by Неизвестный
“I’ve already taken command of the site and put a stop to the digging. I want to get forensics out here and proper techs before we proceed.”
“Very well done.”
“But that’s not all. Five minutes ago the dog marked another spot some eighty yards from the first.”
Salander had made coffee on Bjurman’s stove and eaten another apple. She spent two hours reading through Bjurman’s notes on her, page by page. She was actually impressed. He had put quite a lot of effort into the task and systematized the information. He had found material about her that she didn’t even know existed.
She read Palmgren’s journal with mixed feelings. It took up two black notebooks. He had started keeping a diary about her when she was fifteen. She had just run away from her third set of foster parents, an elderly couple in Sigtuna; he was a sociologist and she was an author of children’s books. Salander had stayed with them for twelve days and could tell that they were tremendously proud of making a social contribution by taking her in, and that they expected her constantly to express gratitude. She had finally had enough when her foster mother, boasting to a neighbour, started expounding about how important it was that someone took care of young people who had obvious problems. I’m not a fucking social project, she wanted to scream. On the twelfth day she stole 100 kronor from their food money and took the bus to Upplands-Väsby and the shuttle train to Stockholm Central. The police found her six weeks later in the house of a sixty-seven-year-old man in Haninge.
He had been an OK guy. He provided her with food and a place to live. She did not have to do much in return. He wanted to look at her when she was naked. He never touched her. She knew he would be considered a pedophile, but she had never felt the least threat from him. She thought him an introverted and socially handicapped person. She even came to experience a feeling of kinship when she thought about him. They were both outsiders.
Someone had finally spotted her and called the police. A social worker did her best to persuade her to report the man for sexual assault. She had obstinately refused to say that anything untoward had occurred, and in any case she was fifteen and legal. Fuck you. Then Palmgren had intervened and signed for her. He started a diary in what appeared to be a frustrated attempt to allay and resolve his own doubts. The first entries were written in December 1993:
L. increasingly appears to be the most unmanageable young person I’ve ever had to deal with. The question is whether I’m doing the right thing when I oppose her return to St. Stefan’s. She has now run away from three foster families in three months and obviously risks coming to some harm during her excursions. I have to decide soon whether I should give up the assignment and request that she be put under the care of real experts. I don’t know what’s right and what’s wrong. Today I had a serious talk with her.
Salander remembered every word of that serious talk. It was the day before Christmas Eve. Palmgren had taken her to his place and installed her in his spare room. He made spaghetti with meat sauce for supper and then put her on the living-room sofa and sat in an armchair across from her. She remembered wondering if Palmgren too wanted to see her naked. Instead he spoke to her as if she were a grown-up.
In fact it had been a two-hour monologue. She had hardly uttered a word. He had spelled out the realities, which were in effect that now she had to decide between going back to St. Stefan’s and living with a foster family. He would do what he could to find a family acceptable to her, and he insisted that she go with his choice. He had decided that she should spend the Christmas holidays with him so she would have time to think about her future. It was up to her, but on the day after Christmas he wanted a clear answer and a promise from her that if she had problems she would turn to him instead of running away. Then he had sent her to bed and apparently sat down to write the first lines in his diary.
The threat of being transported back to St. Stefan’s frightened her more than Holger Palmgren could know. She spent an unhappy Christmas suspiciously watching every move he made. The next day he still had not attempted to paw her, nor did he show any sign of wanting to sneak a look at her in the bath. On the contrary, he got really angry when she tried to provoke him by marching naked from his spare room to the bathroom. He had slammed the bathroom door hard. Later she had made him the promises he demanded. She had kept her word. Well, more or less.
In his journal Palmgren commented methodically on every meeting he had with her. Sometimes it was three lines, sometimes he filled several pages with his thoughts. Every so often she was surprised. Palmgren had been more insightful than she had imagined, and occasionally commented on incidents when she had tried to fool him but he had seen through her.
Then she opened the police report from 1991.
And the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. She felt as if the ground had started to shake.
She read the medical report written by a Dr. Jesper H. Löderman, in which Dr. Peter Teleborian figured prominently. Löderman had been the prosecutor’s trump card when he tried to get her institutionalized at the hearing when she was eighteen.
Then she found an envelope containing correspondence between Teleborian and some policeman called Gunnar Björck. The letters were all dated 1991, just after “All The Evil” happened.
Nothing was said straight out in the correspondence, but suddenly a trapdoor opened beneath Salander. It took her several minutes to grasp the implications. Björck referred to some conversation they must have had. His wording was irreproachable, but between the lines he was saying that it would be all right with him if Salander were locked up in an asylum for the rest of her life.
It is important for the child to get some distance from the context. I cannot evaluate her psychological condition or what sort of care she needs, but the longer she can be kept institutionalized, the less risk there is that she would unintentionally create problems regarding the current matter.
Regarding the current matter. Salander rolled the phrase around in her mind for a while.
Teleborian was responsible for her care at St. Stefan’s. It had been no accident. The tone of the correspondence led her to understand that these letters were never intended to see the light of day.
Teleborian had known Björck.
Salander bit her lower lip as she pondered. She had never done any research on Teleborian, but he had started out in forensic medicine, and even the Security Police occasionally needed to consult a forensic medical expert or psychiatrist for their investigations. If she started digging, she would surely find a connection. At some point during his career, Teleborian and Björck’s paths had crossed. When Björck needed someone who could bury Salander, he had turned to Teleborian.
That was how it had happened. What previously looked like chance now took on a whole new dimension.
She sat still for a long time staring into space. Nobody was innocent. There were only varying degrees of responsibility. And somebody was responsible for Salander. She would definitely have to pay a visit to Små-dalarö. She assumed that no-one in the shipwreck that was the state justice system would have any desire to discuss the subject with her, and in the absence of anyone else, a talk with Gunnar Björck would have to do.
She looked forward to that talk.
She did not need to take all the folders with her. As she read them they became forever imprinted on her photographic memory. She took along Palmgren’s notebooks, Björck’s police report from 1991, the medical report from 1996 when she was declared incompetent, and the correspondence between Teleborian and Björck. That was enough to fill her backpack.
She closed the door, but before she had time to lock it she heard the sound of motorcycles behind her. She looked around. It was too late to try to hide, and she didn’t have the slightest chance of outrunning two bikers on Harley-Davidsons. She stepped down warily from the porch and met them in the driveway.
Bublanski marched furiously down the corridor and saw that Hedström had not yet returned to Modig’s office. But the toilet w
as vacant. He continued down the corridor and found him holding a plastic cup from the coffee vending machine, talking to Andersson and Bohman.
Bublanski turned unseen at the doorway and walked up one flight to Ekström’s office. He shoved the door open without knocking, interrupting Ekström in the middle of a phone conversation.
“Come with me,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?” Ekström said.
“Put the telephone down and come with me.”
Bublanski’s expression was such that Ekström did as he was told. In this situation it was easy to understand why Bublanski had been given the nickname Officer Bubble. His face looked like a bright red antiaircraft balloon. They went downstairs. Bublanski marched up to Hedström, took a firm grip on his hair, and turned him to Ekström.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing? Are you crazy?”
“Bublanski!” Ekström shouted, startled.
Hedström looked nervous. Bohman’s mouth dropped open.
“Is this yours?” Bublanski asked, holding out the Sony Ericsson mobile.
“Let me go!”
“IS THIS YOUR MOBILE?”
“Yeah, damn it. Let me go.”
“Not yet. You’re under arrest.”
“I’m what?”
“You’re under arrest for breach of secrecy and for interfering with a police investigation. Or else give us a reasonable explanation for why, according to your list of calls, you called a journalist who answers to the name of Tony Scala at 9:57 this morning, right after the meeting and just before Scala went public with the very information we had decided to keep secret.”
After getting instructions to go to Stallarholmen and set a fire, Lundin had wandered over to the clubhouse in the abandoned printing factory on the outskirts of Svavelsjö and taken Nieminen with him. It was perfect weather to roll out the hogs for the first time since winter. He had been given detailed directions and had studied a map. They put on their leathers and covered the distance from Svavelsjö to Stallarholmen in no time.
Lundin did not believe his eyes when he saw Lisbeth Salander in the driveway in front of Bjurman’s summer cabin. It was a bonus that would blow the giant’s fucking mind. He was sure it was her, although she looked different. Was that a wig? She was just standing there, waiting for them.
They rode up and parked six feet away on each side of her. When they switched off their motors it was utterly silent in the woods. Lundin didn’t quite know what to say. At last he managed to speak.
“Well, how about that? We’ve been looking for you for a while, Salander. Sonny, meet Fröken Salander.”
He smiled. Salander regarded Lundin with expressionless eyes. She noticed that he still had a bright red, newly healed welt on his cheek and jaw where she had cut him with her keys. She raised her eyes and looked at the treetops behind him. Then she lowered them again. Her eyes were disconcertingly coal black.
“I’ve had a fucking miserable week and I’m in a fucking bad mood,” she said. “You know what the worst thing is? Every time I turn around there’s some fucking pile of shit with a beer belly in my way acting tough. Now I’d like to leave. So move your ass.”
Lundin’s mouth was hanging open. He thought he had heard wrong. Then he started laughing involuntarily. The situation was ridiculous. There stood a skinny girl who could fit into his breast pocket getting cheeky with two fully grown men with leather vests that showed they belonged to Svavelsjö MC, which meant they were the most dangerous of bikers and would soon be members of Hell’s Angels. They could tear her apart and stuff her in their saddlebags.
Even if the girl was as nutty as a fruitcake—which she obviously was, according to the newspapers and what he had just seen of her here—their emblem still ought to command respect. And she didn’t show the smallest sign of that. This sort of behaviour could not be tolerated, no matter how ridiculous the situation. He glanced at Nieminen.
“I think the dyke needs some cock, Sonny,” he said, climbing off the Harley and setting his kickstand. He took two slow steps towards Salander and looked down at her. She did not shift an inch. Lundin shook his head and sighed. Then he lashed out a backhand with the same considerable power with which he had struck Blomkvist on Lundagatan.
He met nothing but thin air. At the instant his hand should have hit her face, she took one step back and stood there just out of his reach.
Nieminen was leaning on the handlebars of his Harley and watching his fellow club member with amusement. Lundin was red in the face and took another couple of swings at her. She backed up again. Lundin swung faster.
Salander stopped abruptly and emptied half the contents of a Mace canister in his face. His eyes burned like fire. The toe of her boot shot up with full force and was transformed into kinetic energy in his crotch with a pressure of about 1,700 pounds per square inch. Lundin dropped gasping to his knees and stayed there at a more comfortable height for Salander. She kicked him in the face, deliberately, as if she were taking a penalty in soccer. There was an ugly crunching sound before Lundin toppled over like a sack of potatoes.
It took a few seconds for Nieminen to realize that something unbelievable had happened before his eyes. He tried to set the kickstand of his Harley, missed, and had to look down. Then he decided to play it safe and started groping for the pistol he had in his vest’s inside pocket. As he was pulling down the zipper he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye.
When he looked up he saw Salander coming at him like a cannonball. She jumped with both feet and kicked him full force in the hip, which didn’t injure him but was hard enough to knock over both him and his motorcycle. He narrowly missed having his leg pinned under the bike and stumbled a few paces backwards before he regained his balance.
When he had her in view again he saw her arm move, and a stone as big as his fist flew through the air. He ducked and it missed his head by about an inch.
He finally got out his pistol and tried to flick off the safety, but when he looked up again Salander was upon him. He saw evil in her eyes and felt for the first time a shocked terror.
“Goodnight,” Salander said.
She shoved the Taser into his crotch and fired off 50,000 volts, holding the electrodes against him for at least twenty seconds. Nieminen was transformed into a vegetable.
Salander heard a noise behind her and spun around to see Lundin laboriously getting to his knees. She looked at him with raised eyebrows. He was fumbling blindly through the burning fog of the Mace.
“I’m going to kill you!” he roared.
He was groping around, trying to locate Salander. She watched him circumspectly. Then he said:
“Fucking whore.”
Salander bent down and picked up Nieminen’s pistol, noticing that it was a Polish P-83 Wanad.
She opened the magazine and checked that it was loaded with the correct 9 mm Makarov. She cocked it. She stepped over Nieminen and went across to Lundin, took aim with both hands, and shot him in the foot. He shrieked in shock and collapsed again.
She wondered if she should bother asking about the identity of the hulk she had seen him with at Blomberg’s Café. According to Sandström, the man had murdered someone in a warehouse with Lundin’s help. Hmm. She should have waited to fire the pistol until she had asked her questions.
Lundin did not seem to be in any condition now to carry on a lucid conversation, and there was the possibility that someone had heard the shot. So she ought to leave the area right away. She could always find Lundin at some later date and ask him the question under less stressful circumstances. She secured the weapon’s safety, zipped it into her jacket pocket, and picked up her backpack.
She had gone about ten yards down the road when she stopped and turned around. She walked back slowly and studied Lundin’s motorcycle.
“Harley-Davidson,” she said. “Sweet.”
CHAPTER 27
Wednesday, April 6
It was a beautiful spring day as Blomkvist drove Berger’s car south
towards Nynäsvägen. Already there was a hint of green in the black fields, and there was real warmth in the air. It was perfect weather to forget all his problems and drive out for a few days to be at peace in his cabin in Sandhamn.
He had agreed with Björck that he would be there at 1:00, but he arrived early and stopped in Dalarö to have coffee and read the papers. He did not prepare for the meeting. Björck had something to tell him, and Blomkvist was determined that this time he would come away from Smådalarö with concrete information about Zala.
Björck met him in the driveway. He looked more self-assured, more pleased with himself than he had two days before. What sort of move are you planning? Blomkvist did not shake hands with him.
“I can give you information about Zala,” Björck said, “but I have certain conditions.”
“Let’s hear them.”
“I won’t be named in Millennium’s exposé.”
“Agreed.”
Björck looked surprised. Blomkvist had accepted straight off, without argument, the point about which Björck was expecting to have a long negotiation. That was his only card. Information about the murders in exchange for anonymity. Blomkvist had agreed, and given up the chance of a strong headline in the magazine.
“I’m serious,” Björck said. “And I want it in writing.”
“You can have it in writing, but a document like that wouldn’t be of any use to you. You’ve committed a crime that I know about and which I’m bound to report to the police. But you know things, and you’re using your position to buy my silence. I’ve thought about the matter and I accept. I won’t mention your name in Millennium. Either you take my word for it or you don’t.”
While Björck thought about it, Blomkvist said: “I have some conditions too. The price of my silence is that you tell me everything you know. If I discover that you’re hiding something, our agreement is void, and I’ll hang your name out to dry on every single news headline in Sweden, just as I did with Wennerström.”