Grandén looked at him as if there was something he had forgotten to say. Then he uttered in a bored tone:
“OK.”
Zander felt miserable. It may only have been Grandén’s arrogant attitude, but it was more likely because of the article about the art dealer. Why was he finding it so difficult? Presumably because all he wanted to do was help Blomkvist with the Balder story. Everything else felt secondary.
But he was also spineless, wasn’t he? Why had he not let Blomkvist take a look at what he had written? No-one could raise the level of a story like Blomkvist could, with just a few light pen strokes or deletions. Never mind. Tomorrow he would see the story with fresh eyes and then Blomkvist could read it, however bad it might be.
Zander closed the door to the office and walked out towards the lift. Further down the stairs a drama was unfolding. At first he could not make out what was going on, but there was a scrawny, hollow-eyed figure molesting a beautiful young woman. Zander froze—he had always loathed violence, ever since his parents had been killed in Sarajevo. He hated fights. But his self-respect was at stake. It was one thing to run away for your own sake, but quite another to leave a fellow human being in danger, and so he rushed down the stairs yelling: “Stop, let her go!”
At first that seemed like a fatal mistake. The hollow-eyed man pulled out a knife and muttered some threat in English. Zander’s legs nearly gave way, yet he managed to muster the last remnants of his courage and spat back, like something from a B movie, “Hey, get lost! If you don’t, you’ll regret it.” After a few seconds of posturing, the man took off. Zander and the woman were left alone in the stairwell, and that too was like a scene from a film.
The woman was shaken and shy. She spoke so softly that Zander had to lean in close to hear what she was saying, and it took a while before he understood what had happened. The woman had been in a marriage from hell, she said, and even though she was now divorced and living with a protected identity her ex-husband had managed to track her down and send some stooge to harass her.
“That’s the second time that foul man has thrown himself at me today,” she said.
“Why were you up here?”
“I tried to get away and ran in, but it didn’t help. I can’t thank you enough.”
“It was nothing.”
“I’m so fed up with nasty men,” she said.
“I’m a nice man,” he said, perhaps a little too quickly and that made him feel pathetic. He was not in the least bit surprised that the woman did not answer, but looked down at the stairs in embarrassment. He felt ashamed of such a cheap reply.
But then, just as he thought he had been rejected, she raised her head and gave him a careful smile.
“I think you really might be. My name’s Linda.”
“I’m Andrei.”
“Nice to meet you, Andrei, and thank you again.”
“Thank you too.”
“What for?”
“For…”
He didn’t finish his sentence. He could feel his heart beating, his mouth was dry. He looked down the staircase.
“Yes, Andrei?” she said.
“Would you like me to walk you home?”
He regretted saying that too.
He was afraid it would be misinterpreted. But instead she gave him another of her enchanting, hesitant smiles, and said that she would feel safe with him by her side, so they went out into the street and down towards Slussen. She told him how she had been living more or less locked up in a big house in Djursholm. He said that he understood—he had written a series of articles on violence against women.
“Are you a journalist?” she said.
“I work at Millennium.”
“Wow,” she said. “Seriously? I’m a huge fan of that magazine.”
“It’s done a lot of good things,” he said shyly.
“It really has,” she said. “A while ago I read a wonderful article about an Iraqi who had been wounded in the war and got sacked from his job as a cleaner at some restaurant in the city. He was left destitute. Today he’s the owner of a whole chain of restaurants. I cried when I read it; it was so beautifully written and inspiring.”
“I wrote that,” he said.
“Are you joking?” she said. “It was fantastic.”
Zander was not exactly spoiled when it came to praise for his journalistic efforts, especially from unknown women. Whenever Millennium was mentioned, people wanted to talk about Mikael Blomkvist, and Zander did not object to that. But secretly he dreamed of recognition for himself too, and now this beautiful Linda had praised him without even meaning to.
It made him so happy and proud that he plucked up the courage to suggest a drink at Papagallo, since they were just passing. To his delight she said: “What a good idea!,” so they went into the restaurant, Zander’s heart pounding.
He tried to avoid looking into her eyes. Those eyes had knocked him off his feet and he could not believe this was really happening. They sat down at a table not far from the bar and Linda tentatively put out her hand. As he took it he smiled and mumbled something, hardly aware of what he was saying.
He looked down at his phone—Grandén was calling. To his own surprise he ignored it and turned off his ringer. For once the magazine would have to wait. He just wanted to gaze into Linda’s face, to drown in it. She was so beautiful that it felt like a punch to the stomach, yet she seemed fragile, like a wounded bird.
“I can’t imagine why anyone would want to hurt you,” he said.
“It happens all the time.”
Perhaps he could understand it after all. A woman like her probably attracted psychopaths. No-one else would dare ask her out. Most men would just shrivel up and feel inferior.
“It’s so nice to be sitting here with you,” he said.
“It’s so nice to be sitting here with you,” she repeated, gently stroking his hand. They each ordered a glass of red wine and started to talk; they had so much to say, and he didn’t notice his mobile vibrating in his pocket, not once but twice, which is how he came to ignore a call from Mikael Blomkvist for the first time in his life.
Soon afterwards she took his hand and led him out into the night. He did not ask where they were going. He was prepared to follow her anywhere. She was the most wonderful creature he had ever met, and from time to time she gave him a smile that made every paving stone, every breath, sound out a promise that something wonderful and overwhelming was happening. You live an entire life for the sake of a walk like this, he thought, barely noticing the cold and the city around him.
He was intoxicated by her presence and what might await him. But maybe—he wasn’t sure—there was a hint of suspicion too. At first he dismissed these thoughts, his usual scepticism at any form of happiness. And yet he could not help asking himself: Is this too good to be true?
He studied Linda with a new focus, and noticed that not everything about her was attractive. As they walked past Katarinahissen he even thought he noticed something hard in her eyes. He looked anxiously down at the choppy waters. “Where are we going?”
“I have a friend with a small apartment in Mårten Trotzigs gränd,” she said. “She lets me use it sometimes. We could have another drink there.” That made him smile as if it were the most wonderful idea he had ever heard.
Yet he felt more and more confused. Not long ago he had been looking after her, and now she had taken the initiative. When a quick glance at his mobile told him that Blomkvist had rung twice, he felt he had to call back immediately. Come what may, he could not let the magazine down.
“I’d like that,” he said. “But first I have to make a call. I’m in the middle of a story.”
“No, Andrei,” she said, in a surprisingly firm tone. “You’re not calling anyone. Tonight it’s just you and me.”
They got to Järntorget. In spite of the storm there were quite a few people around and Linda stared at the ground, as if she did not want to be noticed. He looked over to the right at Österlånggatan
and the statue of Evert Taube. The troubadour was standing there immobile, holding a sheet of music in his right hand, looking up at the sky in dark glasses. Should he suggest that they meet the following day?
“Maybe…” he started.
He got no further, because she pulled him to her and kissed him with a force which emptied his mind. Then she stepped up the pace again. She held his hand and pulled him to the left into Västerlånggatan, then right into a dark alley. Was that someone behind them? No, no, the footsteps and voices he could hear came from further away. It was just him and Linda, wasn’t it? They passed a window with a red frame and black shutters and came to a grey door which Linda had some trouble opening. The key was shaking in her hand and he wondered at that. Was she still afraid of her ex-husband and his goon?
They climbed a dark stone stairway. Their footsteps echoed and there was a faint smell of something rotten. On one of the steps past the third floor he saw a playing card, the queen of spades, and he did not like that, he could not understand why, it was probably some silly superstition. He tried to ignore it, and think about how great it was that they had met. Linda was breathing heavily. Her right hand was clenched. A man’s laughter could be heard in the alley. Not laughing at him, surely? He was just agitated. But it felt as if they were climbing and climbing and not getting anywhere. Could the house really be so tall? No, here they were. The friend lived in the attic apartment.
The name on the door was Orlov and again Linda took out her bunch of keys. This time her hand was not shaking.
—
Blomkvist was sitting in an apartment with old-fashioned furniture on Prostvägen in Solna, next to a large churchyard. Just as Palmgren had anticipated, Margareta Dahlgren agreed to see him at once, and even though she had sounded manic over the telephone she turned out to be an elegant lady in her sixties. She was wearing a fashionable yellow sweater and neatly pressed black trousers. Perhaps she had had time to dress up for him. She was in high-heeled shoes and had it not been for her restless eyes he would have thought her to be a woman at peace with herself, despite everything.
“You want to hear about Camilla,” she said.
“Especially about her life more recently—if you know anything about it,” he said.
“I remember when she came to us,” she said, as if she had not been listening. “My husband Kjell thought we could make a contribution to society at the same time as adding to our little family. We had only one child, you see, our poor Moa. She was fourteen then, and quite lonely. We thought it would do her good if we took in a foster daughter of roughly the same age.”
“Did you know what had happened in the Salander family?”
“We didn’t have all the details, but we knew that it had been awful and traumatic and the mother was ill and the father had suffered serious burns. We were deeply moved and were expecting to meet a girl who had fallen apart, someone who would need an incredible amount of care and affection. But do you know what arrived?”
“Tell me.”
“The most adorable girl we’d ever seen. It wasn’t just that she was pretty. My goodness, you should have heard her talk. She was so wise and mature, and she told such heart-rending stories about how her mentally ill sister had terrorized the family. Yes, of course I now know how far from the truth that was. But how could we have doubted her then? Her eyes were bright with conviction, and when we said, ‘How dreadful, poor you,’ she answered, ‘It wasn’t easy, but I still love my sister, she’s just sick and now she’s getting treatment.’ It sounded so grown up and full of empathy, and for a while it almost felt like she was the one taking care of us. Our whole family lit up, as if something glamorous had come into our lives and made everything bigger and more beautiful, and we blossomed. Moa blossomed most of all. She began to take care of her appearance, and quite soon she became more popular at school. There was nothing I wouldn’t have done for Camilla right then. And Kjell, my husband, what can I say? He was a new person. He was smiling and laughing all the time, and we began to make love again, if you’ll forgive my being so frank. Perhaps I should have started to worry even then. But it felt like everything had finally fallen into place for our family. For a while we were all happy, as everybody is who meets Camilla. They’re happy to start with. Then…after some time with her you don’t want to live anymore.
“Is it that bad?”
“It’s horrific.”
“So what happened?”
“A poison began to spread among us. Camilla slowly took control of our family. Looking back, it’s impossible to tell when the party ended and the nightmare began. It had happened so gradually and imperceptibly that we woke up one day and realized everything was ruined: our trust, our sense of security, the very foundations of our life together. Moa’s self-confidence plummeted. She lay awake at night weeping, saying she was ugly and horrible and didn’t deserve to live. Only later did we find out that her savings account had been cleaned out. I still don’t know how that happened, but I’m convinced Camilla blackmailed her. Blackmail came as naturally to her as breathing. She collected compromising information on people. For a long time I thought she was keeping a diary, but instead it was a catalogue of all the dirt she had on people close to her. And Kjell…the bastard…you know, I believed him when he said that he’d started having problems sleeping and needed to use the bed in the basement guest room. But that was an excuse to be with Camilla. Starting when she was sixteen, she would sneak in there at night and have perverted sex with him. I say perverted because I got wind of what was going on when I asked about the cuts on Kjell’s chest. He didn’t say anything then, of course. Just gave me some unconvincing explanation and somehow I managed to suppress my suspicions. But do you know what they did? In the end Kjell came clean: Camilla tied him up and cut him with a knife. He said she enjoyed it. Sometimes I even hoped it was true, strange though that may sound—I hoped she got something out of it and didn’t only want to torture him, to destroy his life.”
“Did she blackmail him too?”
“Oh yes, but I don’t have the full story. He was so humiliated by Camilla that he wasn’t willing to tell me the truth, even when all was lost. Kjell had been the rock in our family. If we lost our way while out driving, if there was a flood, if any of us fell ill, he was the calm, sensible one. It’ll all be all right, he would say in his wonderful voice—I still fantasize about it. But after a few years with Camilla in the house he was a wreck. Hardly dared to cross the road, looked a hundred times to make sure it was safe. And he lost all motivation at work, just sat with his head hanging. One of his closest colleagues, Mats Hedlund, rang and told me in confidence that an enquiry had been set up to investigate whether Kjell had been selling company secrets. It sounded crazy. Kjell was the most honest man I’ve ever known. Plus if he’d sold anything, where was the money? We had less than ever. His bank account was stripped bare, same with our joint account.”
“Forgive me for asking, but how did he die?”
“He hanged himself—without a word of explanation. I came home from work one day and found him swinging from the ceiling in the guest room, yes, the same room in which Camilla had had her fun with him. I was a well-paid CFO at the time, and chances are I would have had a great career to look forward to. But after that, Moa’s and my world collapsed. I won’t go into it any further. You want to know what happened to Camilla. But there was no end to the misery. Moa started cutting herself and practically stopped eating. One day she asked me if I thought she was scum. ‘My God, darling,’ I replied. ‘How can you say something like that?’ Then she told me it was Camilla. That Camilla had claimed every single person who had ever met Moa thought she was repulsive. I sought all the help I could: psychologists, doctors, wise friends, Prozac. But to no avail. One gloriously beautiful spring day, when the rest of Sweden was celebrating some ridiculous triumph in the Eurovision Song Contest, Moa jumped from a ferry, and my life ended with hers—that’s how it felt. I no longer had the will to live and spent a long
time in hospital being treated for depression. But then…I don’t know…somehow the paralysis and grief turned to rage, and I felt that I needed to understand. What had actually happened to our family? What sort of evil had seeped in? I started to make enquiries about Camilla, not because I wanted to see her again, not under any circumstances. But I wanted to understand her, the same way a parent of a murder victim wants to understand the murderer.”
“What did you discover?”
“Nothing to begin with. She had covered her tracks—it was like chasing a shadow, a phantom. I don’t know how many tens of thousands of kronor I spent on private detectives and other unreliable people who promised to help me. I was getting nowhere, and it was driving me crazy. I became fixated. I hardly slept, and none of my friends could bear to be with me anymore. It was a terrible time. People thought I was being obsessive and stubborn, maybe they still do, I don’t know what Holger Palmgren told you. But then…”
“Go on?”
“Your story on Zalachenko was published. Naturally the name meant nothing to me, but I started to put two and two together. I read about his Swedish identity, Karl Axel Bodin, and about his connection with Svavelsjö Motorcycle Club, and then I remembered all the dreadful evenings towards the end, after Camilla had turned her back on us. At the time I was often woken up by the noise of motorbikes, and I could see those leather vests with that awful emblem from my bedroom window. It didn’t surprise me that she mixed with those sorts of people. I no longer had any illusions about her. But I had no idea that this was the world she came from—and that she was expecting to take over her father’s business interests.”
“And did she?”
“Oh yes. In her own dirty world she fought for the rights of women—at least for her own rights—and I know that it meant a lot to many of the girls in the club, most of all to Kajsa Falk.”
“Who is she?”
“A lovely looking sassy girl; her boyfriend was one of the leaders. She spent a lot of time at our home during that last year, and I remember liking her. She had big blue eyes with a slight squint, and a compassionate, vulnerable side behind her tough exterior. After reading your story I looked her up again. She didn’t say a word about Camilla, though she was by no means unpleasant. I noticed that her style had changed: the biker girl had become a business woman. But she didn’t talk about it. I thought I’d hit another dead end.”
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