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

by David Lagercrantz

  “Take your time,” Blomkvist said. “We’ll find a way in.”

  She emptied her glass and lit a cigarette, a Gauloise, looking at it with a grin.

  “Smoking’s not allowed here,” she said. “Actually, the story could begin right there, with smoking – and the suspicion that it might be harmful. In the 1950s, some researchers claimed that smoking could cause lung cancer. Imagine that!”

  “Unbelievable!”

  “I know, right? As you know, the theory met with massive resistance. One line of thought said: maybe a lot of smokers do get lung cancer, but that isn’t necessarily because of the tobacco. It could just as easily be because they eat too many vegetables. Nothing could be proven. ‘More Doctors smoke Camels than any other cigarette’ was a well-known slogan at the time. Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall were held up as examples of how sophisticated smoking was. And yet the suspicion stuck, and it was no small matter. The British Ministry of Health discovered that deaths due to lung cancer had increased by a factor of fifteen in two decades, and a group of doctors at the Karolinska Institute here decided to test the theory by using twins. Twins are ideal research subjects, and a register of more than eleven thousand of them was established over a period of two years. They were questioned about their smoking and drinking habits and their responses made an important contribution to the sorrowful discovery that ciggies and booze aren’t all that great for you after all.”

  She gave a mournful laugh, took a deep drag on her cigarette and poured herself yet another glass of rosé.

  “It didn’t stop there,” she said. “The register grew and new twins were added, including many who did not grow up together. In Sweden in the 1930s, several hundred twins had been separated at birth, mostly for reasons of poverty. Many of them didn’t meet until they were adults. This provided a wealth of valuable scientific material used by researchers not only to investigate new illnesses and their causes, but also to address the classic question: How do heredity and environment shape an individual?”

  “I’ve read about that,” Blomkvist said, “and I know about the Swedish Twin Registry. But surely the work done is above board?”

  “Absolutely, it’s valuable and important research. All I’m trying to do is give you some background. While the Twin Registry was being constituted, the Institute for Racial Biology changed its name to the Institute for Human Genetics and was integrated into Uppsala University. It wasn’t just semantics. These gentlemen gradually began to devote themselves to something which at least vaguely resembled scientific work. The old business of measuring heads and crap theories about the purity of the Swedo-Germanic race were finally abandoned.”

  “But they still had all the registers of Roma and other minorities?”

  “Yes, also something more important, and much worse.”

  Blomkvist raised his eyebrows.

  “Their outlook on mankind. Maybe they no longer thought that one race was better than another. Maybe there was no such thing as ‘different races’. But still, some pure-bred Swedes were arguably more diligent and hard-working than others of their countrymen. Why was that? Because they’d been given a good, solid Swedish upbringing, perhaps? Maybe we can find a way to create a real, honest-to-goodness Swede, they thought – someone who doesn’t smoke Gauloises and get drunk on lukewarm rosé.”

  “Doesn’t sound so good.”

  “No. Times had changed, but people on one extreme can easily start heading towards a different one, don’t you think? Before long this group at Uppsala began to believe in Freud and Marx in the same way they’d once believed in racial biology. Their organization was called the Institute for Human Genetics so they didn’t dismiss the significance of heredity. Far from it. But they believed that social and material factors played by far the greater role. Nothing wrong with that, especially not these days when class barriers can be such impenetrable walls.

  “But this group – whose leading figure was sociology professor Martin Steinberg – took the view that we were inevitably conditioned by our circumstances. A certain type of mother and certain types of social and cultural factors would more or less automatically produce a certain type of person. That’s not the way it is, not by a long shot. A human being is infinitely more complex than that. But our friends wanted to experiment, they wanted to establish what sort of upbringing and background would create a solid Swede. They had close contacts with the Twin Registry and kept abreast of the research there, and then they came across Roger Stafford, an American psychoanalyst.”

  “I read about him.”

  “But you haven’t met him, have you? He’s incredibly charismatic. He would light up any elegant gathering, and above all he made a deep impression on one woman in this group in particular. Her name is Rakel Greitz. She’s a psychiatrist and psychoanalyst, and she … Oh, I could say a lot about Greitz. She not only fell head over heels for Stafford, she became obsessed by his work. She wanted to push it further. At some stage – I don’t know exactly when – she and the group decided that they would deliberately separate twins, both identical and fraternal twins, and place them with families in diametrically opposite circumstances. Because the objective was elitist – to produce fine, outstanding Swedes – the group was very particular about their research subjects. They left no stone unturned. Among other things, they looked through the old registers of Roma and other travellers, and Sami and so on, searching for people who had escaped even the race biologists’ pool of candidates for forced sterilization. They were looking for highly gifted parents of twins. To be cynical, what they wanted was first-class research material.”

  Blomkvist’s thoughts drifted back to the guitar virtuoso Salander had mentioned in her message.

  “And one of these pairs of twins was Leo Mannheimer and Daniel Brolin?”

  Hilda was quiet and looked out of the window.

  “Yes, and that’s why we’re here today, right?” she said. “What you said to Lotta – that Leo isn’t Leo any longer? – that sounded insane. To be honest I don’t believe it. I just don’t. Anders and Daniel Brolin, as they were then called, belonged to the traveller community and were from an extremely musical family. Their mother Rosanna was a fabulous singer. There’s an old recording of her singing Billie Holiday’s ‘Strange Fruit’, which tears your heart out. But she died days after the twins were born, of puerperal fever. She had never been to secondary school, but they dug up her reports from her last years in primary school. Top of the class in every subject. The boys’ father was named Kenneth and he was manic depressive but an absolute genius on the guitar. He wasn’t an evil or callous man, just mentally unstable, and he couldn’t cope with the twins. They were put in a children’s home in Gävle, and that’s where Greitz found them and separated them almost immediately. I’d rather not know how she and Martin Steinberg went about finding families for all those twins. But when it came to Daniel and Anders, or Leo as he was renamed, it was especially awful.”

  “In what way?”

  “It was just so unfair. Daniel stayed on at the orphanage for a few years and then ended up with a mean, narrow-minded farmer outside Hudiksvall who was only interested in more hands on his farm. At first there was a wife but she soon disappeared, and what came after that can unquestionably be described as child labour. Daniel and his foster brothers worked their fingers to the bone from early morning till late at night. Often they weren’t allowed to go to school. Leo, on the other hand … Leo had been taken in by a prosperous and influential family in Nockeby.”

  “By Herman and Viveka Mannheimer.”

  “Exactly. It was crucial to the project that the adoptive parents should not learn anything about the children’s origins, and above all the fact that they were twins. But Herman was a hotshot, a hard nut, and he managed to wear down Martin Steinberg. Steinberg caved in, he cracked. That was bad enough. But it got worse. Herman began to have second thoughts. He had always disliked ‘tinkers’ and ‘loose people’, as he called them, and without Greitz or Steinb
erg knowing, he asked his business partner Alfred Ögren for advice.”

  “I see,” Blomkvist said. “And in due course his son Ivar found out about it too.”

  “Yes, but that was later. By which time Ivar had long been envious of Leo; people considered Leo much more promising and bright. Ivar would do whatever he could to gain the upper hand, to get Leo into trouble. It was a minefield between the families, and so my colleague Carl Seger was called in to help.”

  “But if Herman Mannheimer was such a prejudiced old fart, why had he agreed to take the boy in in the first place?”

  “Herman was probably a run-of-the-mill reactionary, not fundamentally a heartless person, in spite of what happened to Carl. But Alfred Ögren … he was a swine and a true racist and strongly advised against the idea. It would probably have come to nothing except there were reports that the boy had highly developed motor skills and all sorts of other advanced abilities, and that tipped the scales. And Viveka fell in love with him.”

  “So they took him into the family because he was precocious?”

  “Probably. He was only seven months old but there were high expectations of him from an early age.”

  “His personal file says that he’s the Mannheimers’ biological son. How did they pull that one off, considering the baby was adopted so late?”

  “Their closest friends and neighbours knew the truth, but it became a matter of honour. They all knew how much it pained Viveka that she hadn’t been able to have children of her own.”

  “Did Leo know he was adopted?”

  “He found out at the age of seven or eight, when Ögren’s sons started teasing him. Viveka felt she had to tell him. But she asked him to keep it a secret – for the sake of the family’s honour.”

  “I understand.”

  “It wasn’t an easy time for the family.”

  “Leo suffered from hyperacusis.”

  “He suffered from that, and from what today we would call hypersensitivity. The world was too harsh for him, and he withdrew and became a very solitary child. Sometimes I think Carl Seger was his only real friend. At first, Carl and I and all the younger psychologists were not fully in the picture. We thought we were investigating a group of gifted children. We didn’t even know we were working with twins. We were split up so that we only ever met one sibling. But in time we came to understand and slowly we accepted it – more or less. Carl was the one who had the greatest difficulty coming to terms with the deliberate separation of the twins, probably because he was so close to Leo. The other children did not have the feeling that they had been separated from someone. But Leo was different. He didn’t know that he was an identical twin, only that he’d been adopted. He must have had an inkling, though, as he often said he felt as if he were missing one half of himself. Carl found that increasingly hard to bear. He was forever asking me about Daniel: ‘Does he feel the same way?’ ‘He’s lonely,’ I said, and I mentioned that Daniel had sometimes shown signs of depression. ‘We’ve got to tell them,’ Carl insisted. I told him we couldn’t, it would only make all of us unhappy. But Carl kept on, and in the end he made the biggest mistake of his life. He went to Rakel, and you know …”

  Hilda opened the second bottle, even though the first was not empty.

  “Rakel may give the impression of being business-like and upstanding. She’s completely fooled Leo. They’ve been in touch all these years, get together for Christmas lunch and so on. But in point of fact she’s ice cold. It’s because of her that I’m here under a false name, shaking with fear and getting drunk. She’s kept a close watch over me all these years, and when she wasn’t buttering me up, she was threatening me. She was coming over to my apartment as I was making my escape. I saw her in the street.”

  “So Carl went to her,” Blomkvist said.

  “He marshalled his courage and announced that he was going to tell the full story, whatever the cost. A few days later he was dead, shot in the woods like a hunted animal.”

  “Do you think it was murder?”

  “I have no proof. I’ve always refused to believe it, not wanting to accept that I might have been part of something that was capable of killing.”

  “But in fact you’ve suspected it all along, right?” Blomkvist said.

  Hilda was silent. She drank her rosé and stared at the floor.

  “I read the police report,” Blomkvist said. “It felt dodgy even then, and now I find that you’ve provided a motive. I can see no explanation other than that they were all in it – Mannheimer, Ögren, Greitz, the lot of them. They risked being identified and associated with an operation which had separated children who belonged together. They needed to eliminate the threat before their names were dragged through the mud.”

  Hilda looked frightened and said nothing.

  “It was a high price to pay, though,” she said at length. “Despite all his money and privilege, Leo was never happy. He never recovered his self-confidence. He joined the family business reluctantly, only to be given a rough ride by cretins like Ivar.”

  “What about Daniel, his brother?”

  “In some ways he was stronger, perhaps because he had no choice. All the things Leo was encouraged to be – a literate, educated, musical boy – Daniel had to become in secret, and independently, alone against the odds. But he too felt terrible. He was bullied by his foster brothers and beaten by his father. He was always made to feel like a misfit and an outsider.”

  “What became of him?”

  “He ran away from the farm and vanished off the Registry’s radar. I was fired soon afterwards, so I’m not altogether sure. The last thing I did for him was to recommend a music school in Boston. Then I heard nothing more until …”

  Blomkvist could tell from the atmosphere in the room and the way she handled her glass that something had changed.

  “Until when?”

  “One morning in December a year and a half ago. I was reading the morning paper and having a glass. The telephone rang. The Registry had given us strict instructions never to give the children our real names. But I … I suppose I was already drinking, and in any case I must have let it slip a few times, because Daniel had managed to track me down before. And here he was, calling out of the blue. He said that he had worked it all out.”

  “Worked what out?”

  “That Leo existed, that they were identical twins.”

  “Mirror-image twins, right?”

  “Yes, but I don’t think he was aware of that yet. Anyway it didn’t make a difference, at least not at the time. He was in a terrible rage, asking if I had known. I hesitated for a long time. When I finally told him yes, he was silent. Then he said he would never forgive me and hung up. I wanted to die. I phoned the number back and got through to a hotel in Berlin, but no-one there had heard of a Daniel Brolin. I did everything I could to find him. But it was hopeless.”

  “Do you think he and Leo have met?”

  “No, I don’t believe so.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because that sort of thing always gets out. Several of our identical twins have met as adults. Nowadays, in the world of social media, someone sees a picture on Facebook or Instagram, says it looks just like so-and-so, and then the story spreads and sometimes it gets into the newspapers. It’s the sort of story journalists thrive on. But none of our twins has ever managed to piece it all together. There were always explanations at the ready and the newspapers only emphasized the sensational aspects of the meetings. No-one has looked into the whole thing properly. In fact, I can’t imagine how you got onto it. Everybody’s been scrupulously careful about confidentiality.”

  Blomkvist helped himself to some more rosé, though he did not much care for it, and wondered how to express what he wanted to say. His tone remained sympathetic.

  “I think that’s wishful thinking, Hilda. There’s reason to believe that Daniel and Leo have met. I have a friend who knows Leo well and something doesn’t add up. He” – he opted, for safety’s sake
, to refer to Malin Frode as a ‘he’ – “has studied Leo closely and is convinced that Leo has become right-handed, as I told your sister. On top of which he’s become a very proficient guitar player, apparently from one day to the next.”

  “So he’s also changed instruments!”

  Hilda shrank into her chair. “Are you suggesting …”

  “I’m only asking what conclusions you would draw, if you were being honest with yourself.”

  “If what you say is true, I would think that Leo and Daniel had swapped identities.”

  “But why would they?”

  “Because …” She was searching for words. “Because they both have a strong melancholy streak and are highly gifted. They would be able to move into a completely new context without much difficulty, and maybe they’d see it as a novel and exciting experience. Carl used to tell me that Leo often felt imprisoned in a role he did not enjoy.”

  “And Daniel?”

  “For Daniel … I don’t know, it must be fantastic to be able to step into Leo’s world.”

  “You said that Daniel on the telephone was an explosion of fury, didn’t you? It must have been painful for him to realize that his twin brother grew up in affluent circumstances, while he’s had to work long days on a farm.”

  “Yes, but …”

  Hilda studied the bottles of rosé, as if worried that they might soon run out.

  “You have to understand how exceptionally sensitive and empathic these boys are. Carl and I often talked about it. They were lonely. But the two of them are a perfect match and my guess, if they have met, is that it was a fantastic meeting. It may have been the best, the very happiest thing that’s ever happened to them.”

  “So you don’t think it’s likely that something went wrong?”

  Hilda shook her head. Rather too emphatically, Blomkvist thought.

  “Did you ever tell anybody that Daniel had called you?”

  Hilda hesitated maybe a little too long. She lit a cigarette from the butt of the previous one.