The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Trilogy Bundle (72 page)

Blomkvist was at Svensson and Johansson's place in Enskede, wrapping up a discussion about some details in Svensson's manuscript. She wondered if he was busy tonight, or would he consider giving a massage to an aching back.

“You've got the keys,” he said. “Make yourself at home.”

“I will. See you in an hour or so.”

It took her ten minutes to walk to Bellmansgatan. She undressed and showered and made espresso. Then she crawled into bed and waited naked and full of anticipation.

The optimum gratification for her would probably be a threesome with her husband and Blomkvist, and that would never happen. Blomkvist was so straight that she liked to tease him about being a homophobe. He had zero interest in men. Apparently you could not get everything you wanted in this world.

The blond giant frowned in irritation as he manoeuvred the car at ten miles an hour along a forest road in such bad repair that for a while he thought he must have taken a wrong turn. It was just beginning to get dark when the road finally widened and he caught sight of the cabin. He stopped, turned off the engine, and took a look around. He had about fifty yards to go.

He was in the region of Stallarholmen, not far from the town of Mariefred. It was a simple 1950s cabin in the middle of the woods. Through a line of trees he could see a strip of ice on Lake Mälaren.

He could not imagine why anyone would want to spend their free time in such an isolated place. He felt suddenly uncomfortable when he shut the car door behind him. The forest seemed threatening, as if it were closing in around him. He sensed that he was being watched. He started towards the cabin, but he heard a rustling that made him stop short.

He stared into the woods. It was dusk, silent with no wind. He stood there for two minutes with his nerves on full alert before, seeing it out of the corner of his eye, he realized that a figure was silently, slowly moving in the trees. When his eyes focused, he saw that the figure was standing perfectly still about thirty yards into the forest, staring at him.

He felt a vague panic. He tried to make out details. He saw a dark, bony face. It appeared to be a dwarf, no more than half his own size, and dressed in something that looked like a tunic of pine branches and moss. A forest troll? A leprechaun?

He held his breath. He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

Then he blinked six times and shook his head. When he looked again the creature had moved about ten yards to the right.
There was nobody there
. He knew that he was imagining things. And yet he could so clearly make out the figure in the trees. Suddenly it moved and came closer. It seemed to be lurching in a semicircle to get into a position to attack him.

The blond giant hurried to the cabin. He knocked a little too hard on the door. As soon as he heard voices within, his panic subsided. He looked over his shoulder.
There was nothing there
.

But he did not breathe out until the door opened. Bjurman greeted him courteously and invited him in.

Miriam Wu was panting when she arrived back upstairs after dragging the last trash bag of Salander's possessions down to the recycling room in the cellar. The apartment was clinically clean and smelled of soap, paint, and freshly brewed coffee made by Salander. She was sitting on a stool, gazing thoughtfully at the bare rooms from which curtains, rugs, discount coupons on the refrigerator, and her usual junk in the hall had vanished as if by magic. She was amazed at how much bigger the apartment seemed.

Mimmi and Salander did not have the same taste in clothes, furniture, or intellectual stimulation. Correction: Mimmi had taste and definite views on how she wanted her living quarters to look, what kind of furniture she wanted, and what sort of clothes one should wear. Salander had no taste whatsoever, Mimmi realized.

After she had inspected the apartment on Lundagatan as closely as an estate agent might, they had discussed things and Mimmi had decided that most of the stuff had to go. Especially the disgusting dirt-brown sofa in the living room. Did Salander want to keep any of the things? No. Then Mimmi had spent a few long days as well as several hours each evening for two weeks throwing out bits of old furniture, cleaning cupboards, scrubbing the floor, scouring the bathtub, and repainting the walls in the kitchen, living room, bedroom, and hall. She also varnished the parquet floor in the living room.

Salander had no interest in such tasks, but she came several times to watch Mimmi at work, fascinated. Eventually the apartment was empty of everything except for a kitchen table of solid wood, much the worse for wear, that Mimmi intended to sand down and refinish, two stools that Salander had pounced on when an attic in the building was cleared, and a set of sturdy shelves in the living room that Mimmi thought she could repaint.

“I'm moving in this weekend, unless you're going to change your mind.”

“I don't need the apartment.”

“But it's a great apartment. I mean, there are bigger and better apartments,
but it's slap in the middle of Söder and the rent is nothing. Lisbeth, you're passing up a fortune by not selling it.”

“I have enough to get by.”

Mimmi shut up, not sure how to interpret Salander's brusque dismissal.

“Where are you living now?”

Salander did not reply.

“Could a person come and visit you?”

“Not right now.”

Salander opened her shoulder bag, took out some papers, and passed them over to Mimmi.

“I've fixed the agreement with the housing association. The simplest thing is to register you as my roommate and say I'm selling half of the apartment to you. The price is one krona. You have to sign the contract.”

Mimmi took the pen and signed the contract, adding her date of birth.

“Is that all?”

“That's it.”

“Lisbeth, I've always thought that you were a little weird. Do you realize that you just gave away half of this apartment to me? I'd love to have the apartment, but I don't want to end up in a situation where you suddenly regret it or it causes bad feelings between us.”

“There will never be any bad feelings. I want you to live here. It feels right to me.”

“But with nothing in return? You're nuts.”

“You're taking care of my mail. That's the deal.”

“That'll take me an average of four seconds a week. Do you intend to come over once in a while to have sex?”

Salander fixed her eyes on Mimmi. She was quiet for a moment.

“I'd like to very much, but it's not part of the contract. You can say no whenever you want.”

Mimmi sighed. “And here I was just beginning to enjoy being a kept woman. You know, having somebody who gives me an apartment and pays my rent and comes over now and then to wrestle around in bed.”

They sat in silence for a while. Then Mimmi stood up resolutely and went into the living room to turn off the bare bulb in the ceiling fixture.

“Come here.”

Salander followed her.

“I've never had sex on the floor of a newly painted apartment with
almost no furniture. I saw a movie with Marlon Brando once about a couple in Paris who did it.”

Salander glanced at the floor.

“I feel like playing. Are you up for it?” Mimmi said.

“I'm almost always up for it.”

“Tonight I think I'll be a dominating bitch. I get to make the decisions. Take off your clothes.”

Salander smiled a crooked smile. She took off her clothes. It took at least ten seconds.

“Lie down on the floor. On your stomach.”

Salander did as Mimmi commanded. The parquet floor was cool and her skin got goose bumps immediately. Mimmi used Salander's T-shirt with the slogan
YOU HAVE THE RIGHT TO REMAIN SILENT
to tie her hands behind her back.

Salander could not help thinking that this was similar to the way Nils Fucking Slimebag Bjurman had tied her up two years ago.

The similarities ended there.

With Mimmi, Salander felt only lustful anticipation. She was compliant when Mimmi rolled her over on her back and spread her legs. Salander watched her in the dim room as she pulled off her own T-shirt, and was fascinated by her soft breasts. Then Mimmi tied her T-shirt as a blindfold over Salander's eyes. She could hear the rustle of clothes. A few seconds later she felt Mimmi's tongue on her belly and her fingers on the inside of her thighs. She was more excited than she had been in a long time. She shut her eyes tight beneath the blindfold and let Mimmi set the pace.

Armansky looked up when he heard the light knock on the doorjamb and saw Salander in the doorway. She was balancing two cups from the espresso machine. He put down his pen and pushed the report away.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

“This is a social call,” she said. “May I come in?”

Armansky closed his eyes for a second. Then he pointed at the visitor's chair. He glanced at the clock. It was 6:30 in the evening. Salander gave him one of the cups and sat down. They took stock of each other for a moment.

“More than a year,” Armansky said.

Salander nodded.

“Are you mad?”

“Should I be?”

“I didn't say goodbye.”

Armansky pursed his lips. He was shocked to see her, but at the same time relieved to discover that at least she wasn't dead. He suddenly felt a strong sense of irritation and weariness.

“I don't know what to say,” he said. “You don't have any obligation to tell me what you're working on. What do you want?”

His voice sounded cooler than he had intended.

“I'm not sure. I mostly just wanted to say hello.”

“Do you need a job? I'm not going to employ you again.”

She shook her head.

“Are you working somewhere else?”

She shook her head again. She seemed to be trying to formulate her words. Armansky waited.

“I've been travelling,” she said at last. “I'm only recently back.”

Armansky studied her. There was a new kind of … maturity in her choice of clothes and her bearing. And she had stuffed her bra with something.

“You've changed. Where have you been?”

“Here and there …” she said, but when she saw his annoyance she added, “I went to Italy and kept going, to the Middle East, to Hong Kong via Bangkok. I was in Australia for a while and New Zealand, and I island-hopped my way across the Pacific. I was in Tahiti for a month. Then I travelled through the U.S. and I spent the last few months in the Caribbean. I don't know why I didn't say goodbye.”

“I'll tell you why: because you don't give a shit about other people,” Armansky said matter-of-factly.

Salander bit her lower lip. “Usually it's other people who don't give a shit about me.”

“Bullshit,” Armansky said. “You've got an attitude problem and you treat people like dirt when they're trying to be your friends. It's that simple.”

Silence.

“Do you want me to leave?”

“You do as you like. You always have. But if you leave now I never want to see you again.”

Salander was suddenly afraid. Someone she respected was about to reject her. She did not know what to say.

“It's been two years since Holger Palmgren had his stroke. You haven't once visited him,” Armansky went on relentlessly.

Salander stared at Armansky, shocked. “Palmgren is alive?”

“You don't even know if he's alive or dead.”

“The doctors said that he—”

“The doctors said a lot about him,” Armansky interrupted. “He was in a very bad way and couldn't communicate with anyone. But in the last year he's recovered quite a bit. He doesn't articulate too well—you have to listen carefully to understand what he's saying. He needs help with a lot of things, but he can go to the toilet by himself. People who care about him call in to spend time with him.”

Salander sat dumbfounded. She was the one who had found Palmgren after he had his stroke two years earlier. She had called the ambulance and the doctors had shaken their heads and said that the prognosis
was not encouraging. She had lived at the hospital for three days until a doctor told her that Palmgren was in a coma and it was extremely unlikely that he would come out of it. She had stood up and left the hospital without looking back. And obviously without checking to find out what had happened.

She frowned. She had had Nils Bjurman foisted on her at the same time, and he had absorbed a lot of her attention. But nobody, not even Armansky, had told her that Palmgren was still alive, or that he was getting better. She had never considered that possibility.

Her eyes filled with tears. Never in her life had she felt like such a selfish shit. And never had she been savaged in such a furious manner. She bowed her head.

They sat in silence until Armansky said, “How are you doing?”

Salander shrugged.

“How are you making a living? Do you have work?”

“No, I don't, and I don't know what kind of work I want. But I've got a certain amount of money, so I'm getting by.”

Armansky scrutinized her with searching eyes.

“I just came by to say hello … I'm not looking for a job. I don't know … maybe I'd do a job for you if you need me sometime, but it would have to be something that interests me.”

“I don't suppose you want to tell me what happened up in Hedestad last year.”

Salander did not answer.

“Well, something happened. Martin Vanger drove his car into a truck after you'd been back here to borrow surveillance gear, and somebody threatened you. And his sister came back from the dead. It was a sensation, to put it mildly.”

“I've given my word I wouldn't talk about it.”

“And you don't want to tell me what role you played in the Wennerström affair either.”