“Hello, Erika,” Linder said. “You need to learn to get some sleep once in a while.”
“What’s happened?”
Linder held out the Konsum bag.
“Fredriksson promises to leave you alone from now on. God knows if we can trust him, but if he keeps his word it’ll be less painful than hassling with a police report and a trial. It’s up to you.”
“So it
Linder nodded. Beckman poured a coffee, but she did not want one. She had drunk much too much coffee over the past few days. She sat down and told them what had happened outside their house that night.
Berger sat in silence for a moment. Then she went upstairs, and came back with her copy of the school yearbook. She looked at Fredriksson’s face for a long time.
“I do remember him,” she said at last. “But I had no idea it was the same Peter Fredriksson. I wouldn’t even have remembered his name if it weren’t written here.”
“What happened?” Linder asked.
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He was a quiet and totally uninteresting boy in another class. I think we might have had some subjects together. French, if I remember correctly.”
“He said that you treated him as though he didn’t exist.”
“I probably did. He wasn’t somebody I knew and he wasn’t in our group.”
“I know how cliques work. Did you bully him or anything like that?”
“No… no, for God’s sake. I hated bullying. We had campaigns against bullying in the school, and I was president of the student council. I don’t remember that he ever spoke to me.”
“O.K,” Linder said. “But he obviously had a grudge against you. He was off sick for two long periods, suffering from stress and overwork. Maybe there were other reasons for his being off sick that we don’t know about.”
She got up and put on her leather jacket.
“I’ve got his hard drive. Technically it’s stolen goods so I shouldn’t leave it with you. You don’t have to worry – I’ll destroy it as soon as I get home.”
“Wait, Susanne. How can I ever thank you?”
“Well, you can back me up when Armansky’s wrath hits me like a bolt of lightning.”
Berger gave her a concerned look.
“Will you get into trouble for this?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
“Can we pay you for –”
“No. But Armansky may bill you for tonight. I hope he does, because that would mean he approves of what I did and probably won’t decide to fire me.”
“I’ll make sure he sends us a bill.”
Berger stood up and gave Linder a long hug.
“Thanks, Susanne. If you ever need a friend, you’ve got one in me. If there’s anything I can do for you…”
“Thanks. Don’t leave those pictures lying around. And while we’re on the subject, Milton could install a much better safe for you.”
Berger smiled as Beckman walked Linder back to her car.
CHAPTER 22
Berger woke up at 6.00 on Monday morning. She had not slept for more than an hour, but she felt strangely rested. She supposed that it was a physical reaction of some sort. For the first time in several months she put on her jogging things and went for a furious and excruciatingly painful sprint down to the steamboat wharf. But after a hundred metres or so her heel hurt so much that she had to slow down and go on at a more leisurely pace, relishing the pain in her foot with each step she took.
She felt reborn. It was as though the Grim Reaper had passed by her door and at the last moment changed his mind and moved on to the next house. She could still not take in how fortunate she was that Fredriksson had had her pictures in his possession for four days and done nothing with them. The scanning he had done indicated that he had something planned, but he had simply not got around to whatever it was.
She decided to give Susanne Linder a very expensive Christmas present this year. She would think of something really special.
She left her husband asleep and at 7.30 drove to
“Peter Fredriksson has left the paper. He won’t be back,” she said. “Please bring as many boxes as you need to empty his desk of personal items and have them delivered to his apartment this morning.”
She looked over towards the news desk. Holm had just arrived. He met her gaze and nodded to her.
She nodded back.
Holm was a bloody-minded bastard, but after their altercation a few weeks earlier he had stopped trying to cause trouble. If he continued to show the same positive attitude, he might possibly survive as news editor. Possibly.
She should, she felt, be able to turn things around.
At 8.45 she saw Borgsjo come out of the lift and disappear up the internal staircase to his office on the floor above.
She got some coffee and spent a while on the morning memo. It looked like it was going to be a slow news day. The only item of interest was an agency report, to the effect that Lisbeth Salander had been moved to the prison in Stockholm the day before. She O.K.’d the story and forwarded it to Holm.
At 8.59 Borgsjo called.
“Berger, come up to my office right away.” He hung up.
He was white in the face when Berger found him at his desk. He stood up and slammed a thick wad of papers on to his desk.
“What the hell is this?” he roared.
Berger’s heart sank like a stone. She only had to glance at the cover to see what Borgsjo had found in the morning post.
Calmly she sat down opposite him.
“That’s an article written by a reporter called Henry Cortez.
Borgsjo looked desperate.
“How the hell do you
Berger’s eyes narrowed. She turned ice-cold. She had had enough of the word “whore”.
“Do you really think anyone is going to care about this? Do you think you can trap me with this crap? And why the hell did you send it to me anonymously?”
“That’s not what happened, Magnus.”
“Then tell me what did happen.”
“The person who sent that article to you anonymously was Fredriksson. He was fired from
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s a long story. But I’ve had a copy of the article for more than two weeks, trying to work out a way of raising the subject with you.”
