The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Trilogy Bundle (97 page)

“Thanks.”

“There's one condition, though.”

“What's that?”

“Some of these guys are serious thugs. If you're going out to accuse pimps of murdering Dag and Mia, I want you to take this with you and always keep it in the pocket of your jacket.”

She put a canister of Mace on the desk.

“Where'd you get that?”

“I bought it in the States last year. I'll be damned if I'm going to run around alone at night without some sort of weapon.”

“There'll be hell to pay if I get caught in possession of an illegal weapon.”

“Better that than me having to write your obituary, Mikael … I'm not sure if you know this, but sometimes I really worry about you.”

“I see.”

“You take risks and you're so pigheaded that you can never back down from a stupid decision.”

Blomkvist smiled and put the Mace on Erika's desk.

“Thanks for the concern. But I don't need it.”

“Micke, I insist.”

“That's fine. But I've already taken precautions.”

He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a canister. It was the Mace he had taken out of Salander's shoulder bag and had carried with him ever since.

Bublanski knocked on the open door of Modig's office and then sat down on the visitor's chair by her desk.

“Dag Svensson's computer,” he said.

“I've been thinking about that too,” she said. “I did a timeline of Svensson and Johansson's last day. There are still a few gaps, but Svensson never went to
Millennium
's offices that day. On the other hand he did go into the centre of town, and at around 4:00 in the afternoon he ran into an old school friend. It was a chance meeting at a café on Drottninggatan. The friend says that Svensson definitely had his computer. He saw it and even made a comment about it.”

“And by 11:00 that night—by the time the police arrived at his apartment—the computer was gone.”

“Correct.”

“What should we deduce from that?”

“He could have stopped somewhere else and for some reason left or forgotten his computer.”

“How likely is that?”

“Not very likely. But he could have dropped it off for repair. Then there's the possibility that there was some other place he worked that we don't know about. For example, he once rented a desk at a freelancers' office near St. Eriksplan. Then, of course, there's the possibility that the killer took the computer with him.”

“According to Armansky, Salander is very good with computers.”

“Exactly,” Modig said, nodding.

“Hmm. Blomkvist's theory is that Svensson and Johansson were murdered because of the research Svensson was doing. Which would all be on his computer.”

“We're lagging a little behind. Three murder victims create so many loose ends that we can't really keep up, but we actually haven't done a proper search of Svensson's workplace at
Millennium
yet.”

“I talked with Erika Berger this morning. She says they're surprised that we haven't been over to take a look at what he left there.”

“We've been focusing too much on the hunt for Salander, and so far we don't have a clue about the motive. Could you …?”

“I've made a rendezvous with Berger at
Millennium
for tomorrow.”

“Thanks.”

On Thursday Blomkvist was at his desk talking to Eriksson when a telephone rang somewhere else in the offices. Through the doorway he caught a glimpse of Cortez on his way to answer it. Then he registered somewhere in the back of his mind that it was the phone on Svensson's desk. He jumped to his feet.

“Stop—don't touch that phone!” he yelled.

Cortez had his hand on the receiver. Blomkvist hurried across the room. What the hell was the name of that phony company Svensson made up?

“Indigo Market Research, this is Mikael. May I help you?”

“Uh … hello, my name is Gunnar Björck. I got a letter saying I've won a mobile phone.”

“Congratulations,” Blomkvist said. “It's a Sony Ericsson, the latest model.”

“And it's free?”

“That's right, it's free. To receive the gift you only have to be interviewed. We do market research studies and in-depth analyses for various
companies. It'll take about an hour to answer the questions. After that your name will be entered in another drawing and you'll have the chance to win 100,000 kronor.”

“I understand. Can we do it over the phone?”

“Unfortunately not. The questionnaire involves looking at company logos and identifying them. We will also be asking about what type of advertising images you like and we show you various alternatives. We have to send out one of our employees.”

“I see … and how did I happen to be selected?”

“We do this type of study several times a year. Right now we're focusing on a number of successful men in your age group. We've drawn social security numbers at random within that demographic.”

Björck finally agreed to a meeting. He told Blomkvist that he was on sick leave and was convalescing at a summer cabin up in Smådalarö. He gave directions on how to get there. They agreed to meet on Friday morning.

“YES!” Blomkvist cried when he hung up the phone. He punched the air with his fist. Eriksson and Cortez exchanged puzzled glances.

Paolo Roberto landed at Arlanda at 11:30 on Thursday morning. He had slept during much of the flight from New York, and for once did not have any jet lag.

He had spent a month in the United States talking boxing, watching exhibition fights, and looking for ideas for a production he was planning to sell to Strix Television. Sadly, he admitted to himself, he had left his own professional career on the shelf, partly because of gentle persuasion from his family, but also because he was simply feeling his age. It wasn't so much about keeping in shape, which he did with strenuous workouts at least once a week. He was still a name in the boxing world, and he expected to be working in the sport in some capacity for the rest of his life.

He collected his suitcase from the baggage carousel. At Customs he was stopped and about to be pulled aside when one of the Customs officers recognized him.

“Hello, Paolo. All you've got in your case is gloves, I presume?”

He was crossing the arrivals hall to the escalator down to the Arlanda Express when he stopped short, stunned by Salander's face on the headlines of the evening newspapers. He wondered if he was suffering from jet lag after all. Then he read the headline again.

HUNT FOR
LISBETH SALANDER

He looked at the other headline.

EXTRA!
PSYCHOPATH SOUGHT
FOR TRIPLE KILLING

He bought both the evening papers and the morning ones too and then went over to a cafeteria. He read the articles with growing astonishment.

When Blomkvist came home to Bellmansgatan at 11:00 on Thursday night he was tired and depressed. He had planned to make it an early night to catch up on his sleep, but he couldn't resist the temptation to switch on his iBook and check his email. Nothing of great interest there, but he opened the folder. His pulse quickened when he discovered a new document entitled [MB2]. He double-clicked.

Blomkvist pondered the message, baffled. What old police report? Why did she have to write every message like a riddle? He created a new document that he called [Cryptic].

He waited at his desk. The reply [Cryptic 2] came a minute later.

He replied with [Cryptic 3].

Blomkvist had almost given up hope when, nearly fifty minutes later, the file [Cryptic 4] materialized.

Blomkvist sighed with relief. He felt a little ray of hope. The reply meant exactly what it said. She was going to think about it. It was the first time since, without a word of explanation, she had vanished from his life that she had held out the prospect of communicating with him at all. He wrote [Cryptic 5].

Inspector Faste got the call when he was on Långholmsgatan near Västerbron on his way to work on Friday morning. The police did not have the resources to put the apartment on Lundagatan under twenty-four-hour surveillance, so they had arranged for a neighbour, a retired policeman, to keep an eye on it.

“The Chinese girl just came in,” the neighbour said.

Faste could hardly have been in a more convenient place. He made an illegal turn past the bus shelter on to Heleneborgsgatan just before Västerbron and drove down Högalidsgatan to Lundagatan. He was there less than two minutes after he got the call and jogged across the street and through to the back building.

Miriam Wu was still standing at the door of her apartment staring at the drilled-out lock and the police tape across the door when she heard
footsteps on the stairs behind her. She turned and saw a powerfully built man looking intently at her. She felt he was hostile and dropped her bag on the floor and prepared to resort to Thai boxing if necessary. “Are you Miriam Wu?” he said. To her surprise he held up a police ID. “Yes,” she said. “What's going on here?”

“Where have you been staying the past week?”

“I've been away. What happened? Was there a break-in?”

“I'm going to have to ask you to come with me to Kungsholmen,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

Bublanski and Modig watched as Miriam Wu was escorted by Faste into the interview room. She was plainly angry.

“Please have a seat. My name is Criminal Inspector Jan Bublanski, and this is my colleague Inspector Sonja Modig. I'm sorry we've had to bring you in like this, but we have a number of questions we need answered.”

“OK. But why? That guy isn't very talkative.” She jerked a thumb at Faste.

“We've been looking for you for some time. Can you tell us where you've been?”

“Yes, I can. But I don't feel like it, and as far as I'm concerned it's none of your business.”

Bublanski raised his eyebrows.

“I come home to find my door broken open and police tape across it, and a guy pumped up on steroids drags me down here. Can I get an explanation?”

“Don't you like men?” Faste said.

Miriam Wu turned and stared at him, astonished. Bublanski gave him a furious look.

“You haven't read any newspapers in the past week? Have you been out of the country?”

“No, I haven't read any papers. I've been in Paris visiting my parents. For two weeks. I just came from Central Station.”

“You took the train?”

“I don't like flying.”

“And you didn't see any news headlines or Swedish papers today?”

“I got off the night train and took the tunnelbana home.”

Bublanski thought for a moment. There hadn't been anything about
Salander in the headlines this morning. He stood up and left the room. When he returned he was carrying
Aftonbladet
's Easter edition with Salander's photograph on the front page. Miriam Wu almost flipped.

Blomkvist followed the directions that Björck had given him to the cabin in SmÃ¥dalarö. As he parked he saw that the “cabin” was a modern one-family home which looked to be habitable all year round. It had a view of the sea towards the Jungfrufjärden inlet. He walked up the gravel path and rang the bell. Björck was clearly recognizable from the passport photograph that Svensson had in his file.

“Good morning,” Blomkvist said.

“Good, you found the place.”

“Thanks to your directions.”

“Come in. We can sit in the kitchen.”

Björck appeared to be in good health, but he had a slight limp.

“I'm on sick leave,” he said.

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

“I'm waiting to have surgery on a slipped disk. Would you like coffee?”

“No thanks,” Blomkvist said and sat at the kitchen table and opened his briefcase. He took out a folder. Björck sat down facing him.

“You look familiar. Have we met before?”

“I think not,” Blomkvist said.

“I'm sure I've seen you somewhere.”

“Maybe in the newspapers.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Mikael Blomkvist. I'm a journalist, I work at
Millennium
magazine.”

Björck looked confused. Then the penny dropped.
Kalle Blomkvist. The Wennerström affair
. But still he did not understand the implications.

“
Millennium
? I didn't know you did market research.”

“Once in a while. I'd like to begin by asking you to look at three photographs and tell me which one you like best.”

Blomkvist put images of three girls on the table. One had been downloaded from a porn site on the Internet. The other two were blown-up passport photographs.