The Girl Who Takes an Eye for an Eye: Continuing Stieg Larsson's Millennium Series (42 page)

“I couldn’t bear to look at him,” Dan said.

He thought the words rang hollow, and when Benjamin did not respond he prepared for the worst and closed his eyes. Benjamin came closer, he smelled of tobacco.

“I’ll help you,” he said.

They shovelled and pushed the rest of the earth into the empty grave and carefully replaced the turf and stones. Then they walked slowly to the car, their heads bowed. On the way back to Stockholm Dan sat quietly, grimly listening to Greitz’s plans.

Salander shot up like a cannonball and was stabbed in the side. She had no idea how serious her injury was, nor did she have time to worry about it. Benito had lost her balance and was now stabbing wildly at thin air with her dagger. Salander stepped smartly to one side, headbutted her and sprang to the van door. She opened it with her head and body and jumped down onto the grass with her hands bound, adrenalin pumping through her veins. She landed on her feet, but with such a force that she fell forward and rolled down a short, steep slope to a small brook. She just had time to see the water begin to turn blood red before she scrambled to her feet and ran into the forest. She heard the sound of cars pulling up, voices raised, doors slamming. She did not think to stop. She needed only to get away.

Bublanski did not see Salander through the leaves, but he spotted two men making their way down a steep slope. Up above them stood a grey van facing into the foliage. He yelled:

“Stop. Police. Nobody move!” and pointed his service revolver at them.

It was unbearably hot and humid in the clearing and his body felt heavy. He was panting. The men he was confronting were both younger and stronger, and no doubt more ruthless too. But as he looked around and listened out in the direction of the track they had come along, he still felt the situation was under control. Flod was standing nearby in the same stance. The police teams sent by Uppsala must be very close by now. The men were unarmed and had been caught unawares.

“Don’t do anything stupid now,” he said. “You’re surrounded. Where’s Salander?”

The men said nothing. They looked irresolutely in the direction of the van. One of its rear doors was open. Bublanski knew at once that something unpleasant was going to emerge, someone who was moving slowly and with difficulty. At last, there she stood barely upright, a spectre with a bloodied dagger in her hand: Benito Andersson. She seemed to sway and put a hand to her head, and then she hissed at him, as if she were the one calling the shots:

“Who are you?”

“I’m Chief Inspector Jan Bublanski. Where’s Lisbeth Salander?”

“That little Jew?” she spat.

“Tell me where Salander is.”

“I’d say she’s probably dead.”

The woman came towards him, her dagger raised. “Stop right there. Don’t move,” he warned her.

She kept coming, as if his revolver was nothing, hissing more anti-Semitic remarks. Bublanski did not think she deserved to be shot – she must not be allowed to claim martyrdom in the hellish fraternities she inhabited – and it was Flod who fired. Benito was hit in the left thigh, and soon their colleagues came storming in and it was over. But they never found Salander, only drops of her blood in the van. It was as if the forest had swallowed her up.

Dan seemed exhausted. He clutched his head in his hands.

“So what happened to Leo?” Blomkvist said, gently.

Dan looked out through the studio windows.

“He stumbled about in the trees, going in circles. He fell over and felt sick, he ate snow or drank meltwater. As time went on he found the strength to start shouting. But no-one heard him. After hours of wandering in the bitter cold he was surprised to find himself at the top of a long slope, which he slithered down, ending up in a field. The open space seemed vaguely familiar, as if he’d been there a long time before, or maybe dreamed it. By the edge of the forest on the other side he could see light shining from a house with a large terrace. Leo reached it eventually and rang the bell. A young couple lived there – their names are Stina and Henrik Norebring, in case you want to check. They were getting ready for Christmas, wrapping presents for their children. They were terrified at first – Leo must have looked like an absolute wreck. But he reassured them, said that his car had skidded off the road, he’d lost his phone and probably had concussion. I suppose it must have sounded convincing.

“The couple took him inside and ran him a hot bath. They gave him dry clothes and fed him Jansson’s Temptation and Christmas ham, a little mulled wine and
snaps
, and slowly he began to revive. But he had no idea what he should do next. He was desperate to contact me, but he knew that Rakel Greitz had taken my mobile and was afraid that my e-mails were also being monitored. Leo’s smart, though – he’s usually one step ahead of the rest of us. He thought it would be safe to send a coded message that looked innocuous, something I might easily be getting the day before Christmas. He borrowed the Norebrings’ mobile and sent me a text:

“O.K.,” Blomkvist said. “I think I’m beginning to understand. But what did the message mean?”

“Well, he didn’t want to give away my American name. He chose an artist he knew I never played with, so nobody would be able to trace me that way. But above all he signed off as—”

“Django.”

“Right. That in itself would have been enough for the penny to drop, but on top of that: ‘Will be a Minor Swing’.”

Dan paused for a moment.

“‘Minor Swing’ is a piece with incredible
joie de vivre
. Maybe that’s not quite right. There’s a dark streak too. Django and Stéphane Grappelli wrote it together. Leo and I must have played it four, five times already. We loved it. But …”

Blomkvist waited for him to go on.

“After Leo sent the message, his condition deteriorated. Apparently he collapsed and the couple had him lie down on their sofa. He had difficulty breathing and his lips turned blue. I was unaware of all this. I was in Leo’s apartment, and it had got late. The three of us were there – Benjamin, Rakel and I. I was downing glass after glass of wine while Rakel went through the whole repulsive plan she had cooked up. Shocked as I was, I played along. I agreed to become Leo, to do exactly as she said. She told me how to order new credit cards and get new passwords, and to go and see Viveka at her hospice, Stockholms Sjukhem, as Leo. She said I had to take a sabbatical and travel, and read up on the financial markets and lose my American and my northern Swedish accents. Rakel flew around the apartment and dug up Leo’s passport and some paper, so that I could practise his signature. It was unbearable. And those threats were always there, the threat that as Daniel I could be convicted for the murder of my brother, or that as Leo I could go to prison for insider trading and tax fraud. I sat there mesmerized, just looking at her. Or rather, I tried to look at her, but mostly I averted my eyes, or closed them and saw in my mind’s eye Leo staggering off into the forest, disappearing in the darkness and cold. I didn’t see how he could possibly have survived. I pictured him lying in the snow, freezing to death.

“I couldn’t imagine that Rakel really believed in her plan, either. She must have seen that I’d never be able to pull it off – that I would go to pieces at the slightest suspicion. I remember how she exchanged looks with Benjamin and issued him instructions from time to time. All the while she was fussing with something, arranging pens, wiping table-tops and chairs, looking in drawers, straightening things.

“At one point she took my phone out of her pocket and saw Leo’s text. She started grilling me about my friends, my business contacts and fellow musicians, and I answered as best I could, some of it true maybe, but mostly half-truths and lies. I don’t really know. I could hardly speak, and yet … You know, to save money I’d got myself a Swedish S.I.M. card, and hadn’t given the number to many people, so the text made me curious. ‘What was that message?’ I asked, as casually as I could. Rakel showed it to me and, seeing those words, I felt like I’d got my life back. But I must have controlled myself well. I don’t think she noticed anything. ‘That’s a gig, right?’ she said. I nodded. She told me I had to turn down those things from now on. She took back my phone and issued even more dire warnings. But I was no longer listening. I went along with everything. I think I even managed to sound a little greedy: ‘How much money am I actually going to get?’ I wanted to know. She gave me a very precise answer, which I later realized was an exaggeration, as if my decision might depend on a couple of million one way or the other. By then it was already 11.30 at night. We’d been at it for hours – I was dead tired and also pretty drunk. ‘Can we stop now?’ I said. ‘I have to get some sleep,’ and I remember Rakel hesitated. Was it safe to leave me on my own? Eventually she must have decided she had to trust me. I was so terrified she would change her mind that I didn’t dare ask for my phone back. I just stood there rooted to the spot, nodding at her threats and promises.”

“But they left.”

“They left, and I concentrated on one thing only – remembering the number Leo’s text had been sent from. I remembered only the last five digits. I rummaged around in drawers and coat pockets until I found Leo’s private mobile which, typical for him, needed no security code. I tried every conceivable prefix to those five numbers – I woke up quite a few people and dialled some non-existent lines. But none of them was right. I swore and cried, and I was sure that Rakel would soon get another text from him, which would be a disaster. Then I remembered the sign we passed just before the car stopped in the forest. Vidåkra, it said. I guessed Leo must have found help somewhere nearby and so—”

“You checked Vidåkra and the five digits you’d remembered?”

“Exactly, and I found Henrik Norebring immediately. His phone number came up with all sorts of information, including how old he was. There was even a picture of his house, and an estimate of its value compared to other properties in the area. Isn’t the internet incredible? I remember that I hesitated – that my hands were shaking.”

“But you called, didn’t you?”

“I did. Do you mind if we take a break?”

Blomkvist nodded, his face grim, and he put a hand on Dan’s shoulder. Then he went into the galley kitchen, switched on his mobile and washed up the glasses while he waited. In almost no time the phone began to beep and buzz, and he looked at his messages to see what was going on. There was one from Bublanski:

He swore and rushed back into the studio.

“Whatever may have happened, Dan, I hope you appreciate that we have to make this public as quickly as possible – not least for your sake,” he said. “I’m sorry we don’t have time to go through the rest now, but I have to rush off. Given the circumstances, it’s important that you stay here in the studio. I’ll arrange for my colleague – my boss, in fact – Erika Berger, to come and keep you company. Would that be O.K.? She’s a good and reliable person, you’ll like her. I have to go now.”

Dan nodded and for a moment looked so confused and helpless that Blomkvist gave him a quick, rough hug. He handed over the keys to the studio and thanked him.

“It was brave of you to tell me. I look forward to hearing the rest.”

As he raced down the stairs he called Erika on an encrypted line. She agreed to drive over right away, just as he had expected. Next he made several attempts to get hold of Salander. No response, so he tried Bublanski.

Bublanski had every reason to be satisfied. He had arrested Bashir and his brother Razan Kazi. And the notorious Benito Andersson, plus a member of the Svavelsjö M.C. gang. Instead he was upset and disappointed. Officers from both the Uppsala and Stockholm police forces had been searching the woods around Vadabosjö, but they had found no trace of Salander apart from bloodstains in the van and signs of a break-in at a holiday home further up the hill where they had come across bloody footprints from child-sized trainers. What on earth was she thinking? Salander obviously needed medical attention. There were ambulances heading their way, but she had chosen to plunge into the forest, some kilometres off any main road. Maybe she just ran for her life, with no time to realize that help was at hand. But if a vital organ had been perforated by Benito’s dagger, Salander would be in trouble, maybe even dying. Why was she not like other people?

Bublanski had reached police headquarters on Bergsgatan and was just walking into his office when his mobile rang. It was Blomkvist, at last, and the Chief Inspector gave him a broad-brush account of what had been happening. It was clear that his words hit home. Blomkvist asked a whole string of questions and only then did he say that he was beginning to understand why Holger Palmgren had been murdered. He promised to come back to Bublanski with more as soon as he could, but right now he had no time to talk. Bublanski sighed and had no option but to acquiesce.

December, a year and a half earlier

It was ten past midnight. Christmas Eve, finally. Heavy wet snow lay on the window ledge, and the sky was a canvas of black and grey. The city lay silent, save for the occasional car on Karlavägen. Dan stood at the window, shaking all over, and dialled the number for Henrik Norebring in Vidåkra.

The ringtone echoed in his ear. No answer. Then he heard a recorded message that ended with a repetitive: “Hope you’re good, hope you’re well.” Dan looked around the apartment in desperation. There was no sign of the drama that had only recently taken place there, but instead an unfamiliar clinical tidiness prevailed, plus a smell of disinfectant. He escaped into the guest room where he had been sleeping for the past week, and tried the number again and again. He cursed – he was beside himself.

He could see that Greitz had been at it in here as well. What on earth had she been up to? She seemed to have cleaned and wiped down every surface. He had the urge to create chaos and disorder, rip the sheets off the bed, throw books at the wall, anything to rid himself of every trace of her. Instead he looked out of the window and heard music playing from a radio on the floor below. Perhaps a minute or two passed before he picked up Leo’s mobile again. Just then it rang in his hand. He answered eagerly. On the other end was the very same voice from the voicemail greeting. But now it no longer sounded so chirpy; it was serious and composed, as if something terrible had happened.