Monday, July 14

Blomkvist woke with a start at 5:00 in the morning, scrabbling at his neck to get rid of the noose. Salander came in and took hold of his hands, keeping him still. He opened his eyes and looked at her blearily.

“I didn’t know that you played golf,” he said, closing his eyes again. She sat with him for a couple of

minutes until she was sure he was asleep. While he slept, Salander had gone back to Martin Vanger’s basement to examine and photograph the crime scene. In addition to the torture instruments, she had found

a collection of violent pornographic magazines and a large number of Polaroid photographs pasted into

albums.

There was no diary. On the other hand, she did find two A4 binders with passport photographs and handwritten notes about the women. She put the binders in a nylon bag along with Martin’s Dell PC

laptop, which she found on the hall table upstairs. While Blomkvist slept she continued her examination of Martin’s computer and binders. It was after 6:00 by the time she turned off the computer. She lit a cigarette.

Together with Mikael Blomkvist she had taken up the hunt for what they thought was a serial killer from

the past. They had found something appallingly different. She could hardly imagine the horrors that must

have played out in Martin Vanger’s basement, in the midst of this well-ordered, idyllic spot.

She tried to understand.

Martin Vanger had been killing women since the sixties, during the past fifteen years one or two victims

per year. The killing had been done so discreetly and was so well planned that no-one was even aware

that a serial killer was at work. How was that possible?

The binders provided a partial answer.

His victims were often new arrivals, immigrant girls who had no friends or social contacts in Sweden.

There were also prostitutes and social outcasts, with drug abuse or other problems in their background.

From her own studies of the psychology of sexual sadism, Salander had learned that this type of murderer usually collected souvenirs from his victims. These souvenirs functioned as reminders that the

killer could use to re-create some of the pleasure he had experienced. Martin Vanger had developed this

peculiarity by keeping a “death book.” He had catalogued and graded his victims. He had described their

suffering. He had documented his killings with videotapes and photographs.

The violence and the killing were the goal, but Salander concluded that it was the hunt that was Martin

Vanger’s primary interest. In his laptop he had created a database with a list of more than a hundred women. There were employees from the Vanger Corporation, waitresses in restaurants where he regularly

ate, reception staff in hotels, clerks at the social security office, the secretaries of business associates, and many other women. It seemed as if Martin had pigeonholed practically every woman he had ever come

into contact with.

He had killed only a fraction of these women, but every woman anywhere near him was a potential victim. The cataloguing had the mark of a passionate hobby, and he must have devoted countless hours to

it.

Is she married or single? Does she have children and family? Where does she work? Where does she

live? What kind of car does she drive? What sort of education does she have? Hair colour? Skin colour? Figure?

The gathering of personal information about potential victims must have been a significant part of Martin Vanger’s sexual fantasies. He was first of all a stalker, and second a murderer.

When she had finished reading, she discovered a small envelope in one of the binders. She pulled out

two much handled and faded Polaroid pictures. In the first picture a dark-haired girl was sitting at a table.

The girl had on dark jeans and had a bare torso with tiny, pointed breasts. She had turned her face away

from the camera and was in the process of lifting one arm in a gesture of defence, almost as if the photographer had surprised her. In the second picture she was completely naked. She was lying on her stomach on a blue bedspread. Her face was still turned away from the camera.

Salander stuffed the envelope with the pictures into her jacket pocket. After that she carried the binders over to the woodstove and struck a match. When she was done with the fire, she stirred the ashes. It was

pouring down with rain when she took a short walk and, kneeling as if to tie a shoelace, discreetly dropped Martin Vanger’s laptop into the water under the bridge.

When Frode marched through the open door at 7:30 that morning, Salander was at the kitchen table smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee. Frode’s face was ashen, and he looked as if he had had a cruel

awakening.

“Where’s Mikael?” he said.

“He’s still asleep.”

Frode sat down heavily on a kitchen chair. Salander poured coffee and pushed the cup over to him.

“Martin . . . I just found out that Martin was killed in a car accident last night.”

“That’s sad,” Salander said, taking a sip of her own coffee.

Frode looked up. At first he stared at her, uncomprehending. Then his eyes opened wide.

“What . . . ?”

“He crashed. How annoying.”

“What do you know about this?”

“He drove his car right into the front of a truck. He committed suicide. The press, the stress, a floundering financial empire, dot, dot, dot, too much for him. At least that’s what I suppose it will say on the placards.”

Frode looked as if he were about to have a cerebral haemorrhage. He stood up swiftly and walked unsteadily to the bedroom.

“Let him sleep,” Salander snapped.

Frode looked at the sleeping figure. He saw the black and blue marks on Blomkvist’s face and the contusions on his chest. Then he saw the flaming line where the noose had been. Salander touched his arm

and closed the door. Frode backed out and sank on to the kitchen bench.

Lisbeth Salander told him succinctly what had happened during the night. She told him what Martin Vanger’s chamber of horrors looked like and how she had found Mikael with a noose around his neck and

the CEO of the Vanger Corporation standing in front of his naked body. She told him what she had found in

the company’s archives the day before and how she had established a possible link between Martin’s father and the murders of at least seven women.

Frode interrupted her recitation only once. When she stopped talking, he sat mutely for several minutes

before he took a deep breath and said: “What are we going to do?”

“That’s not for me to say,” Salander said.

“But . . .”

“As I see it, I’ve never set foot in Hedestad.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Under no circumstances do I want my name in any police report. I don’t exist in connection with any

of this. If my name is mentioned in connection with this story, I’ll deny that I’ve ever been here, and I’ll refuse to answer a single question.”

Frode gave her a searching look.

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t need to understand.”

“Then what should I do?”

“You’ll have to work that out for yourself. Only leave me and Mikael out of it.”

Frode was deathly pale.

“Look at it this way: the only thing you know is that Martin Vanger died in a traffic accident. You have

no idea that he was also an insane, nauseating serial killer, and you’ve never heard about the room in his basement.”

She put the key on the table between them.

“You’ve got time—before anyone is going to clean out Martin’s house and discover the basement.”

“We have to go to the police about this.”

“Not we. You can go to the police if you like. It’s your decision.”

“This can’t be brushed under a carpet.”

“I’m not suggesting that it should be brushed anywhere, just that you leave me and Mikael out of it.

When you discover the room, you draw your own conclusions and decide for yourself who you want to

tell.”

“If what you say is true, it means that Martin has kidnapped and murdered women . . . there must be

families that are desperate because they don’t know where their children are. We can’t just . . .”

“That’s right. But there’s just one problem. The bodies are gone. Maybe you’ll find passports or ID

cards in some drawer. Maybe some of the victims can be identified from the videotapes. But you don’t

need to decide today. Think it over.”

Frode looked panic-stricken.

“Oh, dear God. This will be the death blow for the company. Think of how many families will lose their livelihood if it gets out that Martin . . .”

Frode rocked back and forth, juggling with a moral dilemma.

“That’s one issue. If Isabella Vanger is to inherit, you may think it would be inappropriate if she were

the first one to light upon her son’s hobby.”

“I have to go and see . . .”

“I think you should stay away from that room today,” Salander said sharply. “You have a lot of things to

take care of. You have to go and tell Henrik, and you have to call a special meeting of the board and do all those things you chaps do when your CEO dies.”

Frode thought about what she was saying. His heart was thumping. He was the old attorney and problem-solver who was expected to have a plan ready to meet any eventuality, yet he felt powerless to

act. It suddenly dawned on him that here he was, taking orders from a child. She had somehow seized control of the situation and given him the guidelines that he himself was unable to formulate.

“And Harriet . . . ?”

“Mikael and I are not finished yet. But you can tell Herr Vanger that I think now that we’re going to solve it.”

Martin Vanger’s unexpected demise was the top story on the 9:00 news on the radio when Blomkvist woke up. Nothing was reported about the night’s events other than to say that the industrialist had inexplicably and at high speed crossed to the wrong side of the E4, travelling south. He had been alone in the car.

The local radio ran a story that dealt with concern for the future of the Vanger Corporation and the consequences that this death would inevitably have for the company.

A hastily composed lunchtime update from the TT wire service had the headline A TOWN IN SHOCK, and it summed up the problems of the Vanger Corporation. It escaped no-one’s notice that in Hedestad alone more than 3,000 of the town’s 21,000 inhabitants were employed by the Vanger Corporation or were otherwise dependent on the prosperity of the company. The firm’s CEO was dead, and the former CEO

was seriously ill after a heart attack. There was no natural heir. All this at a time considered to be among the most critical in the company’s history.

Blomkvist had had the option of going to the police in Hedestad and telling them what had happened that

night, but Salander had already set a certain process in motion. Since he had not immediately called the

police, it became harder to do so with each hour that passed. He spent the morning in gloomy silence, sitting on the kitchen bench, watching the rain outside. Around 10:00 there was another cloudburst, but by lunchtime the rain had stopped and the wind had died down a bit. He went out and wiped off the garden

furniture and then sat there with a mug of coffee. He was wearing a shirt with the collar turned up.

Martin’s death cast a shadow, of course, over the daily life of Hedeby. Cars began parking outside Isabella Vanger’s house as the clan gathered to offer condolences. Salander observed the procession without emotion.

“How are you feeling?” she said at last.

“I think I’m still in shock,” he said. “I was helpless. For several hours I was convinced that I was going to die. I felt the fear of death and there wasn’t a thing I could do.”

He stretched out his hand and placed it on her knee.

“Thank you,” he said. “But for you, I would be dead.”

Salander smiled her crooked smile.

“All the same . . . I don’t understand how you could be such an idiot as to tackle him on your own. I

was chained to the floor down there, praying that you’d see the picture and put two and two together and

call the police.”

“If I’d waited for the police, you wouldn’t have survived. I wasn’t going to let that motherfucker kill

you.”

“Why don’t you want to talk to the police?”

“I never talk to the authorities.”

“Why not?”

“That’s my business. But in your case, I don’t think it would be a terrific career move to be hung out to

dry as the journalist who was stripped naked by Martin Vanger, the famous serial killer. If you don’t like

‘Kalle Blomkvist,’ you can think up a whole new epithet. Just don’t take it out of this chapter of your heroic life.”

Blomkvist gave her a searching look and dropped the subject.

“We do still have a problem,” she said.

Blomkvist nodded. “What happened to Harriet. Yes.”

Salander laid the two Polaroid pictures on the table in front of him. She explained where she’d found

them. Mikael studied the pictures intently for a while before he looked up.

“It might be her,” he said at last. “I wouldn’t swear to it, but the shape of her body and the hair remind me of the pictures I’ve seen.”

They sat in the garden for an hour, piecing together the details. They discovered that each of them, independently and from different directions, had identified Martin Vanger as the missing link.

Salander never did find the photograph that Blomkvist had left on the kitchen table. She had come to the

conclusion that Blomkvist had done something stupid after studying the pictures from the surveillance cameras. She had gone over to Martin Vanger’s house by way of the shore and looked in all the windows

and seen no-one. She had tried all the doors and windows on the ground floor. Finally she had climbed in

through an open balcony door upstairs. It had taken a long time, and she had moved extremely cautiously

as she searched the house, room by room. Eventually she found the stairs down to the basement. Martin

had been careless. He left the door to his chamber of horrors ajar, and she was able to form a clear impression of the situation.

Blomkvist asked her how much she had heard of what Martin said.

“Not much. I got there when he was asking you about what happened to Harriet, just before he hung you

up by the noose. I left for a few minutes to go back and find a weapon.”

“Martin had no idea what happened to Harriet,” Blomkvist said.

“Do you believe that?”

“Yes,” Blomkvist said without hesitation. “Martin was dafter than a syphilitic polecat—where do I get

these metaphors from?—but he confessed to all the crimes he had committed. I think that he wanted to impress me. But when it came to Harriet, he was as desperate as Henrik Vanger to find out what happened.”

“So . . . where does that take us?”

“We know that Gottfried was responsible for the first series of murders, between 1949 and 1965.”

“OK. And he brought on little Martin.”

“Talk about a dysfunctional family,” Blomkvist said. “Martin really didn’t have a chance.”

Salander gave him a strange look.

“What Martin told me—even though it was rambling—was that his father started his apprenticeship after he reached puberty. He was there at the murder of Lea in Uddevalla in 1962. He was fourteen, for

God’s sake. He was there at the murder of Sara in 1964 and that time he took an active part. He was sixteen.”

“And?”

“He said that he had never touched another man—except his father. That made me think that . . . well,

the only possible conclusion is that his father raped him. Martin called it ‘his duty.’ The sexual assaults must have gone on for a long time. He was raised by his father, so to speak.”

“Bullshit,” Salander said, her voice as hard as flint.

Blomkvist stared at her in astonishment. She had a stubborn look in her eyes. There was not an ounce of

sympathy in it.

“Martin had exactly the same opportunity as anyone else to strike back. He killed and he raped because

he liked doing it.”

“I’m not saying otherwise. But Martin was a repressed boy and under the influence of his father, just as

Gottfried was cowed by his father, the Nazi.”

“So you’re assuming that Martin had no will of his own and that people become whatever they’ve been

brought up to be.”

Blomkvist smiled cautiously. “Is this a sensitive issue?”

Salander’s eyes blazed with fury. Blomkvist quickly went on.

“I’m only saying that I think that a person’s upbringing does play a role. Gottfried’s father beat him mercilessly for years. That leaves its mark.”

“Bullshit,” Salander said again. “Gottfried isn’t the only kid who was ever mistreated. That doesn’t give him the right to murder women. He made that choice himself. And the same is true of Martin.”

Blomkvist held up his hand.

“Can we not argue?”

“I’m not arguing. I just think that it’s pathetic that creeps always have to have someone else to blame.”

“They have a personal responsibility. We’ll work it all out later. What matters is that Martin was seventeen when Gottfried died, and he didn’t have anyone to guide him. He tried to continue in his father’s footsteps. In February 1966, in Uppsala.”

Blomkvist reached for one of Salander’s cigarettes.

“I won’t speculate about what impulses Gottfried was trying to satisfy or how he himself interpreted

what he was doing. There’s some sort of Biblical gibberish that a psychiatrist might be able to figure out, something to do with punishment and purification in a figurative sense. It doesn’t matter what it was. He

was a cut and dried serial killer.

“Gottfried wanted to kill women and clothe his actions in some sort of pseudo-religious clap-trap.

Martin didn’t even pretend to have an excuse. He was organised and did his killing systematically. He also had money to put into his hobby. And he was shrewder than his father. Every time Gottfried left a body behind, it led to a police investigation and the risk that someone might track him down, or at least

link together the various murders.”

“Martin Vanger built his house in the seventies,” Salander said pensively.

“I think Henrik mentioned it was in 1978. Presumably he ordered a safe room put in for important files

or some such purpose. He got a soundproofed, windowless room with a steel door.”

“He’s had that room for twenty-five years.”

They fell silent for a while as Blomkvist thought about what atrocities must have taken place there for a

quarter of a century. Salander did not need to think about the matter; she had seen the videotapes. She noticed that Blomkvist was unconsciously touching his neck.

“Gottfried hated women and taught his son to hate women at the same time as he was raping him. But

there’s also some sort of undertone . . . I think Gottfried fantasised that his children would share his, to put it mildly, perverted world view. When I asked about Harriet, his own sister, Martin said: ‘We tried to talk to her. But she was just an ordinary cunt. She was planning to tell Henrik.’ ”

“I heard him. That was about when I got down to the basement. And that means that we know what her

aborted conversation with Henrik was to have been about.”

Blomkvist frowned. “Not really. Think of the chronology. We don’t know when Gottfried first raped his

son, but he took Martin with him when he murdered Lea Persson in Uddevalla in 1962. He drowned in

1965. Before that, he and Martin tried to talk to Harriet. Where does that lead us?”

“Martin wasn’t the only one that Gottfried assaulted. He also assaulted Harriet.”

“Gottfried was the teacher. Martin was the pupil. Harriet was what? Their plaything?”

“Gottfried taught Martin to screw his sister.” Salander pointed at the Polaroid prints. “It’s hard to determine her attitude from these two pictures because we can’t see her face, but she’s trying to hide from the camera.”

“Let’s say that it started when she was fourteen, in 1964. She defended herself—couldn’t accept it, as

Martin put it. That was what she was threatening to tell Henrik about. Martin undoubtedly had nothing to

say in this connection; he just did what his father told him. But he and Gottfried had formed some sort of .

. . pact, and they tried to initiate Harriet into it too.”

Salander said: “In your notes you wrote that Henrik had let Harriet move into his house in the winter of

1964.”

“Henrik could see there was something wrong in her family. He thought it was the bickering and friction between Gottfried and Isabella that was the cause, and he took her in so that she could have some peace and quiet and concentrate on her studies.”

“An unforeseen obstacle for Gottfried and Martin. They couldn’t get their hands on her as easily or control her life. But eventually . . . Where did the assault take place?”

“It must have been at Gottfried’s cabin. I’m almost positive that these pictures were taken there—it should be possible to check. The cabin is in a perfect location, isolated and far from the village. Then Gottfried got drunk one last time and died in a most banal way.”

“So Harriet’s father had attempted to have sex with her, but my guess is that he didn’t initiate her into

the killing.”

Blomkvist realised that this was a weak point. Harriet had made note of the names of Gottfried’s victims, pairing them up with Bible quotes, but her interest in the Bible did not emerge until the last year, and by then Gottfried was already dead. He paused, trying to come up with a logical explanation.

“Sometime along the way Harriet discovered that Gottfried had not only committed incest, but he was

also a serial sex murderer,” he said.

“We don’t know when she found out about the murders. It could have been right before Gottfried drowned. It might also have been after he drowned, if he had a diary or had saved press cuttings about

them. Something put her on his track.”

“But that wasn’t what she was threatening to tell Henrik,” Blomkvist said.

“It was Martin,” Salander said. “Her father was dead, but Martin was going on abusing her.”

“Exactly.”

“But it was a year before she took any action.”

“What would you do if you found out that your father was a murderer who had been raping your brother?”

“I’d kill the fucker,” Salander said in such a sober tone that Blomkvist believed her. He remembered

her face as she was attacking Martin Vanger. He smiled joylessly.

“OK, but Harriet wasn’t like you. Gottfried died before she managed to do anything. That also makes

sense. When Gottfried died, Isabella sent Martin to Uppsala. He might have come home for Christmas or

other holidays, but during that following year he didn’t see Harriet very often. She was able to get some

distance from him.”

“And she started studying the Bible.”

“And in light of what we now know, it didn’t have to be for any religious reasons. Maybe she simply

wanted to know what her father had been up to. She brooded over it until the Children’s Day celebration

in 1966. Then suddenly she sees her brother on Järnvägsgatan and realises that he’s back. We don’t know

if they talked to each other or if he said anything. But no matter what happened, Harriet had an urge to go straight home and talk to Henrik.”

“And then she disappeared.”

After they had gone over the chain of events, it was not hard to understand what the rest of the puzzle must have looked like. Blomkvist and Salander packed their bags. Before they left, Blomkvist called Frode and

told him that he and Salander had to go away for a while, but that he absolutely wanted to see Henrik Vanger before they left.

Blomkvist needed to know what Frode had told Henrik. The man sounded so stressed on the telephone

that Blomkvist felt concerned for him. Frode said that he had only told him that Martin had died in a car

accident.

It was thundering again when Blomkvist parked outside Hedestad Hospital, and the sky was filled once

more with heavy rain clouds. He hurried across the car park just as it started to rain.

Vanger was wearing a bathrobe, sitting at a table by the window of his room. His illness had left its

mark, but Vanger had regained some colour in his face and looked as if he were on the path to recovery.

They shook hands. Blomkvist asked the nurse to leave them alone for a few minutes.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Vanger said.

Mikael nodded. “On purpose. Your family didn’t want me to come at all, but today everyone is over at

Isabella’s house.”

“Poor Martin,” Vanger said.

“Henrik. You gave me an assignment to dig up the truth about what happened to Harriet. Did you expect

the truth to be painless?”

The old man looked at him. Then his eyes widened.

“Martin?”

“He’s part of the story.”

Henrik closed his eyes.

“Now I have got a question for you,” Blomkvist said.

“Tell me.”

“Do you still want to know what happened? Even if it turns out to be painful and even if the truth is

worse than you imagined?”

Henrik gave Blomkvist a long look. Then he said, “I want to know. That was the point of your assignment.”

“OK. I think I know what happened to Harriet. But there’s one last piece of the puzzle missing before

I’m sure.”

“Tell me.”

“No. Not today. What I want you to do right now is to rest. The doctors say that the crisis is over and

that you’re getting better.”

“Don’t you treat me like a child, young man.”

“I haven’t worked it all out yet. What I have is a theory. I am going out to find the last piece of the puzzle. The next time you see me, I’ll tell you the whole story. It may take a while, but I want you to know that I’m coming back and that you’ll know the truth.”

Salander pulled a tarpaulin over her motorcycle and left it on the shady side of the cabin. Then she got

into Blomkvist’s borrowed car. The thunderstorm had returned with renewed force, and just south of Gävle there was such a fierce downpour that Blomkvist could hardly see the road. Just to be safe, he pulled into a petrol station. They waited for the rain to let up, so they did not arrive in Stockholm until 7:00 that evening. Blomkvist gave Salander the security code to his building and dropped her off at the

central tunnelbana. His apartment seemed unfamiliar.

He vacuumed and dusted while Salander went to see Plague in Sundbyberg. She arrived at Blomkvist’s

apartment at around midnight and spent ten minutes examining every nook and cranny of it. Then she stood

at the window for a long time, looking at the view facing the Slussen locks.

They got undressed and slept.

At noon the next day they landed at London’s Gatwick Airport. They were met with rain. Blomkvist had

booked a room at the Hotel James near Hyde Park, an excellent hotel compared to all the one-star places

in Bayswater where he had always ended up on his previous trips to London.

At 5:00 p.m. they were standing at the bar when a youngish man came towards them. He was almost

bald, with a blond beard, and he was wearing jeans and a jacket that was too big for him.

“Wasp?”

“Trinity?” she said. They nodded to each other. He did not ask for Blomkvist’s name.

Trinity’s partner was introduced as Bob the Dog. He was in an old VW van around the corner. They

climbed in through the sliding doors and sat down on folding chairs fastened to the sides. While Bob navigated through the London traffic, Wasp and Trinity talked.

“Plague said this had to do with some crash-bang job.”

“Telephone tapping and checking emails in a computer. It might go fast, or it could take a couple of days, depending on how much pressure he applies.” Lisbeth gestured towards Blomkvist with her thumb.

“Can you do it?”

“Do dogs have fleas?” Trinity said.

Anita Vanger lived in a terrace house in the attractive suburb of St. Albans, about an hour’s drive north.

From the van they saw her arrive home and unlock the door some time after 7:30 that evening. They waited until she had settled, had her supper, and was sitting in front of the TV before Blomkvist rang the doorbell.

An almost identical copy of Cecilia Vanger opened the door, her expression politely questioning.

“Hi, Anita. My name is Mikael Blomkvist. Henrik Vanger asked me to come and see you. I assume that

you’ve heard the news about Martin.”

Her expression changed from surprise to wariness. She knew exactly who Mikael Blomkvist was. But

Henrik’s name meant that she was forced to open the door. She showed Blomkvist into her living room.

He noticed a signed lithograph by Anders Zorn over the fireplace. It was altogether a charming room.

“Forgive me for bothering you out of the blue, but I happened to be in St. Albans, and I tried to call you during the day.”

“I understand. Please tell me what this is about?”

“Are you planning to be at the funeral?”

“No, as a matter of fact, I’m not. Martin and I weren’t close, and anyway, I can’t get away at the moment.”

Anita Vanger had stayed away from Hedestad for thirty years. After her father moved back to Hedeby

Island, she had hardly set foot there.

“I want to know what happened to Harriet Vanger, Anita. It’s time for the truth.”

“Harriet? I don’t know what you mean.”

Blomkvist smiled at her feigned surprise.

“You were Harriet’s closest friend in the family. You were the one she turned to with her horrible story.”

“I can’t think what you’re talking about,” Anita said.

“Anita, you were in Harriet’s room that day. I have photographic proof of it, in spite of what you said to Inspector Morell. In a few days I’m going to report to Henrik, and he’ll take it from there. It would be better to tell me what happened.”

Anita Vanger stood up.

“Get out of my house this minute.”

Blomkvist got up.

“Sooner or later you’re going to have to talk to me.”

“I have nothing now, nor ever will have, anything to say to you.”

“Martin is dead,” Blomkvist said. “You never liked Martin. I think that you moved to London not only

to avoid seeing your father but also so that you wouldn’t have to see Martin. That means that you also knew about Martin, and the only one who could have told you was Harriet. The question is: what did you

do with that knowledge?”

Anita Vanger slammed her front door in his face.

Salander smiled with satisfaction as she unfastened the microphone from under his shirt.

“She picked up the telephone about twenty seconds after she nearly took the door off its hinges,” she

said.

“The country code is Australia,” Trinity said, putting down the earphones on the little desk in the van.

“I need to check the area code.” He switched on his laptop. “OK, she called the following number, which

is a telephone in a town called Tennant Creek, north of Alice Springs in the Northern Territory. Do you

want to hear the conversation?”

Blomkvist nodded. “What time is it in Australia right now?”

“About 5:00 in the morning.” Trinity started the digital player and attached a speaker. Mikael counted

eight rings before someone picked up the telephone. The conversation took place in English.

“Hi. It’s me.”

“Hmm, I know I’m a morning person but . . .”

“I thought of calling you yesterday . . . Martin is dead. He seems to have driven his car into a truck the day before yesterday.”

Silence. Then what sounded like someone clearing their throat, but it might have been: “Good.”

“But we have got a problem. A disgusting journalist that Henrik dug up from somewhere has just knocked on my door, here in St. Albans. He’s asking questions about what happened in 1966. He knows

something.”

Again silence. Then a commanding voice.

“Anita. Put down the telephone right now. We can’t have any contact for a while.”

“But . . .”

“Write a letter. Tell me what’s going on.” Then the conversation was over.

“Sharp chick,” Salander said.

They returned to their hotel just before 11:00. The front desk manager helped them to reserve seats on

the next available flight to Australia. Soon they had reservations on a plane leaving at 7:05 the following evening, destination Melbourne, changing in Singapore.

This was Salander’s first visit to London. They spent the morning walking from Covent Garden through

Soho. They stopped to have a caffe latte on Old Compton Street. Around 3:00 they were back at the hotel

to collect their luggage. While Blomkvist paid the bill, Salander turned on her mobile. She had a text message.

“Armansky says to call at once.”

She used a telephone in the lobby. Blomkvist, who was standing a short distance away, noticed Salander turn to him with a frozen expression on her face. He was at her side at once.

“What is it?”

“My mother died. I have to go home.”

Salander looked so unhappy that he put his arms around her. She pushed him away.

They sat in the hotel bar. When Blomkvist said that he would cancel the reservations to Australia and

go back to Stockholm with her, she shook her head.

“No,” she said. “We can’t screw up the job now. You’ll have to go by yourself.”

They parted outside the hotel, each of them making for a different airport.

CHAPTER 26

Tuesday, July 15–