The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Trilogy Bundle

by Stieg Larsson

  “Why the hell are you acting this way, Modig?”

  “Because you’re sabotaging my interview.”

  “Are you so hot for her that you want to have her all to yourself?”

  Before Modig could stop herself her hand shot out and slapped Faste across the face. She regretted it instantly, but it was too late. She glanced up and down the hall and saw that there were no witnesses, thank God.

  At first Faste looked surprised. Then he sneered at her, tossed his jacket over his shoulder, and walked away. Modig almost called after him to apologize but decided against it. She waited a whole minute while she calmed down. Then she collected two cups of coffee from the vending machine and went back to Miriam Wu.

  They sat in silence, drinking the coffee. At last Modig looked up.

  “I’m sorry. This is probably one of the worst interviews ever conducted in police headquarters.”

  “He seems like a great guy to work with. Let me guess: he’s heterosexual, divorced, and in charge of cracking gay jokes during coffee breaks.”

  “He’s … a relic of something. That’s all I can say.”

  “And you aren’t?”

  “At least I’m not homophobic.”

  “I’ll buy that.”

  “Miriam, I … we, all of us, have been working around the clock for ten days now. We’re tired and pissed off. We’re trying to get to the bottom of a horrible double murder in Enskede and an equally horrible murder near Odenplan. Your friend Lisbeth Salander has been linked to the sites of both crimes. We have forensic evidence. A nationwide alert has been put out for her. Please understand that, whatever the cost, we have to apprehend her before she does harm to someone else or maybe to herself.”

  “I know Lisbeth Salander. I can’t believe she murdered anyone.”

  “You can’t believe it or you don’t want to? Miriam, we don’t put out a nationwide alert for someone without a damn good reason. But I can tell you this much: my boss, Criminal Inspector Bublanski, isn’t convinced that she’s guilty. We’re discussing the possibility that she had an accomplice, or that she was somehow drawn into all this against her will. But we have to find her. You believe she’s innocent, Miriam, but what happens if you’re wrong? You say yourself that you don’t know that much about her.”

  “I don’t know what to believe.”

  “Then help us figure out the truth.”

  “Am I being arrested for anything?”

  “No.”

  “Can I leave here when I want?”

  “Technically, yes.”

  “And untechnically?”

  “You’ll remain a question mark in our eyes.”

  Miriam Wu weighed Modig’s words. “Fire away. If your questions piss me off I won’t answer.”

  Modig turned on the tape recorder again.

  CHAPTER 20

  Friday, April 1–Sunday, April 3

  Miriam Wu spent one more hour with Modig. Towards the end of the interview, Bublanski came into the room and sat down and listened without saying a word. Miriam Wu acknowledged him politely, but she carried on talking only to Modig.

  Finally Modig looked at Bublanski and asked whether he had any more questions. Bublanski shook his head.

  “I declare the interview with Miriam Wu concluded. The time is 1:09 p.m.” She turned off the tape recorder.

  “I understand there was a little problem with Criminal Inspector Faste,” Bublanski said.

  “He had difficulty concentrating,” said Modig neutrally.

  “He’s an idiot,” said Miriam Wu.

  “Criminal Inspector Faste actually does have many good points, but he may not be the best choice to interview a young woman,” said Bublanski, looking Miriam Wu in the eye. “I shouldn’t have entrusted him with the task. I apologize.”

  Miriam Wu looked surprised. “Apology accepted. I was quite unfriendly to you at first too.”

  Bublanski waved it off.

  “May I ask you a few more things? With the tape recorder off?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “The more I hear about Lisbeth Salander, the more puzzled I become. The picture I get from the people who know her is inconsistent with the documentation from the social welfare and psychiatric agencies.”

  “So?”

  “Please give me some straight answers.”

  “All right”

  “The psychiatric evaluation that was done when Salander was eighteen concludes that she is mentally retarded.”

  “Nonsense. Lisbeth is probably smarter than anyone I know.”

  “She never graduated from school and doesn’t even have a certificate that says she can read and write.”

  “Lisbeth reads and writes a whole lot better than I do. Sometimes she sits and scribbles mathematical formulas. Pure algebra. I have no clue about that sort of math.”

  “Mathematics?”

  “It’s a hobby she’s taken up.”

  “A hobby?” asked Bublanski after a moment.

  “Some sort of equations. I don’t even know what the symbols mean.”

  Bublanski sighed.

  “Social services wrote a report after she was brought in one time from Tantolunden when she was seventeen. It indicated that she was supporting herself as a prostitute.”

  “Lisbeth a whore? Bullshit. I don’t know what sort of work she does, but I’m not the least bit surprised that she had a job at that security company.”

  “How does she make a living?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is she a lesbian?”

  “No. Lisbeth has sex with me, but that isn’t the same thing as being a dyke. I don’t think she knows herself what sort of sexual identity she has. I’d guess she’s bisexual.”

  “What about the fact that you two use handcuffs and that sort of thing? Is Salander sadistically inclined, or how would you describe her?”

  “You misunderstood all those sex toys. We may use handcuffs sometimes for role-playing, but it has nothing to do with sadism or violence. It’s a game.”

  “Has she ever been violent towards you?”

  “No. I’m usually the dominant one in our games.”

  Miriam Wu smiled sweetly.

  The afternoon meeting at 3:00 resulted in the first serious disagreement of the investigation. Bublanski gave an update and then explained that he felt they should be widening their scope.

  “From day one we’ve been focusing all our energies on finding Lisbeth Salander. She is definitely a top suspect—this is based on evidence—but our picture of her is meeting resistance from everyone who knows her. Armansky, Blomkvist, and Miriam Wu don’t hold with the picture of her as a psychotic killer. Therefore I want us to expand our thinking a bit, to consider alternative killers and the possibility that Salander herself may have had an accomplice or merely have been present when the shots were fired.”

  Bublanski’s comments triggered a vigorous debate, in which he encountered strong opposition from Faste as well as Bohman from Milton Security. Bohman reminded the team that the simplest explanation was most often the right one.

  “It’s possible, of course, that Salander didn’t act alone, but we have no forensic trace of any accomplice.”

  “We could always follow up on Blomkvist’s leads within the police,” Faste said acidly.

  In the discussion, Bublanski was backed up only by Modig. Andersson and Holmberg were content with making isolated comments. Hedström from Milton was as quiet as a mouse during the whole discussion. Finally Prosecutor Ekström raised a hand.

  “Bublanski—as I understand it, you don’t want to eliminate Salander from the investigation.”

  “No, of course not. We have her fingerprints. But so far we have no motive. I want us to start thinking along different lines. Could several people have been involved? Could it still be related to that book about the sex trade that Svensson was writing? Blomkvist is certainly right that several people named in the book have a motive for murder.”

  “How do you wan
t to proceed?” Ekström said.

  “I want two people to start looking at alternative killers. Sonja and Niklas can work together.”

  “Me?” said Hedström in astonishment.

  Bublanski had chosen him because he was the youngest person in the room and the one who was most likely to think outside the box.

  “You’ll work with Modig. Go through everything we know so far and try to find anything we might have missed. Faste, you, Andersson, and Bohman keep on the hunt for Salander. That’s our number one priority.”

  “What should I do?” asked Holmberg.

  “Focus on Advokat Bjurman. Do a fresh examination of his apartment in case we missed anything. Questions?”

  Nobody had any.

  “OK. We’ll keep it quiet that Miriam Wu has turned up. She might have more to tell us, and I don’t want the media jumping all over her.”

  Ekström agreed that they should proceed according to Bublanski’s plan.

  “Right,” Hedström said, looking at Modig. “You’re the detective, you tell me what we’re going to do.”

  They were in the corridor outside the conference room.

  “I think we should have another talk with Mikael Blomkvist,” she said. “But first I have to discuss one or two things with Bublanski. I have tomorrow and Sunday off. That means we won’t get started until Monday morning. Spend the weekend going through the case material.”

  They said goodbye to each other. Modig walked into Bublanski’s office as Ekström was leaving.

  “Do you have a minute?” she said.

  “Sit down.”

  “I got so angry with Faste that I lost my temper.”

  “He mentioned that you really laid into him.”

  “He said that I obviously wanted to be alone with Wu because I was turned on by her.”

  “That qualifies as sexual harassment. Would you like to file a complaint?”

  “I slapped his face. That was enough.”

  “You were extremely provoked.”

  “I was.”

  “Faste has problems with strong women.”

  “I’ve noticed that.”

  “You’re a strong woman and a very good cop.”

  “Thanks.”

  “But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t beat up the staff.”

  “It won’t happen again. I didn’t even get a chance to go through Svensson’s desk at Millennium today.”

  “Go home and take it easy over the weekend. We’ll get started with the new approach on Monday.”

  Hedström stopped off at Central Station and had a coffee at George Café. He felt depressed. All week he had been waiting for the news that Salander had been caught. If she had resisted arrest, with a little luck some right-minded cop might have shot her.

  And that was an appealing fantasy.

  But Salander was still at liberty. Not only that, but Bublanski was floating the idea that she might not be the murderer. Not a positive development.

  Being subordinate to Bohman was bad enough—the man was one of the most boring and least imaginative people at Milton—but now he had been put under Inspector Modig, and she was the most sceptical of the Salander lead. She was probably the one who had put doubts in Bublanski’s mind. He wondered whether the famous Officer Bubble had something going on with that bitch. It wouldn’t surprise him. He seemed thoroughly pussy-whipped by her. Of all the officers in the investigation, only Faste had enough balls to say what he thought.

  Hedström was thinking hard. That morning he and Bohman had had a brief meeting at Milton with Armansky and Fräklund. A week of investigating had turned up nothing, and Armansky was frustrated that nobody had found any explanation for the murders. Fräklund had suggested that Milton Security should rethink its involvement—there were other more pressing tasks for Bohman and Hedström than to work as unpaid labour for the police.

  Armansky decided that Bohman and Hedström should stay on for one more week. If by then there was no result, the assignment would be called off.

  In other words, Hedström had only a week before the door to his involvement in the investigation would slam shut. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do.

  After a while he took out his mobile and called Tony Scala, a freelance journalist who made a living writing drivel for men’s magazines. Hedström had met him a few times. He told Scala that he had one or two bits of information about the investigation into the murders in Enskede. He explained how he had ended up right in the middle of the hottest police investigation in years. Scala took the bait at once: it might turn into a scoop for a major magazine. They agreed to meet for a coffee an hour later at the Aveny on Kungsgatan.

  Scala was fat. Seriously fat.

  “If you want information from me there are two preconditions,” Hedström said.

  “Shoot.”

  “First, no mention of Milton Security in the article. Our role is as consultants only.”

  “Although it is newsworthy given that Salander worked at Milton.”

  “Cleaning and stuff like that,” Hedström said, brushing him off. “That’s no news.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Second, you have to slant the article so it sounds as though a woman leaked the information.”

  “How come?”

  “To divert suspicion from me.”

  “All right. So what have you got?”

  “Salander’s lesbian girlfriend just showed up.”

  “OK, excellent! The chick she signed over the Lundagatan apartment to? The one who disappeared?”

  “Miriam Wu. Is that worth anything to you?”

  “You’d better believe it. Where was she?”

  “Out of the country. She claims she hadn’t even heard about the murders.”

  “Is she a suspect at all?”

  “No. Not yet anyway. She was interviewed today and released three hours ago.”

  “I see. Do you believe her story?”

  “I think she’s lying through her teeth. She knows something.”

  “Great stuff, Niklas.”

  “But check her out. We’re talking about a girl who goes in for S&M with Salander.”

  “You know this for a fact?”

  “She admitted to it during the interview. We found handcuffs, leather outfits, whips, and the whole shebang when we searched the place.”

  The stuff about the whips was an exaggeration. All right, it was a total lie, but surely that Chinese cunt played with whips too.

  “Are you kidding?” Scala said.

  Paolo Roberto was one of the last to leave the library. He had spent the afternoon reading every line that had been written about the hunt for Salander.

  He came out on Sveavägen feeling depressed and confused. And hungry. He went into McDonald’s, ordered a burger, and sat down at a corner table.

  Lisbeth Salander a triple murderer. He could hardly believe it. Not that skinny little fucking freaky chick. But should he do something about it? And if so, what?

  Miriam Wu took a cab back to Lundagatan and slowly took in the devastation of her newly decorated apartment. Cupboards, wardrobes, storage boxes, and desk drawers had been emptied out. There was fingerprint powder on every surface. Her highly private sex toys were heaped on the bed. But as far as she could tell, nothing had been taken.

  She put on the coffeemaker and shook her head. Lisbeth, Lisbeth, what the fuck have you got yourself mixed up in?

  She took out her mobile and called Salander’s number, but got the message that the subscriber could not be reached. She sat for a long time at her kitchen table and tried to work out what was real and what wasn’t. The Salander she knew was no psychotic killer, but on the other hand she didn’t know her very well. Salander was hot in bed, sure, but she could be a very cold fish if her mood changed.

  She promised herself not to make up her mind before she saw Salander and got her own explanation. She felt like crying and spent two hours cleaning up.

  By 7:00 p.m. the apartment was more o
r less habitable again. She took a shower and was in the kitchen dressed in a black-and-gold Oriental silk robe when the doorbell rang. At the door was an unshaven, exceptionally fat man.

  “Hi, Miriam, my name is Tony Scala. I’m a journalist. Can I ask you a few questions?”

  Standing next to him was a photographer who took a flash picture right in her face.

  Miriam Wu contemplated a dropkick and an elbow to his nose, but she had the presence of mind to realize that it would only give them more photo ops.

  “Have you been out of the country with Lisbeth Salander? Do you know where she is?”

  Miriam Wu shut the door in their faces and locked it with the newly installed dead bolt. Scala pushed open the mail slot.

  “Miriam, sooner or later you’ll have to talk to the press. I can help you.”

  She balled up her fist and smashed it down on Scala’s fingers. She heard a wail of pain. Then she closed the inner door and lay on the bed, closing her eyes. Lisbeth, I’m going to wring your neck when I find you.

  After his trip to Smådalarö, Blomkvist spent the afternoon visiting another of the men that Svensson had planned to name. So far that week he had crossed off six of the thirty-seven names. The latest one was a retired judge living in Tumba; he had presided over several cases involving prostitution.

  Refreshingly, the wretched man did not attempt denials, threats, or pleas for mercy. On the contrary, he cheerfully conceded that he had screwed whores from the East. No, he did not feel a grain of remorse. Prostitution was an honourable profession and he considered he was doing the girls a favour by being their customer.

  Blomkvist was driving through Liljeholmen around 10:00 p.m. when Eriksson called him.

  “Hi,” she said. “Did you read the online edition of the Morgon-Posten?”

  “No, what’ve they got?”

  “Salander’s girlfriend came home today.”

  “What? Who?”

  “That dyke Miriam Wu who lives in her apartment on Lundagatan.”

  Wu, Blomkvist thought. SALANDER-WU on the nameplate.

  “Thanks. I’m on my way.”

  Wu had unplugged the phone in her apartment and turned off her mobile. By 7:30 that evening news of her homecoming had appeared on the website of one of the morning papers. Soon after that Aftonbladet called, and three minutes later Expressen. Aktuellt ran the story without naming her, but by 9:00 no fewer than sixteen reporters from various media had tried to get a comment out of her.