manuscript had to be revised and that in all probability a whole new section would have to be added.
He sighed and got to work.
At 11.15 Fredriksson parked three streets away from Berger’s house. Linder had already guessed where he was going and had stopped trying to keep him in sight. She drove past his car fully two minutes after he parked. The car was empty. She went on a short distance past Berger’s house and stopped well out of sight. Her palms were sweating.
She opened her tin of Catch Dry snuff and tucked a teenage-sized portion inside her upper lip.
Then she opened her car door and looked around. As soon as she could tell that Fredriksson was on his way to Saltsjobaden, she knew that Salander’s information must be correct. And obviously he had not come all this way for fun. Trouble was brewing. Which was fine by her, so long as she could catch him red-handed.
She took her telescopic baton from the side pocket of her car door and weighed it in her hand for a moment. She pressed the lock in the handle and out shot a heavy, spring-loaded steel cable. She clenched her teeth.
That was why she had left the Sodermalm force.
She had had one mad outbreak of rage when for the third time in as many days the squad car had driven to an address in Hagersten after the same woman had called the police and screamed for help because her husband had abused her. And just as on the first two occasions, the situation had resolved itself before they arrived.
They had detained the husband on the staircase while the woman was questioned.
And the whole time the bastard had stood there grinning, looking Linder straight in the eye.
She could not explain why she did it. But suddenly something had snapped in her, and she took out her baton and slammed it across his face. The first blow had lacked power. She had only given him a fat lip and forced him on to his knees. In the next ten seconds – until her colleagues grabbed her and half dragged, half carried her out of the halfway – she had let the blows rain down on his back, kidneys, hips and shoulders.
Charges were never filed. She had resigned the same evening and went home and cried for a week. Then she pulled herself together and went to see Dragan Armansky. She explained what she had done and why she had left the force. She was looking for a job. Armansky had been sceptical and said he would need some time to think it over. She had given up hope by the time he called six weeks later and told her he was ready to take her on trial.
Linder frowned and stuck the baton into her belt at the small of her back. She checked that she had the Mace canister in her right-hand pocket and that the laces of her trainers were securely tied. She walked back to Berger’s house and slipped into the garden.
She knew that the outside motion detector had not yet been installed, and she moved soundlessly across the lawn, along the hedge at the border of the property. She could not see him. She went around the house and stood still. Then she spotted him as a shadow in the darkness near Beckman’s studio.
He was squatting down, trying to see through a gap in a curtain in the room next to the living room. Then he moved up on to the veranda and looked through the cracks in the drawn blinds at the big picture window.
Linder suddenly smiled.
She crossed the lawn to the corner of the house while he still had his back to her. She crouched behind some currant bushes by the gable end and waited. She could see him through the branches. From his position Fredriksson would be able to look down the hall and into part of the kitchen. Apparently he had found something interesting to look at, and it was ten minutes before he moved again. This time he came closer to Linder.
As he rounded the corner and passed her, she stood up and spoke in a low voice:
“Hello there, Fredriksson.”
He stopped short and spun towards her.
She saw his eyes glistening in the dark. She could not see his expression, but she could hear that he was holding his breath and she could sense his shock.
“We can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way,” she said. “We’re going to walk to your car and –”
He turned and made to run away.
Linder raised her baton and directed a devastatingly painful blow to his left kneecap.
He fell with a moan.
She raised the baton a second time, but then caught herself. She thought she could feel Armansky’s eyes on the back of her neck.
She bent down, flipped him over on to his stomach and put her knee in the small of his back. She took hold of his right hand and twisted it round on to his back and handcuffed him. He was frail and he put up no resistance.
Berger turned off the lamp in the living room and limped upstairs. She no longer needed the crutches, but the sole of her foot still hurt when she put any weight on it. Beckman turned off the light in the kitchen and followed his wife upstairs. He had never before seen her so unhappy. Nothing he said could soothe her or alleviate the anxiety she was feeling.
She got undressed, crept into bed and turned her back to him.
“It’s not your fault, Greger,” she said when she heard him get in beside her.
“You’re not well,” he said. “I want you to stay at home for a few days.”
He put an arm around her shoulders. She did not to push him away, but she was completely passive. He bent over, kissed her cautiously on the neck, and held her.
“There’s nothing you can say or do to make the situation any better. I know I need to take a break. I feel as though I’ve climbed on to an express train and discovered that I’m on the wrong track.”
“We could go sailing for a few days. Get away from it all.”
“No. I can’t get away from it all.”
She turned to him. “The worst thing I could do now would be to run away. I have to sort things out first. Then we can go.”
“O.K,” Beckman said. “I’m not being much help.”
She smiled wanly. “No, you’re not. But thanks for being here. I love you insanely – you know that.”
He mumbled something inaudible.
“I simply can’t believe it’s Fredriksson,” Berger said. “I’ve never felt the least bit of hostility from him.”
Linder was just wondering whether she should ring Berger’s doorbell when she saw the lights go off on the ground floor. She looked down at Fredriksson. He had not said a word. He was quite still. She thought for a long time before she made up her mind.
She bent down and grabbed the handcuffs, pulled him to his feet, and leaned him against the wall.
“Can you stand by yourself?” she said.
He did not answer.
“Right, we’ll make this easy. You struggle in any way and you’ll get the same treatment on your right leg. You struggle even more and I’ll break your arms. Do you understand?”
She could hear him breathing heavily. Fear?
She pushed him along in front of her out on to the street all the way to his car. He was limping badly so she held him up. Just as they reached the car they met a man out walking his dog. The man stopped and looked at Fredriksson in his handcuffs.
“This is a police matter,” Linder said in a firm voice. “You go home.” The man turned and walked away in the direction he had come.
She put Fredriksson in the back seat and drove him home to Fisksatra. It was 12.30 and they saw no-one as they walked into his building. Linder fished out his keys and followed him up the stairs to his apartment on the fourth floor.
