by Неизвестный
She was also growing uneasy about Blomkvist. She had read his latest email with a sinking feeling. She recognized the signs. It was the same stubbornness that made him stick it out in Hedestad two years ago, the same obsessive determination with which he had gone after Wennerström. Since Maundy Thursday, nothing had existed for him but to find out who had murdered his friends and somehow to establish Salander’s innocence.
She fully sympathized with his objectives—Dag and Mia had been her friends too—but there was a side to Blomkvist that made her uncomfortable. He could become ruthless when he smelled blood.
From the moment he had called her the day before and told her how he had challenged Bublanski and begun sizing him up like some fucking macho cowboy, she knew that the hunt for Salander would keep Blomkvist busy for the foreseeable future. She knew from experience that he would be impossible to deal with until he solved the problem. He would vacillate between self-absorption and depression. And somewhere in the equation he would also take risks that were probably utterly unnecessary.
And Salander. Berger had met her only once, and she didn’t know enough about that strange girl to share Blomkvist’s certainty that she was innocent. What if Bublanski was right? What if she was guilty? What if Blomkvist did manage to track her down and she turned out to be a lunatic armed with a gun?
Nor had Paolo Roberto’s astonishing conversation earlier that morning been reassuring. It was good, of course, that Blomkvist was not the only one on Salander’s side, but Paolo was a cowboy too.
And where was she going to find someone to replace her at Millennium? It was now becoming urgent. She thought of discussing the matter with Malm, but she couldn’t tell him and still keep the news from Blomkvist.
Blomkvist was a brilliant reporter, but he would be a disaster as editor in chief. She and Malm were much more alike, but she was not at all sure that he would accept the offer. Eriksson was too young, not confident enough yet. Nilsson was too self-absorbed. Cortez was a good reporter, but he was way too inexperienced. Lotta Karim was too flaky. And Berger could not be sure that Malm or Blomkvist would be happy with someone recruited from the outside.
It was a hell of a mess. Not at all the way she wanted to end her tenure at Millennium.
On Sunday evening Salander opened Asphyxia 1.3 and went into the mirrored hard drive of MikBlom/laptop. He was not online and she read through the material that had been added in the past two days.
She read Blomkvist’s research journal and wondered whether he might be writing it in such detail for her sake, and if so, what that could mean. He knew that she was accessing his computer, so it was natural to conclude that he wanted her to read what he wrote. The real question, however, was what he was not writing. Since he knew she was accessing his machine, he could manipulate the flow of information. She noted in passing that he apparently hadn’t gotten much further with Bublanski than challenging him to some sort of a duel over her innocence. This annoyed her. Blomkvist was basing his conclusions on emotion rather than on facts. What a naive idiot.
But he had also zeroed in on Zala. Good thinking, Kalle Blomkvist.
Then she noticed with mild surprise that Paolo Roberto had popped up on the scene. That was good news. She smiled. She liked that cocky fucker. He was macho to his fingertips. He used to give her a pretty good drubbing when they met in the ring. The few times he managed to connect, that is.
Then she sat up in her chair when she decrypted and read Blomkvist’s most recent email to Berger.
Gunnar Björck. Säpo. Knows about Zala.
Björck knows Bjurman.
Salander’s eyes went blurry as she sketched a triangle in her mind. Zala. Bjurman. Björck. Yes, that makes sense. She had never looked at the problem from that perspective before. Maybe Blomkvist wasn’t so dumb after all. But of course he had not worked out the connection. She had not even done that herself, even though she had a lot more insight into what had happened. She thought for a while about Bjurman and realized that the fact he knew Björck turned him into a bigger roadblock than she had previously imagined.
She also realized that she would probably have to pay a visit to Små-dalarö.
Then she went into Blomkvist’s hard drive and created a new document in the folder
Keep away from Teleborian. He’s evil.
Miriam Wu has absolutely nothing to do with this.
You’re right to focus on Zala. He’s the key. But you’re not going to find him in any public records.
There’s a connection between Bjurman and Zala. I don’t know what it is, but I’m working on it. Björck?
Important. There’s a damaging police report on me from March 1991. I don’t know the file number and can’t find it. Why hasn’t Ekström given it to the media? Answer: It’s not on his computer. Conclusion: He doesn’t know about it. How can that be possible?
She thought for a moment and then added a P.S.:
P.S. Mikael, I’m not innocent. But I didn’t kill Dag and Mia—I have nothing to do with their murders. I saw them that evening—before the murders occurred—but I left them before it happened. Thanks for believing in me. Say hello to Paolo Roberto and tell him he has a wimpy left hook.
P.P.S. How did you know about the Wennerström thing?
Blomkvist found Salander’s document some three hours later. He read the message line by line at least five times. For the first time she had clearly stated that she did not murder Svensson and Johansson. He believed her and felt enormous relief. And finally she was talking to him, although as cryptically as ever.
He also noted that she denied murdering Dag and Mia, but she said nothing about Bjurman. Which Blomkvist assumed was because he had mentioned only the two of them in his message. He thought for a while and then created [Ring corner 2].
Hi Sally.
Thanks for finally telling me you’re innocent. I believed in you, but even I have been affected by the media noise and felt some doubt. Forgive me. It feels good to hear it straight from your keyboard. All that’s left is to uncover the real killer. You and I have done that before. It would help if you weren’t so cagey. I assume you’re reading my research journal. Then you know about as much as I do and how I’m thinking. I think Björck knows something and I’ll have another talk with him in the next few days. Am I on the wrong track, checking off the girls’ clients?
This thing with the police report surprises me. I’ll get my colleague Malin Eriksson to dig into it. You were how old then, twelve or thirteen? What was the report about?
Your attitude towards Teleborian is duly noted.
M.
P.S. You made a mistake in the Wennerström coup. I knew what you’d done—in Sandhamn over Christmas—but didn’t ask since you didn’t mention it. And I have no intention of telling you what the mistake was unless you meet me for a coffee.
The reply, when it came, said:
You can forget about the johns. Zala’s the one who’s of interest. And a blond giant. But the police report is interesting since somebody seems to want to hide it. That can’t be an accident.
Prosecutor Ekström was in a foul mood when Bublanski’s team gathered for the morning meeting on Monday. More than a week’s searching for a named suspect with a distinctive appearance had produced no result. Ekström’s mood did not improve when Andersson, who had been on duty over the weekend, told him of the latest development.
“A break-in?” Ekström said with undisguised amazement.
“The neighbour called on Sunday evening to say that the police tape on Bjurman’s door had been cut. I checked on it.”
“And?”
“The tape was cut in three places. Probably a razor blade or a Stanley knife. A slick job. It was hard to see.”
“A burglary? There are hooligans who specialize in dead people’s apartments—”
“Not a burglary. I went through the apartment. All the valuables, D
VD player and such, were still there. But Bjurman’s car key was lying on the kitchen table.”
“Car key?”
“Jerker was in the apartment on Wednesday to check if we’d missed something. He also checked the car. He swears there wasn’t a car key on the kitchen table when he left the apartment and put the tape back up.”
“Could he have forgotten and left it out? Nobody’s perfect.”
“Jerker never used that key. He used the one on Bjurman’s key ring, which we had already confiscated.”
Bublanski stroked his chin. “So, not a normal break-in then.”
“Someone got into Bjurman’s apartment and sniffed around. It must have happened between Wednesday and Sunday evening, when the neighbour telephoned.”
“Somebody was looking for something. What? Jerker?”
“There’s nothing of any interest left in there, nothing that we didn’t already confiscate.”
“Nothing that we know of, at least. The motive for the murder is still unclear. We assume that Salander is a psychopath, but even psychopaths need motives.”
“What do you suggest?”
“I don’t know. Someone searched Bjurman’s apartment. First question: Who? Second question: Why? What was it we missed?”
“Jerker?”
Holmberg gave a resigned sigh. “OK. I’ll go through the apartment. This time with tweezers.”
• • •
Salander woke up at 11:00 on Monday morning. She lay dozing for about half an hour before she got up, put on coffee, and took a shower. Then she made herself some breakfast and sat down at her PowerBook for an update on what was happening in Prosecutor Ekström’s computer and to read the online editions of the papers. Interest in the Enskede murders had evidently declined. Then she opened Svensson’s research folder and read through his notes from his meeting with the journalist Per-Åke Sandström, the john who ran errands for the sex mafia and who knew something about Zala. When she was finished, she poured herself more coffee and sat in her window seat to think.
By 4:00 she had thought enough.
She needed cash. She had three credit cards. One of them was in her own name and so for all practical purposes useless. One was issued to Irene Nesser, but she wanted to avoid using it since identifying herself with Irene Nesser’s passport would be risky. One was issued to Wasp Enterprises and was linked to an account that held about three million kronor and could be replenished with transfers via the Internet. Anyone could use the card, but they would have to identify themselves.
She went into the kitchen, opened a biscuit tin, and took out a wad of banknotes. She had 950 kronor in cash, not a whole lot. Fortunately she also had 1,800 American dollars that had been lying around since she returned from her travels; she could exchange them without ID at a Forex currency window. That improved the situation.
She put on Irene Nesser’s wig, dressed up, and put a change of clothes and a box of theatre makeup in a backpack. Then she set off on her second expedition from Mosebacke. She walked to Folkungagatan and then down to Erstagatan, and got to the Watski shop just before closing time. She bought electrical tape and a block and tackle with eight yards of cotton rope.
She took the number 66 bus back. At Medborgarplatsen she saw a woman waiting for the bus. She did not recognize her at first, but an alarm went off in the back of her mind, and when she looked again she realized that the woman was Irene Flemström, the salaries clerk at Milton Security. She had a new, trendier hairdo. Salander slipped off the bus as Flemström got on. She looked around carefully, searching as always for faces that might be familiar. She walked past the semicircular Bofills Båge apartment building to Södra station and took the local train north.
• • •
Inspector Modig shook hands with Berger, who immediately offered her some coffee. She noticed that all the mugs in the kitchenette had logos and ads for political parties and professional organizations.
“They’re mostly from election-night parties and interviews,” Berger explained, handing her a Liberal Youth Party mug.
Modig worked at Svensson’s old desk. Eriksson offered to help, both in explaining what Svensson’s book and article were about and in navigating the research material. Modig was impressed by the scope of it. It had been an irritation for the investigative team that Svensson’s computer was missing and that his work seemed inaccessible. But in fact backups had been made of most of it and had been available all along at the Millennium offices.
Blomkvist was not in the office, but Berger gave Modig a list of the material he had taken from Svensson’s desk, which dealt exclusively with the identity of sources. Modig called Bublanski and explained the situation. They decided that all the material on Svensson’s desk, including Millennium’s computer, would have to be confiscated and that Bublanski would return with a warrant if necessary to requisition the material that Blomkvist had already removed. Modig then drew up a confiscation inventory, and Cortez helped her carry the cardboard boxes down to her car.
On Monday evening Blomkvist was feeling deeply frustrated. He had now checked off ten of the names Svensson had intended to expose. In each instance he had encountered worried, excitable, and shocked men. He estimated their average income at around 400,000 kronor a year. They were a group of pathetic, frightened individuals.
He had not felt, however, that any of them had anything to hide with respect to the murders.
Blomkvist opened his iBook to check whether he had a new message from Salander. He did not. In her previous note she had said that the johns were of no interest and that he was wasting his time with them. He cursed her with a string of expletives. He was hungry, but he did not feel like making himself supper. Besides, he hadn’t been shopping for two weeks, except to buy milk from the corner store. He put on his jacket and went down to the Greek taverna on Hornsgatan and ordered the grilled lamb.
Salander first took a look at the stairwell and at dusk made two cautious circuits of the adjacent buildings. They were low-frame buildings that she suspected were not soundproof and hardly ideal for her purposes. The journalist Sandström lived in a corner apartment on the fourth floor, the highest. Then the stairwell continued up to an attic door. It would have to do.
The problem was that there was no light in any of the apartment’s windows.
She walked to a pizzeria a few streets away, where she ordered a Hawaiian and sat in a corner to read the evening papers. Just before 9:00 she bought a caffè latte at the Pressbyrå kiosk and returned to the building. The apartment was still in darkness. She entered the stairwell and sat on the steps to the attic. From there she had a view of Sandström’s door half a flight down. She drank her latte while she waited.
Inspector Faste finally tracked down Cilla Norén, lead singer of the Satanist group Evil Fingers, at the studio of Recent Trash Records in an industrial building in Älvsjö. It was a cultural collision of about the same magnitude as the Spanish first encountering the Carib Indians.
After several futile attempts at Norén’s parents’ house, Faste had succeeded at the studio, where according to her sister she was “helping out” with the production of a CD by the band Cold Wax from Borlänge. Faste had never heard of the band, which seemed to consist of guys in their twenties. As soon as he entered the corridor outside the studio he was met by a wall of sound that took his breath away. He watched Cold Wax through a window and waited until there was a pause in the cacophony.
Norén had raven black hair with red and green braids and black eye makeup. She was on the chubby side and wore a short skirt and top which revealed a pierced belly button. She had a belt full of rivets around her hips and looked like something out of a French horror movie.
Faste held up his police ID and said he needed to talk to her. She went on chewing gum and gave him a sceptical look. She pointed to a door and led him into a sort of canteen, where he tripped and almost fell over a bag of trash that had been dumped right by the door. Norén ran water into an empty plastic bottle, dr
ank about half of it, and then sat down at a table and lit a cigarette. She fixed Faste with her clear blue eyes.
“What is Recent Trash Records?”
She seemed bored out of her skull.
“It’s a record company that produces new bands.”
“What’s your role here?”
“I’m the sound engineer.”
Faste gave her a hard look. “Are you trained to do that?”
“Nope. I taught myself.”
“Can you make a living from it?”
“Why do you ask?”
“I’m just curious. I assume you’ve read about Lisbeth Salander in the papers lately.”
She nodded.
“We believe that you know her. Is that correct?”
“Could be.”
“Is it correct or not correct?”
“It depends what you’re looking for.”
“I’m looking for an insane woman who committed a triple murder. I want information about Lisbeth Salander.”
“I haven’t heard from Lisbeth since last year.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Sometime in the fall two years ago. At Kvarnen. She used to hang out there, but then she stopped coming.”
“Have you tried to get in touch with her?”
“I’ve called her mobile a few times. The number’s been disconnected.”
“And you don’t know how to get hold of her otherwise?”
“No.”
“What is Evil Fingers?”
Norén looked amused. “Don’t you read the papers?”
“What does that mean?”
“They say we’re a Satanist band.”
“Are you?”
“Do I look like a Satanist?”
“What does a Satanist look like?”
“Well, I don’t know who’s dumber—the police or the newspapers.”