Stieg Larsson [Millennium 02] The Girl Who Played with Fire v5.0 (LIT)

by Неизвестный

  The story was mainly about Miriam Wu and was illustrated with a picture taken from a show at Bern’s in which she had performed. She was topless and wearing a Russian army officer’s cap. Her eyes were blacked out too.

  SALANDER’S GIRLFRIEND WROTE ABOUT

  LESBIAN S&M SEX

  The 31-year-old woman is well known in Stockholm’s trendy nightspots. She makes no secret that she picks up women and likes to dominate her partner.

  The reporter had even found a girl he called Sara who, according to her own testimony, had been the object of the woman’s pickup attempts. Her boyfriend had been “disturbed” by the incident. The article went on to say that the band was an obscure and elitist feminist variant on the fringes of the gay movement, and that it had acquired a certain fame for hosting a “bondage workshop” at the Gay Pride Festival. The rest of the article was based on a deliberately provocative piece Wu had written six years earlier for a feminist fanzine. Bublanski scanned the text and then tossed the paper into a trash can.

  He brooded over Faste and Modig, both competent detectives. But Faste was a problem; he got on people’s nerves. He would have to have a talk with the man, but he didn’t think he was the source of the leaks.

  When Bublanski got his bearings again he was standing on Lundagatan staring at the front door of Salander’s building. It had not been a conscious decision to walk there.

  He walked up the steps to upper Lundagatan, where he stood for a long time thinking about Blomkvist’s story of Salander’s attack. That didn’t lead anywhere either. There was no police report, no names of persons involved, and not even an adequate description of the attacker. Blomkvist had claimed that he could not read the licence plate of the van that drove away from the scene.

  Assuming any of it had happened at all.

  Another dead end.

  Bublanski looked down Lundagatan at the burgundy Honda that was still parked in the street, and at that moment Blomkvist walked up to the front door.

  Miriam Wu awoke late in the day, tangled in the sheets. She sat up and looked around at the unfamiliar room.

  She had used the torrent of media attention as an excuse to call a girlfriend. But she had also left the apartment, she realized, because she was afraid that Salander might knock on her door. Her interview with the police and the newspaper coverage had affected her profoundly, and even though she had resolved not to make up her mind one way or the other until Salander had a chance to explain what had happened, she had started to suspect that her friend might actually be guilty.

  She glanced down at Viktoria Viktorsson—known as Double-V and 100 percent dyke. She was lying on her stomach and mumbling in her sleep. Miriam slipped out of bed and took a shower. Then she went out to buy rolls for breakfast. It was not until she was standing at the cash register of the shop next to Café Cinnamon on Verkstadsgatan that she saw the headlines. She fled back to Double-V’s apartment.

  • • •

  Blomkvist punched in the entry code and went inside. He was gone for two minutes before he reappeared. Nobody home. He looked up and down the street, apparently undecided. Bublanski watched him intently.

  What bothered Bublanski was that if Blomkvist had lied about the attack on Lundagatan then he was playing some kind of game, which in the worst case could mean that he was involved in the murders. But if he was telling the truth there was still a hidden element in the drama; there were more players than those who were visible, and the murders could be considerably more complex than an attack of insanity in a pathologically disturbed girl.

  As Blomkvist moved towards Zinkensdamm, Bublanski called after him. Blomkvist stopped, saw the detective, and walked over to him. They met at the foot of the steps.

  “Hello, Blomkvist. Looking for Lisbeth Salander?”

  “As a matter of fact, no. I’m looking for Miriam Wu.”

  “She isn’t home. Somebody leaked the news to the press that she had resurfaced.”

  “What did she have to say?”

  Bublanski gave Blomkvist a searching look. Kalle Blomkvist.

  “Walk with me,” Bublanski said. “I need a cup of coffee.”

  They passed Högalid Church in silence. Bublanski took him to Café Lillasyster, near to where Liljeholmsbron crosses the Norrström to the southern suburb of Liljeholmen. Bublanski ordered a double espresso with a teaspoonful of cold milk and Blomkvist a caffè latte. They sat in the smoking section.

  “It’s been a long time since I’ve had such a frustrating case,” Bublanski said. “How much can I discuss with you without having to read it in Expressen tomorrow morning?”

  “I don’t work for Expressen.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Bublanski—I don’t believe Lisbeth is guilty.”

  “And now you’re doing your own private investigation? Is that why they call you Kalle Blomkvist?”

  Blomkvist smiled. “They tell me you’re called Officer Bubble.”

  Bublanski gave him a stiff smile. “Why do you think Salander is innocent?”

  “I don’t know a thing about her guardian, but she had no reason whatsoever to murder Dag and Mia. Especially not Mia. Lisbeth loathes men who hate women, and Mia was in the process of putting the screws to a whole bunch of prostitutes’ clients. What Mia was doing was completely in line with what Lisbeth herself would have done. She is a very moral creature.”

  “I can’t seem to piece together a coherent picture of her. A retarded psycho case or a skilled researcher?”

  “Lisbeth is just different. She’s abnormally antisocial, but there is definitely nothing wrong with her intelligence. On the contrary, she’s probably smarter than you or me.”

  Bublanski sighed. Blomkvist was giving him the same story that Miriam Wu had.

  “She has to be caught, come what may. I can’t go into the details, but she was at the murder scene, and she has been linked to the murder weapon.”

  “I suppose that means you found her fingerprints on it. That doesn’t prove she fired the shots.”

  Bublanski nodded. “Dragan Armansky doesn’t believe it either. He’s too cautious to say it straight out, but he’s also looking for proof that she’s innocent.”

  “And you? What do you think?”

  “I’m a detective. I arrest people and question them. Right now things look dismal for Fröken Salander. We’ve put away murderers on considerably weaker circumstantial evidence.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I don’t know. If she did turn out to be innocent… Who do you think would have a motive for killing both her guardian and your two friends?”

  Blomkvist took out a pack of cigarettes and offered it to Bublanski, who shook his head. He did not want to lie to the police. He ought to say something about the man known as Zala. He should also tell Bublanski about Superintendent Gunnar Björck of the Security Police.

  But Bublanski and his colleagues had access to Svensson’s material, which contained the same folder. All they had to do was read it. Instead they were charging along like a steamroller and feeding salacious details about Salander to the press.

  He had an idea, but didn’t know where it would lead. He didn’t want to name Björck before he was sure. Zalachenko. That was the link between Bjurman and Dag and Mia. The problem was that Björck so far hadn’t told him anything.

  “Let me dig a little deeper, then I’ll give you an alternative theory.”

  “No police traces, I hope.”

  “Not yet. What did Miriam Wu say?”

  “Just about the same as you. They had a relationship.”

  “None of my business,” Blomkvist said.

  “She and Salander have known each other for three years. She says she knows nothing about Salander’s background and didn’t even know where she worked. It’s hard to believe, but I think she’s telling the truth.”

  “Lisbeth is obsessively private,” Blomkvist said. “Do you have Miriam Wu’s phone number?”

 
“Yes.”

  “Can I have it?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mikael, this is police business. We don’t need private investigators with wild theories.”

  “I don’t have any theories yet. On the other hand, I think the answer lies somewhere in Svensson’s material.”

  “You could get in touch with Wu if you made an effort.”

  “Probably, but the simplest way is to ask somebody who already has the number.”

  Bublanski sighed.

  Blomkvist was suddenly very annoyed with him. “Are policemen more talented than normal people, the ones you call private investigators?”

  “No, I don’t think that. But the police have the training and it’s their job to solve crimes.”

  “Ordinary people have training too,” Blomkvist said slowly. “And sometimes a private investigator is better at working things out than a real detective.”

  “So you believe.”

  “I know it. Take the Rahman case.∗ A bunch of policemen sat on their backsides with their eyes closed for five years while Rahman was locked up, innocent of the murder of an old lady. He would still be locked up today if a schoolteacher hadn’t devoted several years to a serious investigation. She did it without the resources you have at your disposal. Not only did she prove that he was innocent, but she also identified the person who in all probability was the real killer.”

  “We did lose face in the Rahman case. The prosecutor refused to listen to the facts.”

  “Bublanski… I’m going to tell you something. At this very moment you’re losing face in the Salander case as well. I’m damn sure that she did not kill Dag and Mia, and I’m going to prove it. I’m going to produce another killer for you, and when that happens I am also going to write an article that you and your colleagues are going to find painful reading.”

  On his way home to Katarina Bangata, Bublanski felt an urge to talk with God about the case, but instead of going to the synagogue he went to the Catholic church on Folkungagatan. He sat in one of the pews at the back and did not move for over an hour. As a Jew he had no business being in a church, but it was a peaceful place that he regularly visited when he felt the need to sort out his thoughts, and he knew that God did not mind. There was a difference, besides, between Catholicism and Judaism. He went to the synagogue when he needed company and fellowship with other people. Catholics went to church to seek peace in the presence of God. The church invited silence and visitors would always be left to themselves.

  He brooded about Salander and Wu. And he wondered what Berger and Blomkvist might be withholding from him—certainly they knew something about Salander that they hadn’t told him. What sort of research had Salander done for Blomkvist? For a moment Bublanski considered whether she might have worked on the Wennerström exposé, but then dismissed that possibility. Salander couldn’t have contributed anything of value there, no matter how good she was at personal investigations.

  Bublanski was worried: he did not like Blomkvist’s cocksure certainty that Salander was innocent. It was one thing for him as a detective to be beset by doubt—doubting was his job. It was quite another thing for Blomkvist to deliver an ultimatum as a private investigator.

  He didn’t care for private investigators because they often produced conspiracy theories, which prompted headlines in the newspapers but also created a lot of unnecessary extra work for the police.

  This had developed into the most exasperating murder investigation he had ever been involved in. Somehow he had lost his focus. There had to be a chain of logical consequences.

  If a teenager is found stabbed to death on Mariatorget, it’s a matter of tracking down which skinhead gang or other mob was rampaging through Söder station an hour earlier. There are friends, acquaintances, and witnesses, and very soon there are suspects.

  If a man is killed with three bullets in a bar in Skärholmen and it turns out he was a heavy in the Yugoslav mafia, then it’s a matter of finding out which thugs are trying to take control of cigarette smuggling.

  If a young woman with a decent background and normal lifestyle is found strangled in her apartment, it’s a matter of finding out who her boyfriend was, or who was the last person she talked to at the bar the night before.

  Bublanski had run so many investigations like these that he could do them in his sleep.

  The current investigation had started off so well. After only a few hours they had found a prime suspect. Salander was practically designed for the role—an obvious psycho case, known to have suffered from violent, uncontrollable outbursts her whole life. It was simply a matter of picking her up and getting a confession or, depending on the circumstances, putting her into psychiatric care.

  But after the promising beginning everything had gone to hell. Salander did not live at her address. She had friends like Armansky and Blomkvist. She had a relationship with a lesbian who liked sex with handcuffs, and that put the media in a new frenzy. She had 2.5 million kronor in the bank and no known employer. Then Blomkvist shows up with theories about trafficking and conspiracies—and as a celebrity journalist he has the political clout to create utter chaos in the investigation with a single article.

  Above all, the prime suspect had proven to be impossible to locate, despite the fact that she was no taller than a hand’s breadth and had tattoos all over her body. It had been almost two weeks since the murders and there wasn’t so much as a whisper as to where she might be hiding.

  Björck had had a wretched day since Blomkvist stepped across his threshold. He had a continuous dull ache in his back, but he paced back and forth in his borrowed house, incapable either of relaxing or of taking any initiative. He couldn’t make any sense of the story. The pieces of the puzzle would not fall into place.

  When he’d first heard the news about Bjurman’s murder, he was aghast. But he hadn’t been surprised when Salander was almost immediately identified as the prime suspect and then the hue and cry for her began. He had followed every report on TV, and he bought all the daily papers he could get hold of and read every word written about the case.

  He didn’t doubt for a second that Salander was mentally ill and capable of killing. He had no reason to question her guilt or the assumptions of the police—on the contrary, everything he knew about Salander told him that she really was a psychotic madwoman. He had been just about to call in and offer his advice to the investigation, or at least check that the case was being handled properly, but then he realized that it actually no longer concerned him. Besides, a call from him might attract the sort of attention that he wanted to avoid. Instead he kept following the breaking news developments with absentminded interest.

  Blomkvist’s visit had turned his peace and quiet upside down. Björck never had any inkling that Salander’s orgy of murder might involve him personally—that one of her victims had been a media swine who was about to expose him to the whole of Sweden.

  He had even less of an idea that the name Zala would crop up in the story like a hand grenade with its pin pulled, and least of all that the name would be known to a journalist like Blomkvist. It defied all common sense.

  The day after Blomkvist’s visit Björck telephoned his former boss, who was seventy-eight years old and living in Laholm. He had to try to worm out the context without letting on that he was calling for any reason other than pure curiosity and professional concern. It was a relatively short conversation.

  “This is Björck. I assume you’ve read the papers.”

  “I have. She’s popped up again.”

  “And she doesn’t seem to have changed much.”

  “It’s no longer our concern.”

  “You don’t think that—”

  “No, I don’t. All that is dead and buried. There’s no connection.”

  “But Bjurman, of all people. I presume it wasn’t by chance that he became her guardian.”

  There were several seconds of silence on the line.

  “No, it was n
o accident. It seemed like a good idea two years ago. Who could have predicted this?”

  “How much did Bjurman know?”

  His former boss chuckled. “You know quite well what Bjurman was like. Not the most talented actor.”

  “I mean… did he know about the connection? Could there be something among his papers or personal effects that would lead anyone to—”

  “No, of course not. I understand what you’re getting at, but don’t worry. Salander has always been the loose cannon in this story. We arranged it so that Bjurman got the assignment, but that was only so we’d have someone we could check up on. Better that than an unknown quantity. If she had started blabbing, he would have come to us. Now this will all work out for the best.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, after this, Salander is going to be sitting in a psychiatric ward for a long, long time.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “Don’t worry. Go and enjoy your sick leave in peace and quiet.”

  But that was exactly what Björck was unable to do. Blomkvist had seen to that. He sat at the kitchen table and looked out over Jungfrufjärden as he tried to sum up his own situation. He was being threatened from two flanks.

  Blomkvist was going to hang him out to dry as a john. There was a serious risk that he would end his police career by being convicted of breaking the sex-trade law.

  But even more serious was the fact that Blomkvist was trying to track down Zalachenko. Somehow he was mixed up in the story too. And Zala would lead him back to Björck’s front door.

  His former boss had apparently been assured that there was nothing among Bjurman’s personal effects that could provide a further lead. But there was. The report from 1991. And Bjurman had gotten it from Björck.

  He tried to visualize the meeting with Bjurman more than three months earlier. They had met in Gamla Stan. Bjurman had called him one afternoon at work and suggested they have a beer. They talked about the shooting club and everything under the sun, but Bjurman had sought him out for a particular reason. He needed a favour. He had asked about Zalachenko …