan. He shuddered.

  He could not quite explain it, and all of a sudden it hit him. Tears welled up and he trembled, not only because of the music. It was the kinship in the harmonies, the very fact that when Leo played he conveyed such pain, as if he, not even a professional musician, was better than Dan at expressing their sorrow.

  Their sorrow?

  It was a strange thought, and yet just then it appeared true. A moment before, Leo had seemed like a stranger, like someone very different, and more fortunate. Now Dan recognized himself in his twin. He got unsteadily to his feet. He had intended to ring the doorbell, but instead he took his guitar from its case, swiftly tuned it and joined in. It was not hard to find the chords and follow the notes in the loop. The way Leo dwelled on the beat in the syncopation and changed the triple phrasing for straight eighths was similar to his own. He felt … at home. That was the only way he could explain it. It was as if he had played with Leo many times before. He played for several minutes, expecting Leo to notice the accompaniment. But perhaps Leo did not hear as well as Dan did. Perhaps he was entirely absorbed in his playing. Dan couldn’t say.

  Then Leo fell silent in the middle of the motif, on an F sharp. But there were no footsteps, no movement. Leo must have sat stock still, and Dan too fell silent, and waited. What was going on? He could hear loud breathing from deep inside the apartment and he played the loop again, a little quicker now and with a flourish of his own, a new variation. At that, the piano stool scraped against the floor and he heard steps approaching the door. He stood with his guitar and felt like a beggar, a street musician who had strayed into an elegant drawing room and was hoping to be accepted. But he was also burning with hope and longing. He closed his eyes and heard the security chain being unhooked by what sounded like fumbling fingers.

  The door opened and Leo looked at him. He was dumbfounded. His mouth fell open. He looked shocked, terrified.

  “Who are you?”

  Those were his first words, and how was Dan to answer him? What should he say?

  “My name is …”

  Silence.

  “… Dan Brody,” he said. “I’m a jazz guitarist. I must be your twin brother.”

  Leo said nothing. He seemed on the verge of sinking to his knees. His face was white.

  “I …”

  That was all he managed, and Dan could not speak either. His heart pounded and the words would not come. He too tried to speak:

  “I …”

  “What?”

  There was a desperation in Leo’s voice that was almost too much for Dan to bear. He resisted an impulse to turn and run, and instead said:

  “When I heard you playing the piano … I was thinking that all my life I’ve felt like half a person. As if I’ve been missing something. And now at last …”

  He got no further. He didn’t know if the words were true, or even half true – or whether he was simply spouting set phrases without thinking.

  “I can’t get my head around this,” Leo said. “How long have you known?”

  His hands were shaking now.

  “Only a few days.”

  “I just can’t get my head around this.”

  “I know, it’s unreal.”

  Leo held out his hand. It seemed strangely formal in the circumstances.

  “I’ve always …” he said. He bit his lip. His hands would not stop shaking. “I’ve always felt the same. Will you come in?”

  Dan nodded and stepped into an apartment which was grander than anything he had ever seen.

  PART III

  THE VANISHING TWIN

  21 – 30.vi

  As many as one pregnancy in eight may begin as a twin pregnancy, although sometimes one of the embryos does not thrive and is reabsorbed into the gestational sac. This is known as Vanishing Twin Syndrome, or V.T.S.

  Some twins lose a sibling after birth because of adoption, or, more rarely, a mix-up in the maternity ward. Some meet for the first time only as adults; others never meet at all. Identical twins Jack Yufe and Oskar Stohr first encountered each other at a railway station in West Germany in 1954. Jack Yufe had lived on a kibbutz and been a soldier in the Israeli army. Oskar Stohr had been active in the Hitler Youth.

  Many people feel they are missing someone.

  CHAPTER 16

  21.vi

  Blomkvist walked along the river in Nyköping to Hotel Forsen. It was a simple brown wooden building with a red-tiled roof, more of a hostel than a hotel. But it was in a beautiful location, right next to the water. It was 8.30 p.m. by the time he got there. In the entrance was a miniature watermill and photographs of fishermen in gumboots.

  A young blonde woman sat behind the reception desk, possibly a summer temp. She could not have been more than seventeen. She was wearing jeans and a red shirt and was busy with her mobile. Blomkvist worried that she might recognize him and post something on social media, but he was reassured by her disinterested expression. He went up two floors and knocked on the grey door of room number 214. He heard a cracked voice from inside.

  “Who is it?”

  He gave his name, and Hilda von Kanterborg opened the door. For a moment he caught his breath. She looked wild. Her hair was unkempt, her eyes darting about nervously, like a frightened animal’s. Her skin was covered in pigment spots. She was busty, with broad shoulders and hips – her light-blue dress seemed barely big enough for her.

  “It’s good of you to see me,” he said.

  “Good? It’s terrifying. What you told Lot
ta seemed crazy.”

  He did not ask her to be more specific. First he wanted to calm her, allow her to get her breathing under control. He took the bottles of rosé out of his bag and put them on the round oak table next to the open window.

  “I’m afraid they’re not so chilled now,” he said.

  “I’ve survived worse.”

  She went to the bathroom and came back with two Duralex glasses.

  “Are you going to stay sober and sensible or will you join me?”

  “Whatever makes you feel comfortable,” he said.

  “All drunks want company, so you’ll have to drink. Look at it as a professional strategy.”

  She filled Blomkvist’s glass to the brim and he swallowed a large mouthful, to show that he meant business. He looked out at the river and the subtly shifting daylight of the evening sky.

  “Let me just assure you—”

  “Don’t try to assure me of anything,” she said. “You can’t. I don’t need any sententious bullshit about protection of sources. I’m telling you what I’m telling you because I don’t want to keep quiet any longer.”

  She knocked back her glass and looked him in the eye. There was something appealing and easy-going about her.

  “O.K., I understand. Forgive me for worrying you. Shall we get to it?”

  She nodded. He got out his voice recorder and switched it on.

  “I assume you’ve heard about the State Institute for Racial Biology,” she said.

  “Oh God yes,” he said. “What an appalling outfit.”

  “Indeed, but don’t get yourself too worked up, you star reporter, this is not half as exciting as it sounds. The institute was closed down in 1958, as you may know, and you’d have a hard time finding anyone in the whole of Sweden these days who’s into race biology. I’m only saying this because there’s a connection. When I started my work at the Registry, I had no idea, I thought I was only going to be working with gifted children. As it turned out …” She drank some more wine. “… I don’t know where to start.”