The Girl Who Takes an Eye for an Eye

by David Lagercrantz

  “So what happened?”

  “I’m not altogether sure. All I know is that the university administration produced a couple of students who claimed—or rather hinted, somewhat vaguely—that Hilda had sold herself to them. It felt so cheap—as if they could think of nothing better than to make a whore of her. What are you doing?”

  Without realizing it, Blomkvist had gotten to his feet and was searching on his mobile.

  “I have a Hilda von Kanterborg living on Rutger Fuchsgatan. Do you think that’s her?”

  “There can’t be many with that name. Why are you so interested in her all of a sudden?”

  “Because…” Blomkvist trailed off. “It’s complicated. But you’ve been very helpful.”

  “Does that mean you’re off now?”

  “Yes, I have to move quickly. I have a feeling that…”

  He did not finish that sentence either. Malin called, sounding at least as agitated as he was. He said he would call her back. He shook Ellenor Hjort’s hand, thanked her and ran down the stairs. Out on the street he called Hilda von Kanterborg.

  DECEMBER, ONE AND A HALF YEARS EARLIER

  What can be forgiven, and what cannot? Leo Mannheimer and Carl Seger had often discussed this. These were questions important to both of them, but in different ways. For the most part their position was generous: most things could be forgiven, even Ivar’s bullying. For the time being, Leo was reconciled with him. Ivar didn’t know any better; he was malicious in the same way that others are shy or unmusical. He had as little understanding of other people’s feelings as someone with a tin ear has of tones and melodies. Leo indulged him, and occasionally he would be rewarded by a friendly pat on the shoulder, a look of complicity. Ivar often asked him for advice, maybe out of self-interest, but still…Sometimes he paid him a backhanded compliment: “You’re not so stupid after all, Leo!”

  Ivar’s marriage to Madeleine Bard destroyed all that. It pitched Leo into a hatred which no amount of therapy could cure or check. Nor did he resist it. He welcomed it as a fever, a storm. It was worst at night or in the small hours. That was when a thirst for revenge pounded in his temples and his heart. He fantasized about shootings and other accidents, social humiliation, sicknesses, hideous skin rashes. He even pricked holes in photographs and used the power of thinking to try to get Ivar to fall from balconies and terraces. He teetered on the edge of madness. But nothing came of it, except that Ivar became vigilant and anxious and possibly started planning something himself. Time passed and the situation sometimes got better, sometimes worse.

  It was snowing and exceptionally cold. His mother was on her deathbed. He sat with her three or four times a week and tried to be a good, comforting son. But it was not easy. Her illness had not made her any milder. The morphine had peeled off yet another layer of restraint, and on two separate occasions she called him weak:

  “You have always been a disappointment, Leo,” she said.

  He did not answer his mother when she was like this, but he did dream of leaving the country for good. He was not seeing many people other than Malin Frode, who was getting a divorce and was about to leave the firm. Leo never believed that she loved him, but it was nice just to be with her. They helped each other through a difficult time and they laughed together, even if the anger and fantasies did not disappear even then. At times Leo became genuinely frightened of Ivar. He imagined that he was being followed, spied on. He no longer had any illusions. Ivar was capable of just about anything.

  Leo felt that he too was capable of just about anything. Maybe one day he would hurl himself at Ivar and cause him a terrible injury. Either that or he would get ambushed. He tried to dismiss it all as paranoia and foolishness, but the feeling would not go away. He kept hearing footsteps behind him, and felt eyes on his back. He imagined shadow-like figures in alleyways and on street corners, and a few times in Humlegården he found himself suddenly turning to look, but he never saw anything unusual.

  On Friday, December 15, it was snowing harder than ever. The Christmas decorations were sparkling in the streets and he went home early. He changed into jeans and a woollen sweater and put a glass of red wine on the grand piano. It was a Bösendorfer Imperial with ninety-seven keys. He tuned it himself every Monday. The piano stool was a black-leather Jansen, and he sat down and played a new composition which he began in a Dorian flat mode. At the end of every phrase landed on the seventh tone, he produced a sound which was both ominous and mournful. He played for a good while and heard nothing else, not even the footsteps in the stairwell. He was deep in concentration. But then he registered something so peculiar that for a while he thought it was a figment of his own heated imagination, the result of his hypersensitive hearing. Yet it really did sound as if someone was accompanying him on a guitar. He stopped playing and went to the front door. He thought about calling out through the mail slot.

  Instead he unlocked and opened the door, and then it was as if he had cut himself loose from reality.

  CHAPTER 11

  June 20

  In the maximum security unit, the prisoners had finished their supper and left the dining hall. Some had headed off to work out. Two or three were smoking and gossiping in the exercise yard. Others were glued to a film—Ocean’s Eleven. The rest were wandering up and down the corridor and the recreation rooms, or talking in hushed voices in each other’s cells with the doors wide open. It could have been almost any day. But nothing would ever be the same again.

  Not only were there more guards than usual, but there was also a ban on visits and telephone calls, and it was hotter and stuffier than before. Rikard Fager, the prison governor, had been doing the rounds, and the guards, already affected by the atmosphere among the inmates, became even more apprehensive.

  The air was vibrating with a feeling of liberation. People walked and smiled with a new sense of freedom. The general hubbub was now lighter and more lively, no longer fraught with fear and anxiety. On the other hand there was uncertainty, and evidence of a power vacuum. It was as if a tyrant had fallen. A few—and Tine Grönlund was one—seemed fearful of being attacked from behind. Everywhere people were discussing what had happened and what would happen next.

  Even if much of it was myth and hearsay, the prisoners still had more information than the guards. Everyone knew that it was Salander who had smashed Benito’s jaw, and they all knew that her life was very much in danger. There were rumours that relatives of Salander had already been murdered and that the revenge would be terrible, especially because Benito was said to have been disfigured for life. It was common knowledge that there was a price on Faria Kazi’s head and there were whispers that the reward was being put up by rich Islamists, by sheiks even.

  They all knew Benito was being transferred to a new prison straight from the hospital, as soon as she was fit to be moved, and that major changes were in store. The mere fact that the governor was on the scene suggested as much. Fager was the most detested person in the place—if you discounted the women in C Block who had murdered their own children. But for once the prisoners regarded him not only with hostility, but also with a degree of hope. Who knows, maybe things would ease up now that Benito was gone?

  Fager looked at his watch and waved away one of the inmates who came to complain about the heat. Fager was forty-nine years old and good-looking, but with a blank expression. He was wearing a grey suit, red tie and polished Alden shoes. Even though prison management tended to dress down to avoid provocation, he did the exact opposite so as to reinforce his authority. Today he regretted it. Sweat ran down his forehead and he was uncomfortable in his close-fitting jacket. His trousers were sticking to his thighs. He took a call on the intercom.

  Afterwards, he gave a tight-lipped nod and went up to acting head guard Lindfors and whispered something in her ear. Then he walked off in the direction of cell number seven, where Salander had been in isolation since the previous evening.

  —

  Salander was at her desk doing some calculat
ions on a particular aspect of so-called Wilson loops, which had become increasingly central to her efforts to formulate loop quantum gravity, when Fager and Lindfors walked into her cell. But she saw no reason to look up or interrupt her work. She did not notice that the governor prodded Lindfors, prompting her to announce his arrival.

  “The governor is here to talk to you,” Lindfors said in a stern voice and with a look of distaste. Only then did Salander turn. She noted that Fager was brushing at something on his jacket sleeves, as if fearing that he had already picked up some dirt in the cell.

  His lips moved almost imperceptibly and he narrowed his eyes. It looked as if he was trying to suppress a grimace. Clearly he didn’t like her, and that suited her just fine. She did not care for him either. She had read too many of his e-mails.

  “I’ve got good news,” he said.

  Salander said nothing.

  “Good news,” he said again.

  Still she said nothing, and that seemed to irritate Fager.

  “Are you deaf or something?” he said.

  “No.”

  She looked down at the floor.

  “Ah, OK, well that’s good,” he said. “Listen, you’ve got another nine days to go. But we’re going to release you tomorrow morning. You’ll be questioned shortly by Chief Inspector Jan Bublanski from Stockholm police, and we’d like you to be cooperative.”

  “You don’t want me in here anymore?”

  “It’s got nothing to do with what we do or don’t want. We have our instructions, and also the staff have confirmed…”

  Fager seemed to be having difficulty getting the words out.

  “…that you’ve conducted yourself well, and that’s enough for an early release.”

  “I have not conducted myself well,” she said.

  “Haven’t you? I’ve had reports…”

  “Bullshit window dressing, I’m sure. Like your own reports.”

  “What do you know about my reports?”

  Salander was still looking at the floor and her answer was matter-of-fact, as if she was reading it out:

  “I know that they’re badly written and wordy. You often use the wrong prepositions and your style is stilted. But above all they’re ingratiating and ignorant, and sometimes untruthful. You withhold information which you’ve obviously received. You’ve persuaded the board of the prison service that the maximum security unit is a great place, and that’s a serious matter, Rikard. It’s one of the factors that’s made Faria Kazi’s time here a living hell. It just about cost her her life, and that makes me fucking angry.”

  Fager gaped and his mouth twitched. The blood drained from his face. But still he managed to clear his throat and said incoherently:

  “What are you saying, girl? What do you mean? Did you see some official documents, then?”

  “Some of them may have been official, yes.”

  Fager hardly seemed conscious of what he was saying:

  “You’re lying!”

  “I’m not lying. I’ve read them and it’s none of your business how.”

  His whole body was shaking.

  “You are…”

  “What?”

  Fager did not seem able to come up with anything fitting.

  “Just remember that the decision to release you can be revoked at any time,” he barked instead.

  “Go ahead then, revoke it. There’s only one thing I care about.”

  Sweat broke out on Fager’s upper lip.

  “And what might that be?” he said guardedly.

  “For Faria Kazi to get support and help and be kept in absolute safety until her lawyer, Annika Giannini, can get her out of here. After that she’ll need witness protection.”

  Fager roared, “You’re not in a position to ask for anything!”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. You, on the other hand, shouldn’t be in any position at all,” she said. “You’re a liar and a hypocrite, and you’ve allowed a gangster to take over the most critical unit in your prison.”

  “I don’t think you know what you’re talking about,” he spluttered.

  “I couldn’t care less what you think. I have the proof. All I need to know is what you’re going to do about Faria Kazi.”

  His gaze was unsteady.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll look after her,” he said.

  He seemed embarrassed, and added ominously:

  “You know that Faria Kazi isn’t the only person receiving serious threats.”

  “Get out,” she said.

  “I’m warning you. I will not tolerate—”

  “Out!”

  Fager’s right hand shook. His lips twitched, and for a second or two he stood as if paralyzed. He clearly wanted to say something more, but instead he turned and ordered Lindfors to lock up. Then he slammed the door shut and his heavy footsteps resounded in the corridor.

  —

  Faria Kazi heard them and thought of Salander. In her mind’s eye she kept seeing Salander going on the attack and Benito crashing to the concrete floor. She could hardly concentrate on anything else. The scene played over and again in her thoughts. Sometimes it triggered associations to the events that had led to her now sitting in prison.

  She remembered how she had been lying in her room in Sickla a few days after the stolen phone conversation with Jamal, reading poems by Tagore. Bashir had looked in at around 3:00 p.m. that day and had snarled that girls should not read because it only turns them into whores and heretics, and then he slapped her. But for once she felt neither angry nor humiliated. In fact she gained strength from that blow. She got up and paced around the apartment, seldom taking her eyes off her youngest brother, Khalil.

  That afternoon she changed her plans minute by minute. She considered asking Khalil to let her out of the apartment when nobody was looking. She would get him to call the social services, the police, her old school. Or he could contact a journalist or Imam Ferdousi, or their aunt Fatima. She would tell him that if he did not help her, she would slit her wrists.

  But she said none of those things. Just before 5:00 p.m. she looked in her wardrobe. There was nothing much there except for veils and casual wear. The dresses and skirts had long since been cut up or thrown away. But she still had a pair of jeans and a black blouse. She pulled them on with some sneakers and went into the kitchen, where Bashir was sitting with Ahmed. They glared suspiciously at her before turning away. She wanted to scream and smash every glass and plate in there. But she just stood still and listened as footsteps headed towards the front door. Khalil’s footsteps. Then she acted with lightning speed, as if she could not quite believe what she was doing, and pulled a kitchen knife out of a drawer, hiding it under her blouse before hurrying out of the kitchen.

  Khalil was standing at the front door in his blue tracksuit, looking miserable and lost. He must have heard her steps, because he was fumbling nervously with the key in the security lock. Faria was panting. She said:

  “You have to let me out, Khalil. I can’t live like this. I’d rather kill myself.”

  Khalil turned and gave her a look of such unhappiness that she recoiled. At the same moment, she heard Bashir and Ahmed pushing back their chairs in the kitchen. She drew her knife and said quietly:

  “Pretend that I threatened you, Khalil. Do whatever you want. Just let me out!”

  “They’ll kill me,” he said, and then she thought it was all over.

  It was not going to work. That was too high a price to pay. Bashir and Ahmed came closer, and she could also hear voices coming up the stairs. That was it. She was sure she had failed. And yet…his face still a picture of sorrow, Khalil opened the door, and she dropped the knife on the floor and ran. She dodged past her father and Razan out in the corridor and raced down the stairs, and for a while she heard nothing, only her own breathing and her own steps. Then voices came rumbling from above. Heavy, angry feet pounded after her. Now she remembered how it had felt to be actually running away. It had felt so strange. She had not been outsid
e for months. She had hardly moved and was obviously not in any sort of shape. But it felt as if she were being borne along by the autumn winds and the bracing cold.

  She ran as she had never run before, this way and that among the houses, along the waterfront at Hammarbyhamnen and then up again along the streets over the bridge to Ringvägen. There she jumped on a bus which took her to Vasastan, where she kept on running, and once or twice she lost her footing and fell. Her elbows were bleeding by the time she went in through the street entrance at Upplandsgatan and rushed up three flights of stairs.

  She rang the bell and stood there, and she recalled hearing footsteps inside. She prayed and hoped and closed her eyes. Then the door opened and she was terrified. Jamal Chowdhury was wearing a dressing gown even though it was the middle of the day, and he was unshaven and tousle-haired and seemed disoriented, almost frightened. For a second she thought she had made a mistake. But Jamal was only shocked. He could hardly take it in.

  “Thank God!” he said.

  Shaking all over, she fell into his arms and would not let him go. He led her into the apartment and closed the door. He too had a heavy security lock, but here it made her feel safe. For a long time they did not utter a word. They just lay entwined on the narrow bed and the hours went by, and then they began to talk and kiss and cry, and in the end they made love. Slowly, the pressure in her chest eased, the fear ebbed away. She and Chowdhury became one in a way she had never experienced with anyone. But what she did not know—and would not have wanted to know—was that something was changing at the apartment in Sickla. The family had acquired a new enemy, and that enemy was her brother Khalil.

  —

  Blomkvist could not understand what Malin was telling him. He was so focused on trying to get hold of Hilda von Kanterborg that he was barely listening. He was in a taxi crossing Västerbron on his way to Rutger Fuchsgatan in Skanstull. People were sunbathing in the park below. Motorboats cruised out on Riddarfjärden.