He backed in a wide semicircle to collect his strength and buy time. The man followed him steadily but slowly, precisely as though he knew that the outcome was decided but he wanted to draw the round out. He boxes[DONE] but he can’t really box. He knows who I am. He’s a rank amateur. But he has a devastating power in his punch and he seems insensitive to all punishment.
These thoughts rattled around in Paolo Roberto’s head as he tried to decide what to do.
Suddenly he was reliving the night in Mariehamn two years before when his career as a professional boxer had ended in the most brutal way. He had met the Argentine Sebastián Luján, or rather, Sebastián Luján met him. Paolo Roberto had walked into the first knockout of his life and had been unconscious for fifteen seconds.
He often thought about what had gone wrong. He was in tip-top shape. He was focused. But the Argentine had landed a solid punch and the round had been transformed into a raging sea.
Watching the video afterwards, he saw how he had staggered around the ring, as defenceless as Donald Duck. The knockout came twenty-three seconds later.
Sebastián Luján hadn’t been any better, or better trained than he was. The margins of error being so small, the bout could have gone either way.
The only difference he could detect later was that Luján had been hungrier. When Paolo Roberto went into that ring in Mariehamn he was set on winning, but he wasn’t dying to box. It did not mean life or death any more. A loss was not a catastrophe.
A year and a half later he was still a boxer. But he was no longer a pro, and he took on only friendly sparring matches. He went on training, and he had not put on weight or gone soft in the gut. He was not as well-tuned an instrument as before a title bout for which his body had been drilled for months, but he was Paolo Roberto and not some nobody. And unlike Mariehamn, the bout in the warehouse south of Nykvarn literally meant life or death.
He made a decision. He stopped short and let the giant come in close. He feinted with his left and put everything he had behind a right hook. He lashed out with a punch that hit the man across the mouth and nose. His attack was totally unexpected since he had been in retreat for the past few moments. He heard something give way. He followed up with a left-right-left and landed all three in the man’s face.
The man was boxing in slow motion. He struck back with his right.
Paolo Roberto saw the punch coming far in advance and ducked under the huge fist. He saw the giant shift his body weight and knew that he was going to follow up with a left. Instead of blocking, Paolo Roberto leaned back and let the left hook pass in front of his nose. He replied with a massive blow to the body, just below the ribs. When the man turned to meet the attack, Paolo Roberto’s left hook came up and hit him across the nose again.
He suddenly felt that everything he was doing was utterly right and that he was in control of the bout. The giant backed away. His nose was bleeding. He was not smiling now.
Then the giant kicked him.
His foot shot up and took Paolo Roberto by surprise. He had not been expecting a kick. It felt as if a sledgehammer had hit his thigh just above the knee, and pain ran right through his leg. No. He took a step back and his right leg gave way. He was on his back.
The giant looked down at him. For a second their eyes met. The message was unmistakable. The fight was over.
Then the giant’s eyes widened as Miriam Wu kicked him in the crotch from behind.
Every muscle in Miriam Wu’s body was aching, but somehow she had managed to slip her bound hands underneath her and then—agonizingly—over her feet so that she got her arms in front of her body.
She had pain in her ribs, neck, back, and kidneys, and only with difficulty did she get to her feet. Finally she wobbled to the door and looked on wide-eyed as Paolo Roberto—where did he come from?—hit the giant with a right hook and then a combination to the face before he was kicked to the ground.
Miriam Wu realized that she could not care less how or why Paolo Roberto had shown up. He was one of the good guys. But for the first time in her life she felt a murderous desire to damage another human being. She took a few quick steps forward, mobilizing every bit of energy and all the muscles she had intact. She came up to the giant from behind and landed a kick in his balls. It may not have been elegant Thai boxing, but the kick had the desired effect.
Miriam Wu nodded to herself. Men could be as big as a house and made of granite, but they all had balls in the same place. For the first time the man looked shaken. He gave a moan, grabbed at his crotch, and went down on one knee.
Wu stood indecisive until she realized that she had to do more to try to end this. She was going to kick him in the face, but to her amazement he lifted an arm. It should have been impossible for him to recover so fast. And it had felt like kicking a tree trunk. He grabbed her foot, dragged her down, and began to haul her in. She saw him raise a fist and she twisted desperately, kicking with her free leg. She hit him above the ear at the same instant his blow struck her on the temple. She saw lightning and blackness alternating before her eyes.
The giant began to scramble to his feet.
That was when Paolo Roberto swung a plank into the back of his head. The man fell forward and landed with a crash.
Paolo Roberto looked around as if in a dream. The giant was writhing on the floor. The girl had a glassy look and seemed to be totally drained. Their combined efforts had bought them only a brief respite.
Paolo Roberto could barely support himself on his injured leg, and he was afraid that a muscle had torn just above his knee. He limped over to Miriam Wu and pulled her to her feet. She began to move again, but her eyes could not seem to focus. Without a word he slung her over his shoulder and started hobbling towards the door. The pain in his right knee was acute.
It was exhilarating to come out into the dark, cold air. But he had no time to pause. He navigated across the yard and into the curtain of woods, the same way he had come. He was no sooner in the trees than he tripped over a root and tumbled to the ground. Miriam Wu moaned and he heard the door of the warehouse slam open with a crash.
The giant was a monumental silhouette in the bright rectangle of the doorway. Paolo Roberto put a hand over the girl’s mouth. He bent down and whispered in her ear to be utterly still and quiet.
Then he groped among the roots of a fallen tree and found a stone that was bigger than his fist. He made the sign of the cross. For the first time in his sinful life he was ready to kill another human being, if it proved necessary. He was so shattered that he knew he would not be able to go another round. But nobody, not even a freak of nature, could go on fighting with a crushed skull. He squeezed the rock and felt that it was oval-shaped with a sharp edge.
The man went unsteadily to the corner of the building and then made a long sweep across the yard. He stopped less than ten paces from where Paolo Roberto was holding his breath. He listened and peered around—but he could only guess which way they had disappeared into the night. After a few minutes he seemed to realize that the search was futile. He went back into the building with quick determination and was gone for a minute or so. He turned off the lights and then came out with a bag and walked over to the Volvo. He drove off down the access road. Paolo Roberto listened until he could no longer hear the sound of the engine. When he looked down he saw a pair of eyes gleaming in the dark.
“Hi, Miriam,” he said. “My name is Paolo—you don’t have to be afraid of me.”
“I know.”
Her voice was weak. He slumped exhausted against the fallen tree and felt his adrenaline dropping to zero.
“I don’t know how I’m going to get up,” he said. “But I have a car on the other side of the main road.”
The blond giant was shaken and dazed and had a strange feeling in his head. He braked and turned into a side road east of Nykvarn.
For the first time in his life he had been beaten in a fight. And the one who had dished out the punishment was Paolo Roberto … the boxer. It fe
lt like an absurd dream, the kind he might have on a restless night. He could not understand where the boxer had come from. Out of the blue he was just there, standing inside the warehouse.
It made no sense.
He had not even felt the punches. That did not surprise him. But he had felt the kick in the balls. And that terrific thump on the head had made him black out. Gingerly he explored the back of his neck and touched an enormous lump. He pressed with his fingers but he sensed no pain. And yet he felt groggy. He had lost a tooth on the left side of his upper jaw. His mouth was full of the taste of blood. He held his nose between his thumb and forefinger and bent it experimentally upwards. He heard a snapping sound inside his head and could tell that his nose was broken.
He had done the right thing in taking his bag and leaving the warehouse before the police could get there. But he had made a colossal mistake. On the Discovery Channel he had seen how crime scene investigators could find any amount of forensic evidence. Blood. Hair. DNA.
He didn’t have the slightest desire to return to the warehouse, but he had no choice. He had to clean up. He made a U-turn and started back.
Just before Nykvarn he passed a car coming the other way, but he thought no more about it.
The trip back to Stockholm was a nightmare. Paolo Roberto had blood in his eyes and was so beaten up that his whole body hurt. He was driving like a drunk, weaving all over the road. He wiped his eyes with one hand and tentatively felt his nose. It really hurt, and he had to breathe through his mouth. He kept looking out for a white Volvo and thought he saw one pass going the other way near Nykvarn.
When he got on the E20 the driving was a little easier. He thought about stopping in Södertälje, but he had no idea where to go. He glanced back at the girl, still in handcuffs, lying on the backseat without a seat belt. He had had to carry her to the car, and as soon as she landed on the seat she went out like a light. He didn’t know if she had fainted from her wounds or shut down out of sheer exhaustion.
He hesitated, then turned onto the E4 and headed for Stockholm.
Blomkvist had slept only an hour before the telephone started ringing. He squinted at the clock and saw that it was just past 4:00 a.m. He reached groggily for the receiver. It was Berger, and at first he could not understand what she was saying.
“Paolo Roberto is where?”
“At the hospital in Söder with the Wu girl. He tried to reach you, but you weren’t answering.”
“I turned my mobile off. What the hell is he doing in the hospital?”
Berger’s voice sounded patient but determined.
“Mikael, get a taxi over there right away and find out. He sounded totally confused and was talking about a chain saw and some building out in the woods and a monster who couldn’t box.”
Blomkvist blinked himself awake. Then he shook his head and made for the shower.
Paolo Roberto looked miserable lying there in his shorts on the hospital bed. Blomkvist had waited an hour to be allowed to see him. His nose was hidden beneath a bandage. His left eye was covered too and one eyebrow had surgical tape over five stitches. He had a bandage wrapped round his chest, and cuts and bruises all over his body. His right knee was in a brace.
Blomkvist offered him a coffee from the machine in the hall and inspected his face critically.
“You look like a car crash,” he said. “Tell me what happened.”
Paolo Roberto shook his head and met Blomkvist’s gaze. “A fucking monster happened,” he said.
He shook his head again and inspected his fists. His knuckles were so swollen that he could scarcely hold the cup. His right hand and wrist were in a splint. His girlfriend already had a lukewarm attitude towards boxing—now she was going to be furious.
“I’m a boxer,” he said. “I mean, when I was active I wasn’t afraid to step into the ring with anybody. I’ve taken a punch or two, but I know how to dish them out too. When I punch somebody they’re supposed to sit down and hurt.”
“But this one didn’t do that.”
Paolo Roberto shook his head for the third time. Then he told Blomkvist what had happened during the night.
“I hit him at least thirty times. Fourteen or fifteen times to the head. I hit him on the jaw four times. At first I was holding back a bit—I didn’t want to kill him, just protect myself. But in the end I gave it everything I had. One of my punches should have broken his jaw. But that fucking monster just shook his head a little and kept on coming. That is not a normal human being, I swear to God.”
“What did he look like?”
“He was built like a tank. I’m not exaggerating. He was over six foot six and weighed at least 300 pounds. All muscle and armour plating. A fucking giant who doesn’t know what pain is.”
“You’ve never seen him before?”
“Never. He had no idea how to box. I could feint and throw him off his guard and he didn’t have a clue how to move to avoid being hit. He was out of it. But at the same time he tried to move like a boxer. He held his arms up the right way and he kept recovering to a starting stance. Maybe he’d trained in boxing but hadn’t heard a word of what the trainer said. What saved my life—and the girl’s—was that he moved so slowly. He would throw roundhouse swings that he telegraphed a month in advance, and I could duck or parry them. He got in two good punches on me—one to the face, and you see what that did, then one to the body, where he cracked a rib. But neither of them was full power. If he’d landed them properly he would have knocked my head off.”
Paolo Roberto laughed, a bubbling sort of laugh.
“What’s funny?”
“I won. That moron tried to kill me and I won. I actually decked him. But I had to use a fucking plank to get him down for the count.”
He turned serious again. “If Miriam Wu hadn’t kicked him in the balls at just the right moment, I don’t want to think about how the hell it would have ended.”
“Paolo—I’m really, really glad you won. Miriam is going to say the same thing when she wakes up. Have you heard how she’s doing?”
“She looks about the same as I do. She has a concussion, several cracked ribs, a broken nose, and damage to her kidneys.”
Blomkvist bent forward and put his hand on Paolo Roberto’s good knee. “If you ever need me to do anything …” he said.
Paolo Roberto smiled. “Blomkvist—if you ever need a favour again…”
“Yes?”
“… ask Sebastián Luján to do it for you.”
CHAPTER 26
Wednesday, April 6
Inspector Bublanski was in a dismal mood when he met Modig in the parking lot outside the hospital just before 7:00. Blomkvist had woken him up, and he in turn called Modig and woke her up. They met Blomkvist by the entrance and went with him to Paolo Roberto’s room.
Bublanski could hardly grasp the bewildering details, but what was eventually clear was that Wu had been kidnapped and that the boxer had beaten up the kidnapper. Except that to judge by his face, it was far from obvious who had beaten up whom. As far as Bublanski was concerned, the night’s events had lifted the investigation of Lisbeth Salander to a whole new level of complication. Nothing in this infernal case seemed to be normal.
How had Paolo Roberto even gotten involved in the affair?
“I’m a good friend of Lisbeth Salander’s,” he told them.
Bublanski and Modig looked at each other, surprised and sceptical.
“She sparred with me at the gym.”
Bublanski fixed his gaze somewhere on the wall behind Paolo Roberto. Modig could not help laughing out loud. After a while they had written down all the details he could give them.
“I’d like to make a few points,” Blomkvist said dryly.
They turned to him.
“First of all, Paolo’s description of the man who drove away from the warehouse in the van matches the one I gave of the person who attacked Salander at the same spot on Lundagatan. A tall guy with a light brown ponytail and a beer belly. OK?”
Bublanski nodded.
“Second, the point of the kidnapping was to force Miriam Wu to reveal where Lisbeth Salander is hiding. So these two thugs have been looking for Salander since at least a week before the murders. Agreed?”
Modig murmured a “yes.”
“Third, it looks less likely that Salander is the lone nutcase she has been portrayed as. And neither of these maniacs seems, on the face of it, to be a member of a lesbian Satanist gang.”
Neither Bublanski nor Modig said a word.
“And finally, number four. I think this story has something to do with a man called Zala. Dag Svensson did a lot of work on him in his last two weeks. All the relevant information is in his computer. Dag linked him to the murder of a prostitute named Irina Petrova in Södertälje. The autopsy recorded that she was very severely beaten. So severely that any one of three of the worst blows would have been fatal on its own. Her injuries sound very like the ones that Miriam Wu and Paolo Roberto have been subjected to. In both cases the instruments of this extraordinary violence could be the hands of a gigantic thug.”
“And Bjurman?” Bublanski said. “Let’s suppose that someone had a reason to silence Svensson. Who would have had a motive to murder Salander’s guardian?”
“All the pieces of the puzzle aren’t in place yet, but there’s a connection between Bjurman and Zala. That’s the only credible solution. Could you agree to start thinking along new lines? I think that these crimes have something to do with the sex trade. And Salander would sooner die than be involved in something like that. I told you she’s a damned moralist.”
“So what was her role? What was she doing at Svensson and Johansson’s apartment?”
“I don’t know. Witness? Opponent? Maybe she was there to warn Dag and Mia that their lives were in danger.”
Bublanski set the wheels in motion. He called the Södertälje police and gave them Paolo Roberto’s directions to a dilapidated warehouse southwest of Lake Yngern. Then he called Holmberg—he lived in Flemingsberg and was closest of the team to Södertälje—and asked him to join up with the Södertälje police as soon as he possibly could to assist with the crime scene investigation.
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