He had been working at Oden’s Medical Centre for Children and Adolescents for one year. Oden’s was an emergency service which took in children and young people whose parents could not cope. Not even Forsberg—who had always been a staunch defender of whatever workplace he was in—believed that the centre functioned especially well. It was all crisis management and not enough long-term work. Children would come in after traumatic experiences at home and the psychologists were far too busy trying to manage breakdowns and aggressive behaviour to be able to devote themselves to resolving underlying causes. Even so, Forsberg thought he was doing some good, especially when he used his old classroom authority to calm hysterical children, or when he handled crisis situations out in the field.
He liked to work with policemen and he loved the tension in the air after dramatic events. He had been excited and expectant as he drove out to the house in Saltsjöbaden in the course of his night duty. There was a touch of Hollywood about the situation, he thought. A Swedish scientist had been murdered, his eight-year-old son was a witness, and none other than Forsberg had been sent to try to get the boy to open up. He straightened his hair and his glasses several times in the rearview mirror.
He wanted to make a stylish impression, but once he arrived he was not exactly a success. He could not make the boy out. Still, he felt acknowledged and important. The detectives asked him how they should go about questioning the child and—even though he did not have a clue—his answer was received with respect. That gave his ego a little boost and he did his best to be helpful. He found out that the boy suffered from infantile autism and had never spoken or been receptive to the world around him.
“There’s nothing we can do for the time being,” he said. “His mental faculties are too weak. As a psychologist I have to put his need for care first.” The policemen listened to him with serious expressions and let him drive the boy home to his mother—who was another little bonus in the whole story.
She was the actress Hanna Balder. He had had the hots for her ever since he saw her in The Mutineers and he remembered her hips and her long legs—and even though she was now a bit older she was still attractive. Besides, her current partner was clearly a bastard. Forsberg did his best to appear knowledgeable and charming in a low-key way; within moments he got an opportunity to be authoritative, and that made him proud.
With a wild expression on his face the son began to draw black and white blocks, or squares, and Forsberg pronounced that this was unhealthy. It was precisely the kind of destructive compulsive behaviour that autistic children slip into, and he insisted that August stop at once. This was not received with as much gratitude as he had hoped for. Still, it had made him feel decisive and manly, and while he was at it he almost paid Hanna a compliment for her performance in The Mutineers. But then he decided that it was probably not the right time. Maybe that had been a mistake.
Now it was 1:00 in the afternoon and he was back home at his terraced house in Vällingby. He was in the bathroom with his electric toothbrush, feeling totally exhausted, when his mobile rang. At first he was irritated—but then he smiled. It was none other than Hanna Balder.
“Forsberg,” he answered in an urbane voice.
“Hello,” she said. “August, August…”
She sounded desperate and angry. But he could not understand why.
“Tell me, what’s the problem?”
“All he wants to do is draw his chessboard squares. But you’re saying he isn’t allowed to.”
“No, no, it’s compulsive. But please, just stay calm.”
“How the hell am I supposed to stay calm?”
“The boy needs you to be composed.”
“But I can’t be. He’s yelling and lashing out at everything. You said you could help.”
“Well, yes,” he said, hesitant at first. Then he brightened, as if he had won some sort of victory. “Absolutely, of course. I’ll see to it that he gets a place with us at Oden’s.”
“Wouldn’t that be letting him down?”
“On the contrary, you’re just taking account of his needs. I’ll see to it personally that you can visit us as often as you like.”
“Maybe that’s the best solution.”
“I’m sure of it.”
“Will you come right away?”
“I’ll be with you as soon as I can,” he said. First he had to smarten himself up a bit. Then he added: “Did I tell you that I loved you in The Mutineers?”
—
It was no surprise to Levin that William Borg was already at the table at Sturehof, nor that he ordered the most expensive items on the menu, sole meunière and a glass of Pouilly Fumé. Journalists generally made the most of it when he invited them to lunch. But it did surprise—and annoy—him that Borg had taken the initiative, as if he were the one with the money and the power. Why did he have to mention that raise? He should have kept Borg on tenterhooks, let him sit there and sweat instead.
“A little bird whispered in my ear that you’re having difficulties with Millennium,” Borg said, and Levin thought: I’d give my right arm to wipe that self-righteous smirk off his face.
“You’ve been misinformed,” he said stiffly.
“Really?”
“We have the situation under control.”
“How so, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“If the editorial team is disposed to accept change and is ready to recognize the problems it has, we’ll back them.”
“And if not…”
“We’ll pull out, and Millennium will be unlikely to stay afloat for more than a few months, which would of course be a great shame. But that’s what the market looks like at the moment. Better magazines than Millennium have gone under. It’s been only a modest investment for us and we can manage without it.”
“Skip the bullshit, Ove. I know that this is a matter of pride for you.”
“It’s just business.”
“I’d heard that you wanted to get Mikael Blomkvist off the editorial team.”
“We’ve been thinking of transferring him to London.”
“Isn’t that a bit harsh, considering what he’s done for the magazine?”
“We’ve made him a very generous offer,” Levin said, feeling that he was being unnecessarily defensive and predictable.
He had almost forgotten the purpose of the lunch.
“Personally I don’t blame you,” Borg said. “You can ship him off to China, for all I care. I’m just wondering if it isn’t going to be a bit tricky for you if Blomkvist makes a grand comeback with this Frans Balder story.”
“Why would that happen? He’s lost his sting. You of all people have pointed that out—and with considerable success, if I may say so,” Levin said with an attempt at sarcasm.
“Well, yes, but I did get a little help.”
“Not from me, you didn’t, of that you can be sure. I hated that column. Thought it was badly written and tendentious. The one who kicked off the campaign against him was Thorvald Serner, you know that.”
“But you can’t be altogether unhappy about the way things are going right now?”
“Listen to me, William. I have the greatest respect for Mikael Blomkvist.”
“You don’t have to put on your politician act with me, Ove.”
Levin felt like ramming something down Borg’s throat.
“I’m just being open and honest,” he said. “And I’ve always thought Blomkvist a fantastic reporter, of a different calibre from you and everyone else of his generation.”
“Is that so?” Borg said, suddenly looking meek, and that made Levin feel better right away.
“That’s how it is. We should be grateful to Blomkvist for the revelations he’s given us, and I wish him all the best, I really do. But unfortunately it’s not my job to get nostalgic and look back to the good old days. I have to concede that you have a point in suggesting that the man has gotten out of step with the times and that he could get in the way of your plans to relaunch Millenni
um.”
“True, true.”
“So for that reason it would be good if there weren’t too many headlines about him right now.”
“Positive headlines, you mean?”
“Maybe so, yes,” Levin said. “That’s another reason I invited you to lunch.”
“Grateful for that, of course. And I do think I have something to offer. I had a call this morning from my old squash buddy,” Borg said, clearly trying to regain his earlier self-confidence.
“And who’s that?”
“Richard Ekström, the chief prosecutor. He’s in charge of the preliminary investigation into the Balder killing. And he’s not a member of the Blomkvist fan club.”
“After that Zalachenko business, right?”
“Exactly. Blomkvist scuppered Ekström’s entire strategy on that case and now he’s worried that he’s sabotaging this investigation as well.”
“In what way?”
“Blomkvist isn’t saying everything that he knows. He spoke to Balder just before the murder and came face-to-face with the killer. Even so he had surprisingly little to say for himself during the interviews. Ekström suspects he’s saving the juiciest bits for his article.”
“Interesting.”
“Isn’t it? We’re talking about a man who was ridiculed in the media and is now so desperate for a scoop that he’s prepared to let someone get away with murder. An old star reporter willing to cast social responsibility to the winds when his magazine finds itself in a financial crisis. And who has just learned that Serner Media wants to kick him off the editorial team. Hardly surprising that he’s gone a step or two too far.”
“I see your point. Is it anything you’d like to write about?”
“I don’t think that would be productive, to be honest. Too many people know that Blomkvist and I have it in for each other. You’d be better off leaking to a news reporter and then supporting the story on your editorial pages. You’ll get some good quotes from Ekström.”
Levin was looking out onto Stureplan, where he spotted a beautiful woman in a bright red coat, with long strawberry-blond hair. For the first time that day he gave a big smile.
“Maybe that isn’t such a bad idea,” he added, ordering some more wine.
—
Blomkvist came walking down Hornsgatan towards Mariatorget. Further away, by Maria Magdalena kyrka, there was a white van with an ugly dent in its front wing, and next to it two men were waving their arms around and shouting at each other. But although the scene had attracted a crowd of onlookers, Blomkvist hardly noticed it.
He was thinking about how Balder’s son had sat on the floor of the large house in Saltsjöbaden, reaching out over the Persian rug. The boy’s hand had stains on the back of it and on the fingers, as if from crayons or pens, and that movement he was making looked as if he were drawing something complicated in midair, didn’t it? Blomkvist was starting to see the whole scene in a new light.
Maybe it was not Frans Balder who had drawn the traffic light after all. Perhaps the boy had a gift. For some reason that did not surprise him as much as he might have expected. The first time he had met August Balder, sitting by his dead father, and seen him throwing himself against the headboard, he had already understood there was something exceptional about him. Now, as he cut across Mariatorget, a strange thought occurred to him and would not let him go. Up by Götgatsbacken he came to a stop.
He must at the very least follow it up, so he got out his mobile and looked up Hanna Balder. The number was unlisted, and unlikely to be one which he would find in Millennium’s contacts. He thought of Freja Granliden, a society reporter at Expressen whose columns did not do much to enhance the prestige of the profession. She wrote about divorces and romances and royalty. But she had a quick brain and a sharp wit, and whenever they met they had a good time together. He rang her number but it was engaged, of course.
These days, reporters on the evening papers were forever on the telephone, under such deadline pressure that they never left their desks to take a look at what real life was like. But he got her in the end and was not in the least surprised that she let out a yelp of delight.
“Mikael,” she said. “What an honour. Are you finally going to give me a scoop? I’ve been waiting for so long.”
“Sorry. This time you have to help me. I need an address and a phone number.”
“What do I get in return? Maybe a wicked little quote about what you got up to last night.”
“I could give you some career advice.”
“And what might that be?”
“Stop writing crap.”
“Right, then who’s going to keep track of all the telephone numbers the classy reporters need? Who are you looking for?”
“Hanna Balder.”
“I can imagine why. Did you meet her drunken boyfriend out there?”
“Don’t you start fishing, now. Do you know where she lives?”
“Torsgatan 40.”
“You know it just like that?”
“I have a brilliant memory for trivia. If you hang on, I’ll give you the front-door code and the phone number as well.”
“That’s really kind.”
“But you know…”
“Yes?”
“You’re not the only one looking for her. Our own bloodhounds are on the hunt too, and from what I hear she hasn’t answered her telephone all day.”
“Wise woman.”
Afterwards Blomkvist stood in the street, unsure what to do. Chasing down unhappy mothers in competition with crime reporters from the evening papers was not quite what he had hoped his day would bring. But he hailed a taxi and was driven off in the direction of Vasastan.
—
Hanna Balder had accompanied August and Forsberg to Oden’s Medical Centre for Children and Adolescents, opposite Observatorielunden on Sveavägen. The medical centre consisted of two apartments which had been knocked together, but even though the furnishings and the courtyard had a private and sheltered feel to them, there was nonetheless something institutional about it all. Probably that had less to do with the long corridors and closed doors than the grim and watchful expressions on the faces of the staff. They seemed to have developed a certain distrust of the children for whom they were responsible.
The director, Torkel Lindén, was a vain little man who claimed to have a wide experience of children with autism. But Hanna did not like the way he looked at August. It was also troubling that there seemed to be no separation between teenagers and small children. But it felt too late to be having doubts now so on the way home she consoled herself with the thought that it would only be for a short time. Maybe she would pick August up as soon as this evening?
Then she thought about Lasse and his bouts of drunkenness and she told herself yet again that she needed to leave him and get a grip on her life. As she stepped out of the lift at her apartment she gave a start. An attractive man was sitting there on the landing, writing in a notebook. As he got to his feet and greeted her she saw that it was Mikael Blomkvist. She was terrified, so guilt-ridden that she supposed he was going to write some kind of exposé. That was absurd. He just gave an embarrassed smile and twice apologized for disturbing her. She could not help but feel a huge sense of relief. She had admired him for a long time.
“I have no comment to make,” she said, in a voice which actually suggested the opposite.
“I’m not after a quote, either,” he said. She remembered hearing that he and Lasse had arrived together—or at least at the same time—at Frans’s the previous night, although she could not imagine what the two of them might have in common.
“Are you looking for Lasse?” she said.
“I’d like to hear about August’s drawings,” he replied, and at that she felt a stab of panic.
Yet she allowed him in. It was probably careless of her. Lasse had gone off to cure his hangover in some local dive and could be back at any time. He would go crazy if he found a journalist in their home. But Blomkvist ha
d not only worried Hanna, he had also made her curious. How on earth did he know about the drawings? She invited him to sit on the grey sofa in the living room while she went to the kitchen to get some tea and biscuits. When she came back with a tray he said:
“I wouldn’t be bothering you if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”
“You’re not bothering me,” she said.
“You see, I met August last night, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him.”
“Oh?”
“I didn’t understand it then,” he said. “But I had the feeling he was trying to tell us something. Now I’m convinced he wanted to draw. He was making these determined movements with his hand over the floor.”
“He’s become obsessed with drawing.”
“So he continued here at home?”
“And how! He started the minute we got here. He was manic and what he drew was amazing, but his face became flushed and he was breathing heavily, so the psychologist said he had to stop. It was compulsive and destructive, was his opinion.”
“What did he draw?”
“Nothing special, really, I’d guess it was inspired by his puzzles. But it was very cleverly done, with shadows and perspective and everything.”
“But what was it?”
“Squares.”
“What kind of squares?”
“Chessboard squares, I think you would call them,” she said. Maybe she was imagining things, but she detected a trace of excitement in Blomkvist’s eyes.
“Only chess squares?” he said. “Nothing more?”
“Mirrors too,” she said. “Chessboard squares reflected in mirrors.”
“Have you been to Frans’s place?” he said, a new sharpness in his voice.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because the design of the floor in the bedroom—where he was killed—looks just like chessboard squares, and they’re reflected in the mirrors of the wardrobe.”
“Oh my God!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Because…”
A wave of shame washed over her.
The Girl in the Spider's Web Page 20