“Once when it happened, I was right there. My best friend’s blood was all over my sweater,” he said. Even though she did not fully understand, at least not then, still she sensed a sorrow in him which was greater than her own, and she felt a closeness which she should not reasonably have been able to feel on such brief acquaintance.
His name was Jamal Chowdhury. She took his hand and they wandered towards Riksdagshuset. She was having difficulty swallowing. It was the first time in ages that she had felt completely alive. But the feeling did not last long. She became anxious and imagined Bashir’s black eyes. When they reached Gamla Stan she went her own way. But during the days and weeks that followed she sought comfort in the memory of their meeting. It was like a secret treasure chamber.
Hardly surprising then that she clung to it in prison, especially on this evening just before the freight train came thundering by. With Benito’s footsteps approaching, Faria knew in her whole body that this time would be worse than ever.
—
Olsen was in his office, still waiting for a call from Fager. But time passed and no call came. He swore under his breath and thought about his daughter. Olsen was scheduled to be off today with Vilda at a football tournament in Västerås, but he had cancelled everything because he did not dare to be away from the unit. When he asked his aunt to babysit for the umpteenth time, he felt like the worst father ever, but what was he to do?
His efforts to have Benito transferred had backfired. Benito knew all about it and glared threateningly at him. The whole place was seething. Everywhere the prisoners were whispering to each other as if there was about to be a major clash or breakout, and he, in turn, looked pleadingly at Salander. She had promised to deal with the situation, which worried him as much as the problem itself, and he had insisted that he would attempt to resolve it first. Five days had now passed and he had achieved nothing. He was scared to death.
Still, there was one positive outcome. He had believed he would have to face an internal investigation because he was caught on camera going into his office with Salander after lockup, and staying until the small hours. In the days that followed, he fully expected at any moment to be summoned before the management and made to face the most awkward questions. But it didn’t happen. In the end he could stand it no longer, and on the pretext of needing to check some incidents involving Beatrice Andersson, he took himself off to the monitoring centre in B Unit. Apprehensively he located footage from the evening of June 12 to the early hours of June 13.
At first he could not take it in. He played the video over and over, but all he saw was a quiet, deserted corridor with no trace of either him or Salander. He was safe. Although he would have loved to believe that, miraculously, the cameras happened not to be working at that precise time, he knew better. He had witnessed Salander hacking into the institution’s server. She must have replaced some of the surveillance footage. It was a huge relief, but it also terrified him. He swore and once again checked his e-mail. Not one word. Was it really so damned difficult for someone to come and take Benito away?
It was 7:15 p.m. Outside, the rain was cascading down, and he ought to be checking that nothing unpleasant was happening in Kazi’s cell. He should be out there man-marking Benito and making her life a misery. But he stayed where he was, paralyzed. He looked around his office and felt queasy. What could Salander have done yesterday when she was in here? Those hours had been weird. She had gone through those old registers again, this time searching for a Daniel Brolin. That much he knew, but otherwise Olsen had tried to avoid looking. He did not want to get involved. But then he had become involved, after all, whether he liked it or not. Salander had made a phone call via his computer. The strange thing was that she had sounded like a different person, friendly and thoughtful. During the conversation she asked if any new documents had turned up. And then, immediately afterwards, she had asked to be taken back to her cell.
Twenty-four hours later, Olsen was becoming increasingly uncomfortable, and resolved to go out into the unit. He jumped up from his office chair, but got no further. The internal telephone buzzed. It was Fager, finally calling back. Hammerfors Prison in Härnösand could take Benito the next morning. It was excellent news but Olsen was not as relieved as he thought he would be. At first he did not understand why. Then he heard the freight train passing. He hung up without another word and hurried to the cells.
—
Blomkvist would later say he had been assaulted. But it was one of the more agreeable assaults he had been subjected to in a long time. Malin Frode was in the doorway, soaked from the rain, make-up running down her cheeks, with a wild and determined look in her eyes. Blomkvist was not sure if she was there to punch him or tear his clothes off.
The result was somewhere in between. She pushed him against the wall, grabbed his hips and told him he was going to be punished for being all work and no play, and at the same time sexy as hell. And before he knew it she was straddling him on the bed. She came not once but twice.
Afterwards they lay close to each other, breathing heavily. He stroked her hair and said affectionate things to her. He realized he had really missed her. Sailing boats were crisscrossing on Riddarfjärden. Raindrops drummed on the rooftops. It was a good moment. But his thoughts drifted, and Malin was immediately aware of it.
“Am I boring you already?” she said.
“What? No, no, I’ve been longing for you,” he said, and he meant it. But he was also feeling guilty. Moments after making love with a woman he hadn’t been with for a long time, he shouldn’t be thinking about work.
“When did you last utter an honest word?”
“I do try to, and quite often, actually.”
“Is it Erika again?”
“Well, no. It’s what we talked about on the phone.”
“The hacker attack?”
“And other things.”
“And Leo?”
“Him too.”
“Then tell me, for God’s sake. Why the hell are you so interested in him?”
“I’m not sure I am. I’m just trying to piece together some things.”
“That’s clear as mud, Kalle Blomkvist.”
“Oh?”
“So there’s something you’re not telling me. Maybe you’re trying to protect your source?” she said.
“Maybe.”
“Bastard!”
“Sorry.”
Her face softened and she brushed back a lock of her hair.
“I did actually think about Leo for a long time after we spoke,” she said.
She drew the duvet closer around her. She was irresistible.
“Did you come up with anything?” he asked her.
“I remembered him promising to tell me what had made him so happy. But then when he was no longer happy it seemed heartless to press him.”
“What made you think of that?”
She hesitated and looked out the window.
“Probably because I was glad of his happiness, but I worried about it too. It was excessive.”
“Perhaps he was in love.”
“I asked him exactly that and he flatly denied it. We were in the bar at Riche, and that in itself was unusual. Leo hated crowds. But he had agreed to come and we were supposed to be discussing who would be taking over from me. Leo was impossible. As soon as I mentioned some names, he changed the subject; he wanted to talk about love and life, and he went into a monologue about his music. It was incomprehensible and pretty dull, frankly. Something about being born to like certain harmonies and scales. I wasn’t really listening. He was on such a high that I was offended, and like a fool I went at him. ‘What’s going on? You’ve got to tell me.’ But he refused to say anything else. He couldn’t tell me, not yet. All he would say was that he had finally discovered where he belonged.”
“He’d seen the light?”
“Leo hated religion.”
“So what was it?”
“No idea. All I know is that it ended as quickly a
s it started, a few days later. He totally fell apart.”
“How do you mean?”
“It was just before Christmas a year and a half ago, my last day at Alfred Ögren. I’d had a farewell party at home and Leo hadn’t turned up, and that upset me. After all, we had been close.” She shot Blomkvist a look. “No need to be jealous.”
“It takes more than that to make me jealous.”
“I know. And I hate you for it. You could at least humour me by pretending. Anyway, we had a harmless flirtation, Leo and I, around the time I met you. My life was a disaster, what with the divorce and everything, and that’s probably why I was so struck by the immense happiness he had suddenly found. Plus it was at odds with his character. After the party, I called him in the middle of the night and he was still in the office, which only upset me more. But he apologized so profusely that I forgave him, and when he asked me to come up for a nightcap I ran over right away. I had no idea what to expect. Leo wasn’t exactly a workaholic, and there was no reason for him to be there that late. That room used to be his father’s office. There’s a Dardel hanging on the wall. A Haupt chest of drawers standing in the corner. Mind-boggling. Sometimes Leo would say he was embarrassed by it, by the obscene luxury. But that evening when I went up there…I can hardly describe it. His eyes glowed, and there was something new, something broken in his voice. He was trying his best to smile and look happy, but his eyes looked lost and sad. There was an empty bottle of Burgundy and two used glasses on the chest of drawers. He had obviously had a visitor. We embraced and exchanged pleasantries, drank half a bottle of Champagne and promised to stay in touch. But it was obvious his mind was elsewhere. In the end I said: ‘You don’t seem happy anymore.’ ‘I am happy,’ he said. ‘I’ve just…’ He didn’t finish the sentence. He was quiet for a long time. Drained his glass of Champagne. Looked upset. Said he was going to make a large donation.”
“To whom?”
“I have no idea, and I wondered if it was a spur of the moment decision. He immediately seemed embarrassed by what he had said, and I decided not to pursue it. It felt too private, and afterwards we just sat there awkwardly. In the end I got up, and he jumped up too, and we hugged again and kissed a little half-heartedly. I told him to take care and went out into the corridor to wait for the lift. A minute later I was getting annoyed and decided to go back. Why was he being secretive? What was he playing at? I wanted to understand. But when I reached his room—I mean, even before I could open my mouth—I realized I was disturbing him. He was sitting, writing on a distinctive-looking sheet of paper, and you could tell that he was taking extra care with each word. His shoulders were tense. He seemed to have tears in his eyes. I didn’t have the heart to interrupt, and he never even noticed me.”
“You have no idea what it was all about?”
“I guessed afterwards that it had something to do with his mother. She died a few days later, and Leo took a leave of absence as you know and disappeared on those extended travels. I should probably have gotten in touch and expressed my condolences. But, as you know, my own life then turned into a nightmare. I was working day and night at my new job, and having spectacular fights with my ex-husband in between. And on top of all that I was sleeping with you.”
“Must have been the worst part.”
“Probably was.”
“And you haven’t seen Leo since?”
“Not in the flesh, just in a short clip on T.V. I think I’d forgotten about him, or more likely pushed him from my mind. But when you called today”—Malin hesitated, as if she was searching for words—“I remembered that scene from the office, and it felt somehow wrong. I couldn’t put my finger on it. It just bothered me. In the end I got so irritated that I tried to call him, but he’s changed his number.”
“Did I mention the psychologist who was killed at an Alfred Ögren hunting party? It happened when Leo was a child,” Blomkvist said.
“Er, no, why?”
“His name was Carl Seger.”
“The name doesn’t ring a bell. What happened?”
“Seger was shot in the stomach twenty-five years ago during an elk hunt, in the forests around Östhammar—probably by accident. The person who fired the gun was Rosvik’s C.F.O., Per Fält.”
“Do you suspect foul play?”
“Not really, at least not yet. But I thought Seger and Leo may have had a close relationship. Leo’s parents were prepared to invest a lot in the boy, weren’t they? Practising for I.Q. tests and so forth. I read that Seger wrote about the importance of self-confidence for young people’s development, so I was wondering—”
“Leo probably had more self-doubt than self-confidence,” Malin said.
“Seger wrote about that too. Did Leo talk often about his parents?”
“Sometimes, but only reluctantly.”
“Doesn’t sound good.”
“I’m sure Herman and Viveka had their qualities, but I believe one of Leo’s tragedies was that he never managed to stand up to them. He was never allowed to go his own way.”
“His becoming a reluctant financier, in other words.”
“Some part of him must have wanted that too. Things are never straightforward. But I’m pretty sure his dream was to break free. Maybe that’s why that scene at his desk troubles me. He almost seemed to be saying farewell—not just to his mother but also to something else, something bigger.”
“You called him a Hamlet.”
“Mainly as a contrast to you, I think. But it’s true that he dithered about everything.”
“Hamlet turned violent in the end.”
“Ha, yes, but Leo would never…”
“Never what?”
A shadow flitted over Malin’s face, and Blomkvist put a hand on her shoulder.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh, come on.”
“Well, I did once see Leo lose it completely,” she said.
—
At 7:29 p.m. Faria felt the first shuddering of the freight train like a fierce pain shooting through her body. Only sixteen minutes to go before locking up. But a lot could happen in that time, she knew that better than anyone. The guards were rattling their keys out in the corridor, voices were raised, and even though she did not catch what was said, she could sense agitation in the hubbub. She had no idea what it was about, only that there was an urgency. And she had heard a rumour that Benito might be leaving. An hour ago it had felt like thunder was on its way. Now the shaking of the train was all that reached them from the outside world.
The walls appeared to be quaking, the inmates were walking back and forth, yet nothing serious seemed to be happening. Perhaps she would be left in peace tonight after all. The guards looked more watchful. The warden, Olsen, had been keeping a close eye on her, and he seemed to be working all hours. Maybe he would protect her, finally. Maybe it would be alright, whatever was being whispered out there. She thought about her brothers and her mother, and how once upon a time the sun had shone over the lawns in Vallholmen.
But her dreaming was cut short. The sound of shuffling sandals could be heard from some distance, a sound she recognized with fear, and now there could be no doubt. Faria found it hard to breathe. She wished she could smash a hole in the wall and escape along the railway line, or vanish as if by magic, but she was at the mercy of her cell and her bed. She was as vulnerable as she had ever been in Sickla, and she tried to think about Jamal again. But that did not help; there was no solace to be found anywhere. The freight train rumbled past, the footsteps got closer and soon she would smell that sweet perfume again. Within a few seconds she would be slung into the same bottomless pit as ever, and it did not matter how many times she told herself that her life was already ruined, that she had nothing more to lose. She was petrified every time Benito appeared in her doorway and with a winning smile told her that her brothers sent their regards.
It was not clear whether Benito had ever met Bashir and Ahmed or was even in touch with them
. The greeting was like a deadly threat, and it was always followed by Benito slapping and caressing her, touching her breasts and between her legs, calling her a slut and a whore. But the fondling and the insults weren’t the worst of it. It was the feeling that this was all a preparation for something far more terrible. Sometimes she expected to see a glint of steel in Benito’s hand.
Benito owed her notoriety to a pair of Indonesian knives she was rumoured to have forged herself while uttering a stream of oaths. It was said that just having the knives pointed at a person was a death sentence. The myths accompanied Benito along the prison corridors like an evil aura that mingled with her perfume. Faria had often imagined what would happen if Benito came at her with knives. Some days she thought she would welcome it.
She listened for sounds in the unit, and for a moment her hopes lifted. There was no longer shuffling. Had Benito been stopped? No, the feet were on the move again, and Benito had company. Now the smell of perfume was mixed with an acrid stench of sweat, and peppermints. Tine Grönlund, Benito’s stooge and bodyguard. Faria knew that this was no reprieve, but rather an escalation. It was going to be bad.
Benito’s painted toenails were now visible in the doorway, her pale feet sticking out of standard-issue plastic sandals. She had rolled up her shirtsleeves to expose her snake tattoos. She was sweaty, and made up, and cold-eyed. Yet she was smiling. Nobody had as unpleasant a smile as Benito. She was followed by Grönlund, who closed the cell door behind them—even though only the guards were allowed to close doors.
“Greta and Lauren are right outside. So we don’t need to worry about being disturbed,” Grönlund said.
Benito took a step towards Faria, fingering something in her trouser pocket. Her smile narrowed to a thin line, a mere suggestion. New furrows formed on her pale forehead. A drop of sweat appeared on her lip.
The Girl Who Takes an Eye for an Eye Page 6