The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Trilogy Bundle (36 page)

Blomkvist listened while Salander recounted the bizarre details of the Karlstad murder. When she lit a cigarette he pointed at the pack, and she pushed it over to him.

“So the killer attacked the animal too?”

“The Leviticus verse says that if a woman has sex with an animal, both must be killed.”

“The likelihood of this woman having sex with a cow must be … well, non-existent.”

“The verse can be read literally. It's enough that she ‘approaches' the animal, which a farmer's wife would undeniably do every day.”

“Understood.”

“The next case on Harriet's list is Sara. I've identified her as Sara Witt, thirty-seven, living in Ronneby. She was murdered in January 1964, found tied to her bed, subjected to aggravated sexual assault, but the cause of death was asphyxiation; she was strangled. The killer also started a fire, with the probable intention of burning the whole house down to the ground, but part of the fire went out by itself, and the rest was taken care of by the fire service, who were there in a very short time.”

“And the connection?”

“Listen to this. Sara Witt was both the daughter of a pastor and married to a pastor. Her husband was away that weekend.”

“
And the daughter of any priest
,
if she profanes herself by playing the harlot
,
profanes her father; she shall be burned with fire
. OK. That fits on the list. You said you'd found more cases.”

“I've found three other women who were murdered under such similarly strange circumstances and they could have been on Harriet's list. The first is a young woman named Liv Gustavsson. She was twenty-two and lived in Farsta. She was a horse-loving girl—she rode in competitions and was quite a promising talent. She also owned a small pet shop with her sister. She was found in the shop. She had worked late on the bookkeeping and was there alone. She must have let the killer in voluntarily. She was raped and strangled to death.”

“That doesn't sound quite like Harriet's list, does it?”

“Not exactly, if it weren't for one thing. The killer concluded his barbarities by shoving a parakeet up her vagina and then let all the animals out into the shop. Cats, turtles, white mice, rabbits, birds. Even the fish in the aquarium. So it was quite an appalling scene her sister encountered in the morning.”

Blomkvist made a note.

“She was murdered in August 1960, four months after the murder of the farmer's wife Magda Lovisa in Karlstad. In both instances they were women who worked professionally with animals, and in both cases there was an animal sacrifice. The cow in Karlstad may have survived—but I can imagine it would be difficult to stab a cow to death with a knife. A parakeet is more straightforward. And besides, there was an additional animal sacrifice.”

“What?”

Salander told the story of the “pigeon murder” of Lea Persson. Blomkvist sat for so long in silence and in thought that even Salander grew impatient.

“I'll buy your theory,” he said at last. “There's one case left.”

“A case that I discovered by chance. I don't know how many I may have missed.”

“Tell me about it.”

“February 1966 in Uppsala. The victim was a seventeen-year-old gymnast called Lena Andersson. She disappeared after a class party and was found three days later in a ditch on the Uppsala plain, quite a way out of town. She had been murdered somewhere else and her body dumped there. This murder got a lot of attention in the media, but the true circumstances surrounding her death were never reported. The girl had been grotesquely tortured. I read the pathologist's report. She was tortured with fire. Her hands and breasts were atrociously burned, and she had been burned repeatedly at various spots all over her body. They found paraffin stains on her, which showed that candles had been used, but her hands were so charred that they must have been held over a more powerful fire. Finally, the killer sawed off her head and tossed it next to the body.”

Blomkvist blanched. “Good Lord,” he said.

“I can't find any Bible quote that fits, but there are several passages that deal with a fire offering and a sin offering, and in some places it's recommended that the sacrificial animal—most often a bull—be cut up in such a way that
the head is severed from the fat
. Fire also reminds me of the first murder, of Rebecka here in Hedestad.”

         

Towards evening when the mosquitoes began to swarm they cleared off the garden table and moved to the kitchen to go on with their talk.

“The fact that you didn't find an exact Bible quotation doesn't mean much. It's not a matter of quotations. This is a grotesque parody of what is written in the Bible—it's more like associations to quotations pulled out of context.”

“I agree. It isn't even logical. Take for example the quote that both have to be cut off from their people if someone has sex with a girl who's having her period. If that's interpreted literally, the killer should have committed suicide.”

“So where does all this lead?” Blomkvist wondered aloud.

“Your Harriet either had quite a strange hobby or else she must have known that there was a connection between the murders.”

“Between 1949 and 1966, and maybe before and after as well. The idea that an insanely sick sadistic serial killer was slaughtering women for at least seventeen years without anyone seeing a connection sounds utterly unbelievable to me.”

Salander pushed back her chair and poured more coffee from the pot on the stove. She lit a cigarette. Mikael cursed himself and stole another from her.

“No, it's not so unbelievable,” she said, holding up one finger. “We have several dozen unsolved murders of women in Sweden during the twentieth century. That professor of criminology, Persson, said once on TV that serial killers are very rare in Sweden, but that probably we have had some that were never caught.”

She held up another finger.

“These murders were committed over a very long period of time and all over the country. Two occurred close together in 1960, but the circumstances were quite different—a farmer's wife in Karlstad and a twenty-two-year-old in Stockholm.”

Three fingers.

“There is no immediately apparent pattern. The murders were carried out at different places and there is no real signature, but there are certain things that do recur. Animals. Fire. Aggravated sexual assault. And, as you pointed out, a parody of Biblical quotations. But it seems that not one of the investigating detectives interpreted any of the murders in terms of the Bible.”

Blomkvist was watching her. With her slender body, her black camisole, the tattoos, and the rings piercing her face, Salander looked out of place, to say the least, in a guest cottage in Hedeby. When he tried to be sociable over dinner, she was taciturn to the point of rudeness. But when she was working she sounded like a professional to her fingertips. Her apartment in Stockholm might look as if a bomb had gone off in it, but mentally Salander was extremely well organised.

“It's hard to see the connection between a prostitute in Uddevalla who's killed in an industrial yard and a pastor's wife who is strangled in Ronneby and has her house set on fire. If you don't have the key that Harriet gave us, that is.”

“Which leads to the next question,” Salander said.

“How on earth did Harriet get mixed up in all this? A sixteen-year-old girl who lived in a really sheltered environment.”

“There's only one answer,” Salander said. “There must be some connection to the Vanger family.”

         

By 11:00 that night they had gone over the series of murders and discussed the conceivable connections and the tiny details of similarity and difference so often that Blomkvist's head was spinning. He rubbed his eyes and stretched and asked Salander if she felt like a walk. Her expression suggested that she thought such practices were a waste of time, but she agreed. Blomkvist advised her to change into long trousers because of the mosquitoes.

They strolled past the small-boat harbour and then under the bridge and out towards Martin Vanger's point. Blomkvist pointed out the various houses and told her about the people who lived in them. He had some difficulty when they came to Cecilia Vanger's house. Salander gave him a curious look.

They passed Martin Vanger's motor yacht and reached the point, and there they sat on a rock and shared a cigarette.

“There's one more connection,” Blomkvist said suddenly. “Maybe you've already thought of it.”

“What?”

“Their names.”

Salander thought for a moment and shook her head.

“They're all Biblical names.”

“Not true,” she said. “Where is there a Liv or Lena in the Bible?”

“They are there. Liv means to live, in other words Eva. And come on—what's Lena short for?”

Salander grimaced in annoyance. He had been quicker than she was. She did not like that.

“Magdalena,” she said.

“The whore, the first woman, the Virgin Mary … they're all there in this group. This is so freaky it'd make a psychologist's head spin. But there's something else I thought of with regard to the names.”

Salander waited patiently.

“They're obviously all traditional Jewish names. The Vanger family has had more than its share of fanatical anti-Semites, Nazis, and conspiracy theorists. The only time I met Harald Vanger he was standing in the road snarling that his own daughter was a whore. He certainly has problems with women.”

         

When they got back to the cabin they made a midnight snack and heated up the coffee. Mikael took a look at the almost 500 pages that Dragan Armansky's favourite researcher had produced for him.

“You've done a fantastic job of digging up these facts in such a short time,” he said. “Thanks. And thanks also for being nice enough to come up here and report on it.”

“What happens now?” Salander wanted to know.

“I'm going to talk to Dirch Frode tomorrow and arrange for your fee to be paid.”

“That wasn't what I meant.”

Blomkvist looked at her.

“Well … I reckon the job I hired you for is done,” he said.

“I'm not done with this.”

Blomkvist leaned back against the kitchen wall and met her gaze. He couldn't read anything at all in her eyes. For half a year he had been working alone on Harriet's disappearance, and here was another person—an experienced researcher—who grasped the implications. He made the decision on impulse.

“I know. This story has got under my skin too. I'll talk to Frode. We'll hire you for a week or two more as … a research assistant. I don't know if he'll want to pay the same rate he pays to Armansky, but we should be able to arrange a basic living wage for you.”

Salander suddenly gave him a smile. She had no wish to be shut out and would have gladly done the job for free.

“I'm falling asleep,” she said, and without further ado she went to her room and closed the door.

Two minutes later she opened the door and put out her head.

“I think you're wrong. It's not an insane serial killer who read his Bible wrong. It's just a common or garden bastard who hates women.”

Salander was up before Blomkvist, around 6:00. She put on some water for coffee and went to take a shower. When Blomkvist woke at 7:30, she was reading his summary of the Harriet Vanger case on his iBook. He came out to the kitchen with a towel round his waist, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“There's coffee on the stove,” she said.

He looked over her shoulder.

“That document was password protected, dammit,” he said.

She turned and peered up at him.

“It takes thirty seconds to download a programme from the Net that can crack Word's encryption protection.”

“We need to have a talk on the subject of what's yours and what's mine,” he said, and went to take a shower.

When he came back, Salander had turned off his computer and put it back in its place in his office. She had booted up her own PowerBook. Blomkvist felt sure that she had already transferred the contents of his computer to her own.

Salander was an information junkie with a delinquent child's take on morals and ethics.

He had just sat down to breakfast when there was a knock at the front door. Martin Vanger looked so solemn that for a second Blomkvist thought he had come to bring the news of his uncle's death.

“No, Henrik's condition is the same as yesterday. I'm here for a quite different reason. Could I come in for a moment?”

Blomkvist let him in, introducing him to “my research assistant” Lisbeth Salander. She gave the captain of industry barely a glance and a quick nod before she went back to her computer. Martin Vanger greeted her automatically but looked so distracted that he hardly seemed to notice her. Blomkvist poured him a cup of coffee and invited him to have a seat.

“What's this all about?”

“You don't subscribe to the
Hedestad Courier
?”

“No. But sometimes I see it at Susanne's Bridge Café.”

“Then you haven't read this morning's paper.”

“You make it sound as if I ought to.”

Martin Vanger put the day's paper on the table in front of him. He had been given two columns on the front page, continued on page four. “Convicted Libel Journalist Hiding Here.” A photograph taken with a telephoto lens from the church hill on the other side of the bridge showed Blomkvist coming out of the cottage.

The reporter, Torsson, had cobbled together a scurrilous piece. He recapitulated the Wennerström affair and explained that Blomkvist had left
Millennium
in disgrace and that he had recently served a prison term. The article ended with the usual line that Blomkvist had declined to comment to the
Hedestad Courier
. Every self-respecting resident of Hedestad was put on notice that an Olympic-class shit from Stockholm was skulking around the area. None of the claims in the article was libellous, but they were slanted to present Blomkvist in an unflattering light; the layout and type style was of the kind that such newspapers used to discuss political terrorists.
Millennium
was described as a magazine with low credibility “bent on agitation,” and Blomkvist's book on financial journalism was presented as a collection of “controversial claims” about other more respected journalists.

“Mikael … I don't have words to express what I felt when I read this article. It's repulsive.”

“It's a put-up job,” Blomkvist said calmly.

“I hope you understand that I didn't have the slightest thing to do with this. I choked on my morning coffee when I read it.”

“Then who did?”

“I made some calls. This Torsson is a summer work experience kid. He did the piece on orders from Birger.”

“I thought Birger had no say in the newsroom. After all, he
is
a councillor and political figure.”

“Technically he has no influence. But the editor in chief of the
Courier
is Gunnar Karlman, Ingrid's son, who's part of the Johan Vanger branch of the family. Birger and Gunnar have been close for many years.”

“I see.”

“Torsson will be fired forthwith.”

“How old is he?”

“To tell you the truth, I don't know. I've never met him.”

“Don't fire him. When he called me he sounded like a very young and inexperienced reporter.”

“This can't be allowed to pass without consequences.”

“If you want my opinion, the situation seems a bit absurd, when the editor in chief of a publication owned by the Vanger family goes on the attack against another publication in which Henrik Vanger is a part owner and on whose board you sit. Your editor, Karlman, is attacking you and Henrik.”

“I see what you mean, and I ought to lay the blame where it belongs. Karlman is a part owner in the corporation and has always taken pot-shots at me, but this seems more like Birger's revenge because you had a run-in with him at the hospital. You're a thorn in his side.”

“I believe it. That's why I think Torsson is the last person to blame. It takes a lot for an intern to say no when the boss instructs him to write something in a certain way.”

“I could demand that you be given an apology tomorrow.”

“Better not. It would just turn into a long, drawn-out squabble that would make the situation worse.”

“So you don't think I should do anything?”

“It wouldn't be any use. Karlman would kick up a fuss and in the worst case you'd be painted as a villain who, in his capacity as owner, is trying to stamp on the freedom of expression.”

“Pardon me, Mikael, but I don't agree with you. As a matter of fact, I also have the right to express my opinion. My view is that this article stinks—and I intend to make my own point of view clear. However reluctantly, I'm Henrik's replacement on
Millennium
's board, and in that role I am not going to let an offensive article like this one pass unchallenged.”

“Fair enough.”

“So I'm going to demand the right to respond. And if I make Karlman look like an idiot, he has only himself to blame.”

“You must do what you believe is right.”

“For me, it's also important that you absolutely understand that I have nothing whatsoever to do with this vitriolic attack.”

“I believe you,” Blomkvist said.

“Besides—I didn't really want to bring this up now, but this just serves to illustrate what we've already discussed. It's important to re-install you on
Millennium
's editorial board so that we can show a united front to the world. As long as you're away, the gossip will continue. I believe in
Millennium
, and I'm convinced that we can win this fight together.”

“I see your point, but now it's my turn to disagree with you. I can't break my contract with Henrik, and the fact is that I wouldn't want to break it. You see, I really like him. And this thing with Harriet …”

“Yes?”

“I know it's a running sore for you and I realise that Henrik has been obsessed with it for many years.”

“Just between the two of us—I do love Henrik and he is my mentor—but when it comes to Harriet, he's almost off his rocker.”

“When I started this job I couldn't help thinking that it was a waste of time. But I think we're on the verge of a breakthrough and that it might now be possible to know what really happened.”

Blomkvist read doubt in Martin Vanger's eyes. At last he made a decision.

“OK, in that case the best thing we can do is to solve the mystery of Harriet as quickly as possible. I'll give you all the support I can so that you finish the work to your satisfaction—and, of course, Henrik's—and then return to
Millennium
.”

“Good. So I won't have to fight with you too.”

“No, you won't. You can ask for my help whenever you run into a problem. I'll make damn sure that Birger won't put any sort of obstacles in your way. And I'll try to talk to Cecilia, to calm her down.”

“Thank you. I need to ask her some questions, and she's been resisting my attempts at conversation for a month now.”

Martin Vanger laughed. “Perhaps you have other issues to iron out. But I won't get involved in that.”

They shook hands.

Salander had listened to the conversation. When Martin Vanger left she reached for the
Hedestad Courier
and scanned the article. She put the paper down without making any comment.

Blomkvist sat in silence, thinking. Gunnar Karlman was born in 1948 and would have been eighteen in 1966. He was one of the people on the island when Harriet disappeared.

         

After breakfast he asked his research assistant to read through the police report. He gave her all the photographs of the accident, as well as the long summary of Vanger's own investigations.

Blomkvist then drove to Frode's house and asked him kindly to draw up an agreement for Salander as a research assistant for the next month.

By the time he returned to the cottage, Salander had decamped to the garden and was immersed in the police report. Blomkvist went in to heat up the coffee. He watched her through the kitchen window. She seemed to be skimming, spending no more than ten or fifteen seconds on each page. She turned the pages mechanically, and Blomkvist was amazed at her lack of concentration; it made no sense, since her own report was so meticulous. He took two cups of coffee and joined her at the garden table.

“Your notes were done before you knew we were looking for a serial killer.”

“That's true. I simply wrote down questions I wanted to ask Henrik, and some other things. It was quite unstructured. Up until now I've really been struggling in the dark, trying to write a story—a chapter in the autobiography of Henrik Vanger.”

“And now?”

“In the past all the investigations focused on Hedeby Island. Now I'm sure that the story, the sequence of events that ended in her disappearance, started in Hedestad. That shifts the perspective.”

Salander said: “It was amazing what you discovered with the pictures.”

Blomkvist was surprised. Salander did not seem the type to throw compliments around, and he felt flattered. On the other hand—from a purely journalistic point of view—it
was
quite an achievement.

“It's your turn to fill in the details. How did it go with that picture you were chasing up in Norsjö?”

“You mean you didn't check the images in my computer?”

“There wasn't time. I needed to read the résumés, your situation reports to yourself.”

Blomkvist started his iBook and clicked on the photograph folder.

“It's fascinating. The visit to Norsjö was a sort of progress, but it was also a disappointment. I found the picture, but it doesn't tell us much.

“That woman, Mildred Berggren, had saved all her holiday pictures in albums. The picture I was looking for was one of them. It was taken on cheap colour film and after thirty-seven years the print was incredibly faded—with a strong yellow tinge. But, would you believe, she still had the negative in a shoebox. She let me borrow all the negatives from Hedestad and I've scanned them in. This is what Harriet saw.”

He clicked on an image which now had the filename HARRIET/bd-19.eps.

Salander immediately understood his dismay. She saw an unfocused image that showed clowns in the foreground of the Children's Day parade. In the background could be seen the corner of Sundström's Haberdashery. About ten people were standing on the pavement in front of Sundström's.

“I think this is the person she saw. Partly because I tried to triangulate what she was looking at, judging by the angle that her face was turned—I made a drawing of the crossroads there—and partly because this is the only person who seems to be looking straight into the camera. Meaning that—perhaps—he was staring at Harriet.”

What Salander saw was a blurry figure standing a little bit behind the spectators, almost in the side street. He had on a dark padded jacket with a red patch on the shoulders and dark trousers, possibly jeans. Blomkvist zoomed in so that the figure from the waist up filled the screen. The photograph became instantly fuzzier still.

“It's a man. He's about five-foot eleven, normal build. He has dark-blond, semi-long hair and is clean-shaven. But it's impossible to make out his facial features or even estimate his age. He could be anywhere between his teens and middle age.

“You could manipulate the image …”

“I
have
manipulated the image, dammit. I even sent a copy to the image processing wizard at
Millennium
.” Blomkvist clicked up a new shot. “This is the absolute best I can get out of it. The camera is simply too lousy and the distance too far.”

“Have you shown the picture to anyone? Someone might recognise the man's bearing or …”

“I showed it to Frode. He has no idea who the man is.”