The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Trilogy Bundle
Page 87
Twice the doorbell had rung. She had not opened the door, and she turned off all the lights in the apartment. She felt like breaking the nose of the next reporter who hassled her. In the end she turned on her mobile and called a girlfriend who lived within walking distance down by Hornstull and asked if she could spend the night there.
She slipped out the entrance door on Lundagatan less than five minutes before Blomkvist rang her doorbell.
• • •
Bublanski called Modig just after 10:00 on Saturday morning. She had slept until 9:00 and then played with the children before her husband took them out for a Saturday treat.
“Have you read the papers today?”
“No, not yet. I’ve only been up an hour, and busy with the kids. Did something happen?”
“Somebody on our team is leaking stuff to the press.”
“We’ve known that all along. Someone leaked Salander’s psychiatric report several days ago.”
“That was Ekström.”
“It was?” Modig said.
“Of course, though he’ll never admit it. He’s trying to generate interest because it’s to his advantage. But not this. A freelancer called Tony Scala talked to someone who told him all kinds of stuff about Miriam Wu. Among other things, details from what was said in the interview yesterday. That was something we wanted to keep quiet, and Ekström has gone through the roof.”
“Damn it.”
“The reporter didn’t name anyone. The source was described as a person with a ‘central position in the investigation.’ ”
“Shit,” Modig said.
“The article describes the source as a ‘she.’ ”
Modig said nothing for ten seconds. She was the only woman on the investigative team.
“Bublanski … I haven’t said one word to a single journalist. I haven’t discussed the investigation with anyone outside our corridor. Not even with my husband.”
“I don’t for a second believe that you would leak information. But unfortunately Prosecutor Ekström does. And Faste, who’s on weekend duty, is brimming with insinuations.”
Modig felt quite weary. “So what happens now?”
“Ekström is insisting that you be taken off the investigation while the charge is checked out.”
“What charge? This is absurd. How am I supposed to prove—”
“You don’t have to prove a thing. The person making the accusation has to come up with the proof.”
“I know, but … damn it all. How long is this going to take?”
“It’s already over.”
“What?”
“I’ve just asked you. You said that you hadn’t leaked any information. So the investigation is done and I write a report. I’ll see you at 9:00 on Monday in Ekström’s office, and I’ll handle the questions.”
“Thank you, Bublanski.”
“My pleasure.”
“There is one problem.”
“I know.”
“Since I didn’t leak anything, somebody else on the team must have.”
“Any suggestions?”
“My first guess would be Faste, but I don’t really think he could be the one.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you. He can be a total prick, but he was genuinely outraged at the leak.”
Bublanski liked his walks, depending on the weather and how much time he had. It was exercise he enjoyed. He lived on Katarina Bangata in Södermalm, not so far from Millennium’s offices, or from Milton Security for that matter, where Salander had worked, and Lundagatan, where she had lived. It was also within walking distance of the synagogue on St. Paulsgatan. On Saturday afternoon he walked to all of these places.
His wife Agnes accompanied him for the first part of the walk. They had been married for twenty-three years, and in all that time he had never strayed.
They stopped at the synagogue for a while and talked to the rabbi. Bublanski was a Polish Jew, while Agnes’ family—the few who had survived Auschwitz—were originally from Hungary.
After visiting the synagogue they parted—Agnes to go shopping, Bublanski to keep walking. He needed to be alone, to think about the investigation. He went back over the measures he had taken since the job had landed on his desk on the morning of Maundy Thursday, and he could identify only a couple of mistakes.
One was that he hadn’t immediately sent someone to go through Svensson’s desk at Millennium. When eventually he remembered to do it—and he had done it himself—Blomkvist had already cleaned out God knows what.
Another mistake was missing the fact that Salander had bought a car. But Holmberg had reported that the car contained nothing of interest.
Apart from these two errors, the investigation had been as thorough as could have been expected.
He stopped at a kiosk near Zinkensdamm and stared at a newspaper headline. The passport photograph of Salander had been cropped to a small but easily recognizable size and the focus had shifted to a more sensational line of news:
POLICE TRACKING
LESBIAN SATANIST CULT
He bought a copy and found the spread, which was dominated by a photograph of five girls in their late teens dressed in black leather jackets with rivets, torn black jeans, and tight T-shirts. One of the girls was holding up a flag with a pentagram and another was making a sign with her index and little fingers. The caption read: Lisbeth Salander hung out with a death-metal band that played in small clubs. In 1996 the group paid homage to the Church of Satan and had a hit with “Etiquette of Evil.”
The name Evil Fingers was not mentioned, and the newspaper had blacked out their eyes, but friends of the rock group would certainly recognize the girls.
The story was mainly about Miriam Wu and was illustrated with a picture taken from a show at Bern’s in which she had performed. She was topless and wearing a Russian army officer’s cap. Her eyes were blacked out too.
SALANDER’S GIRLFRIEND WROTE ABOUT
LESBIAN S&M SEX
The 31-year-old woman is well known in Stockholm’s trendy nightspots. She makes no secret that she picks up women and likes to dominate her partner.
The reporter had even found a girl he called Sara who, according to her own testimony, had been the object of the woman’s pickup attempts. Her boyfriend had been “disturbed” by the incident. The article went on to say that the band was an obscure and elitist feminist variant on the fringes of the gay movement, and that it had acquired a certain fame for hosting a “bondage workshop” at the Gay Pride Festival. The rest of the article was based on a deliberately provocative piece Wu had written six years earlier for a feminist fanzine. Bublanski scanned the text and then tossed the paper into a trash can.
He brooded over Faste and Modig, both competent detectives. But Faste was a problem; he got on people’s nerves. He would have to have a talk with the man, but he didn’t think he was the source of the leaks.
When Bublanski got his bearings again he was standing on Lundagatan staring at the front door of Salander’s building. It had not been a conscious decision to walk there.
He walked up the steps to upper Lundagatan, where he stood for a long time thinking about Blomkvist’s story of Salander’s attack. That didn’t lead anywhere either. There was no police report, no names of persons involved, and not even an adequate description of the attacker. Blomkvist had claimed that he could not read the licence plate of the van that drove away from the scene.
Assuming any of it had happened at all.
Another dead end.
Bublanski looked down Lundagatan at the burgundy Honda that was still parked in the street, and at that moment Blomkvist walked up to the front door.
Miriam Wu awoke late in the day, tangled in the sheets. She sat up and looked around at the unfamiliar room.
She had used the torrent of media attention as an excuse to call a girlfriend. But she had also left the apartment, she realized, because she was afraid that Salander might knock on her door. Her interview with the police and the newspa
per coverage had affected her profoundly, and even though she had resolved not to make up her mind one way or the other until Salander had a chance to explain what had happened, she had started to suspect that her friend might actually be guilty.
She glanced down at Viktoria Viktorsson—known as Double-V and 100 percent dyke. She was lying on her stomach and mumbling in her sleep. Miriam slipped out of bed and took a shower. Then she went out to buy rolls for breakfast. It was not until she was standing at the cash register of the shop next to Café Cinnamon on Verkstadsgatan that she saw the headlines. She fled back to Double-V’s apartment.
• • •
Blomkvist punched in the entry code and went inside. He was gone for two minutes before he reappeared. Nobody home. He looked up and down the street, apparently undecided. Bublanski watched him intently.
What bothered Bublanski was that if Blomkvist had lied about the attack on Lundagatan then he was playing some kind of game, which in the worst case could mean that he was involved in the murders. But if he was telling the truth there was still a hidden element in the drama; there were more players than those who were visible, and the murders could be considerably more complex than an attack of insanity in a pathologically disturbed girl.
As Blomkvist moved towards Zinkensdamm, Bublanski called after him. Blomkvist stopped, saw the detective, and walked over to him. They met at the foot of the steps.
“Hello, Blomkvist. Looking for Lisbeth Salander?”
“As a matter of fact, no. I’m looking for Miriam Wu.”
“She isn’t home. Somebody leaked the news to the press that she had resurfaced.”
“What did she have to say?”
Bublanski gave Blomkvist a searching look. Kalle Blomkvist.
“Walk with me,” Bublanski said. “I need a cup of coffee.”
They passed Högalid Church in silence. Bublanski took him to Café Lillasyster, near to where Liljeholmsbron crosses the Norrström to the southern suburb of Liljeholmen. Bublanski ordered a double espresso with a teaspoonful of cold milk and Blomkvist a caffè latte. They sat in the smoking section.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve had such a frustrating case,” Bublanski said. “How much can I discuss with you without having to read it in Expressen tomorrow morning?”
“I don’t work for Expressen.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Bublanski—I don’t believe Lisbeth is guilty.”
“And now you’re doing your own private investigation? Is that why they call you Kalle Blomkvist?”
Blomkvist smiled. “They tell me you’re called Officer Bubble.”
Bublanski gave him a stiff smile. “Why do you think Salander is innocent?”
“I don’t know a thing about her guardian, but she had no reason whatsoever to murder Dag and Mia. Especially not Mia. Lisbeth loathes men who hate women, and Mia was in the process of putting the screws to a whole bunch of prostitutes’ clients. What Mia was doing was completely in line with what Lisbeth herself would have done. She is a very moral creature.”
“I can’t seem to piece together a coherent picture of her. A retarded psycho case or a skilled researcher?”
“Lisbeth is just different. She’s abnormally antisocial, but there is definitely nothing wrong with her intelligence. On the contrary, she’s probably smarter than you or me.”
Bublanski sighed. Blomkvist was giving him the same story that Miriam Wu had.
“She has to be caught, come what may. I can’t go into the details, but she was at the murder scene, and she has been linked to the murder weapon.”
“I suppose that means you found her fingerprints on it. That doesn’t prove she fired the shots.”
Bublanski nodded. “Dragan Armansky doesn’t believe it either. He’s too cautious to say it straight out, but he’s also looking for proof that she’s innocent.”
“And you? What do you think?”
“I’m a detective. I arrest people and question them. Right now things look dismal for Fröken Salander. We’ve put away murderers on considerably weaker circumstantial evidence.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I don’t know. If she did turn out to be innocent … Who do you think would have a motive for killing both her guardian and your two friends?”
Blomkvist took out a pack of cigarettes and offered it to Bublanski, who shook his head. He did not want to lie to the police. He ought to say something about the man known as Zala. He should also tell Bublanski about Superintendent Gunnar Björck of the Security Police.
But Bublanski and his colleagues had access to Svensson’s material, which contained the same
He had an idea, but didn’t know where it would lead. He didn’t want to name Björck before he was sure. Zalachenko. That was the link between Bjurman and Dag and Mia. The problem was that Björck so far hadn’t told him anything.
“Let me dig a little deeper, then I’ll give you an alternative theory.”
“No police traces, I hope.”
“Not yet. What did Miriam Wu say?”
“Just about the same as you. They had a relationship.”
“None of my business,” Blomkvist said.
“She and Salander have known each other for three years. She says she knows nothing about Salander’s background and didn’t even know where she worked. It’s hard to believe, but I think she’s telling the truth.”
“Lisbeth is obsessively private,” Blomkvist said. “Do you have Miriam Wu’s phone number?”
“Yes.”
“Can I have it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Mikael, this is police business. We don’t need private investigators with wild theories.”
“I don’t have any theories yet. On the other hand, I think the answer lies somewhere in Svensson’s material.”
“You could get in touch with Wu if you made an effort.”
“Probably, but the simplest way is to ask somebody who already has the number.”
Bublanski sighed.
Blomkvist was suddenly very annoyed with him. “Are policemen more talented than normal people, the ones you call private investigators?”
“No, I don’t think that. But the police have the training and it’s their job to solve crimes.”
“Ordinary people have training too,” Blomkvist said slowly. “And sometimes a private investigator is better at working things out than a real detective.”
“So you believe.”
“I know it. Take the Rahman case.∗ A bunch of policemen sat on their backsides with their eyes closed for five years while Rahman was locked up, innocent of the murder of an old lady. He would still be locked up today if a schoolteacher hadn’t devoted several years to a serious investigation. She did it without the resources you have at your disposal. Not only did she prove that he was innocent, but she also identified the person who in all probability was the real killer.”
“We did lose face in the Rahman case. The prosecutor refused to listen to the facts.”
“Bublanski … I’m going to tell you something. At this very moment you’re losing face in the Salander case as well. I’m damn sure that she did not kill Dag and Mia, and I’m going to prove it. I’m going to produce another killer for you, and when that happens I am also going to write an article that you and your colleagues are going to find painful reading.”
On his way home to Katarina Bangata, Bublanski felt an urge to talk with God about the case, but instead of going to the synagogue he went to the Catholic church on Folkungagatan. He sat in one of the pews at the back and did not move for over an hour. As a Jew he had no business being in a church, but it was a peaceful place that he regularly visited when he felt the need to sort out his thoughts, and he knew that God did not mind. There was a difference, besides, between Catholicism and Jud
aism. He went to the synagogue when he needed company and fellowship with other people. Catholics went to church to seek peace in the presence of God. The church invited silence and visitors would always be left to themselves.
He brooded about Salander and Wu. And he wondered what Berger and Blomkvist might be withholding from him—certainly they knew something about Salander that they hadn’t told him. What sort of research had Salander done for Blomkvist? For a moment Bublanski considered whether she might have worked on the Wennerström exposé, but then dismissed that possibility. Salander couldn’t have contributed anything of value there, no matter how good she was at personal investigations.
Bublanski was worried: he did not like Blomkvist’s cocksure certainty that Salander was innocent. It was one thing for him as a detective to be beset by doubt—doubting was his job. It was quite another thing for Blomkvist to deliver an ultimatum as a private investigator.
He didn’t care for private investigators because they often produced conspiracy theories, which prompted headlines in the newspapers but also created a lot of unnecessary extra work for the police.
This had developed into the most exasperating murder investigation he had ever been involved in. Somehow he had lost his focus. There had to be a chain of logical consequences.
If a teenager is found stabbed to death on Mariatorget, it’s a matter of tracking down which skinhead gang or other mob was rampaging through Söder station an hour earlier. There are friends, acquaintances, and witnesses, and very soon there are suspects.
If a man is killed with three bullets in a bar in Skärholmen and it turns out he was a heavy in the Yugoslav mafia, then it’s a matter of finding out which thugs are trying to take control of cigarette smuggling.
If a young woman with a decent background and normal lifestyle is found strangled in her apartment, it’s a matter of finding out who her boyfriend was, or who was the last person she talked to at the bar the night before.