blurred.
“What happened to Zalachenko?”
“Who?”
“The old bastard. Is he alive?”
“You must mean Karl Axel Bodin.”
“No, I don’t. I mean Alexander Zalachenko. That’s his real name.”
“I don’t know anything about that. But the elderly man who came in at the same time as you is critical but out of danger.”
Salander’s heart sank. She considered the doctor’s words.
“Where is he?”
“He’s down the hall. But don’t worry about him for the time being. You have to concentrate on getting well.”
Salander closed her eyes. She wondered whether she could manage to get out of bed, find something to use as a weapon, and finish the job. But she could scarcely keep her eyes open. She thought,
“I’d like to examine you for a moment. Then you can go back to sleep,” Dr Endrin said.
Blomkvist was suddenly awake and he did not know why. He did not know where he was, and then he remembered that he had booked himself a room in City Hotel. It was as dark as coal. He fumbled to turn on the bedside lamp and looked at the clock. 2.00. He had slept through fifteen hours.
He got up and went to the bathroom. He would not be able to get back to sleep. He shaved and took a long shower. Then he put on some jeans and the maroon sweatshirt that needed washing. He called the front desk to ask if he could get coffee and a sandwich at this early hour. The night porter said that was possible.
He put on his sports jacket and went downstairs. He ordered a coffee and a cheese and liver pate sandwich. He bought the
When Blomkvist had finished reading, he flipped open his mobile and saw that he had twenty unread messages. Three were messages to call Berger. Two were from his sister Annika. Fourteen were from reporters at various newspapers who wanted to talk to him. One was from Malm, who had sent him the brisk advice:
Blomkvist frowned. That was unusual, coming from Malm. The text was sent at 7.06 in the evening. He stifled the impulse to call and wake someone up at 3.00 in the morning. Instead he booted up his iBook and plugged the cable into the broadband jack. He found that the first train to Stockholm left at 5.20, and there was nothing new in
He opened a new Word document, lit a cigarette, and sat for three minutes staring at the blank screen. Then he began to type.
Her name is Lisbeth Salander. Sweden has got to know her through police reports and press releases and the headlines in the evening papers. She is twenty-seven years old and one metre fifty centimetres tall. She has been called a psychopath, a murderer, and a lesbian Satanist. There has been almost no limit to the fantasies that have been circulated about her. In this issue,
He wrote steadily for fifty minutes, primarily a recapitulation of the night on which he had found Dag Svensson and Mia Johansson and why the police had focused on Salander as the suspected killer. He quoted the newspaper headlines about lesbian Satanists and the media’s apparent hope that the murders might have involved S.&M. sex.
When he checked the clock he quickly closed his iBook. He packed his bag and went down to the front desk. He paid with a credit card and took a taxi to Goteborg Central Station.
Blomkvist went straight to the dining car and ordered more coffee and sandwiches. He opened his iBook again and read through his text. He was so absorbed that he did not notice Inspector Modig until she cleared her throat and asked if she could join him. He looked up, smiled sheepishly, and closed his computer.
“On your way home?”
“You too, I see.”
She nodded. “My colleague is staying another day.”
“Do you know anything about how Salander is? I’ve been sound asleep since I last saw you.”
“She had an operation soon after she was brought in and was awake in the early evening. The doctors think she’ll make a full recovery. She was incredibly lucky.”
Blomkvist nodded. It dawned on him that he had not been worried about her. He had assumed that she would survive. Any other outcome was unthinkable.
“Has anything else of interest happened?” he said.
Modig wondered how much she should say to a reporter, even to one who knew more of the story than she did. On the other hand, she had joined him at his table, and maybe a hundred other reporters had by now been briefed at police headquarters.
“I don’t want to be quoted,” she said.
“I’m simply asking out of personal interest.”
She told him that a nationwide manhunt was under way for Ronald Niedermann, particularly in the Malmo area.
“And Zalachenko? Have you questioned him?”
“Yes, we questioned him.”
“And?”
“I can’t tell you anything about that.”
“Come on, Sonja. I’ll know exactly what you talked about less than an hour after I get to my office in Stockholm. And I won’t write a word of what you tell me.”
She hesitated for a while before she met his gaze.
“He made a formal complaint against Salander, that she tried to kill him. She risks being charged with grievous bodily harm or attempted murder.”
“And in all likelihood she’ll claim self-defence.”
“I hope she will,” Modig said.
“That doesn’t sound like an official line.”
“Bodin… Zalachenko is as slippery as an eel and he has an answer to all our questions. I’m persuaded that things are more or less as you told us yesterday, and that means that Salander has been subjected to a lifetime of injustice – since she was twelve.”
“That’s the story I’m going to publish,” Blomkvist said.
“It won’t be popular with some people.”
Modig hesitated again. Blomkvist waited.
“I talked with Bublanski half an hour ago. He didn’t go into any detail, but the preliminary investigation against Salander for the murder of your friends seems to have been shelved. The focus has shifted to Niedermann.”
“Which means that…” He let the question hang in the air between them.
Modig shrugged.
“Who’s going to take over the investigation of Salander?”
“I don’t know. What happened in Gosseberga is primarily Goteborg’s problem. I would guess that somebody in Stockholm will be assigned to compile all the material for a prosecution.”
