The problem with Niedermann was that he had no friends, no girlfriend, no listed mobile, and he had never been in prison.
The inquiries had concentrated on finding Goransson’s car, which Niedermann was presumed to be using. They had expected the car to turn up in a matter of days, probably in some car park in Stockholm. But there was as yet no sign of it.
“If he’s out of the country, where would he be?”
“He’s a German citizen, so the obvious thing would be for him to head for Germany.”
“He seems not to have had any contact with his old friends in Hamburg.”
Andersson waved his hand. “If his plan was to go to Germany… Why would he drive to Stockholm? Shouldn’t he have made for Malmo and the bridge to Copenhagen, or for one of the ferries?”
“I know. And Inspector Erlander in Goteborg has been focusing his search in that direction from day one. The Danish police have been informed about Goransson’s car, and we know for sure that he didn’t take any of the ferries.”
“But he did drive to Stockholm and to Svavelsjo, and there he murdered the club’s treasurer and – we may assume – went off with an unspecified sum of money. What would his
“He has to get out of Sweden,” Bublanski said. “The most obvious thing would be to take one of the ferries across the Baltic. But Goransson and his girlfriend were murdered late on the night of April 9. Niedermann could have taken the ferry the next morning. We got the alarm roughly sixteen hours after they died, and we’ve had an A.P.B. out on the car ever since.”
“If he took the morning ferry, then Goransson’s car would have been parked at one of the ports,” Modig said.
“Perhaps we haven’t found the car because Niedermann drove out of the country to the north via Haparanda? A big detour around the Gulf of Bothnia, but in sixteen hours he could have been in Finland.”
“Sure, but soon after he would have had to abandon the car in Finland, and it should have been found by now.”
They sat in silence. Finally Bublanski got up and stood at the window.
“Could he have found a hiding place where he’s just lying low, a summer cabin or –”
“I don’t think it would be a summer cabin. This time of year every cabin owner is out checking their property.”
“And he wouldn’t try anywhere connected to Svavelsjo M.C. They’re the last people he’d want to run into.”
“And the entire underworld should be excluded as well… Any girlfriend we don’t know about?”
They could speculate, but they had no facts.
When Andersson had left for the day, Modig went back to Bublanski’s office and knocked on the door jamb. He waved her in.
“Have you got a couple of minutes?” she said.
“What’s up?”
“Salander. I don’t like this business with Ekstrom and Faste and a new trial. You’ve read Bjorck’s report. I’ve read Bjorck’s report. Salander was unlawfully committed in 1991 and Ekstrom knows it. What the hell is going on?”
Bublanski took off his reading glasses and tucked them into his breast pocket. “I don’t know.”
“Have you got any idea at all?”
“Ekstrom claims that Bjorck’s report and the correspondence with Teleborian were falsified.”
“That’s rubbish. If it were a fake, then Bjorck would have said so when we brought him in.”
“Ekstrom says Bjorck refused to discuss it, on the grounds that it was Top Secret. I was given a dressing down because I jumped the gun and brought him in.”
“I’m beginning to have strong reservations about Ekstrom.”
“He’s getting squeezed from all sides.”
“That’s no excuse.”
“We don’t have a monopoly on the truth, Sonja. Ekstrom says he’s received evidence that the report is a fake – that there is no real report with that protocol number. He also says that the forgery is a good one and that the content is a clever blend of truth and fantasy.”
“Which part was truth and which part was fantasy, that’s what I need to know,” Modig said.
“The outline story is pretty much correct. Zalachenko is Salander’s father, and he was a bastard who beat her mother. The problem is the familiar one – the mother never wanted to make a complaint so it went on for several years. Bjorck was given the job of finding out what happened when Salander tried to kill her father. He corresponded with Teleborian – but the correspondence in the form we’ve seen it is apparently a forgery. Teleborian did a routine psychiatric examination of Salander and concluded that she was mentally unbalanced. A prosecutor decided not to take the case any further. She needed care, and she got it at St Stefan’s.”
“And if it is a forgery… who did it and why?”
Bublanski shrugged. As I understand it, Ekstrom is going to commission one more thorough evaluation of Salander.”
“I can’t accept that.”
“It’s not our case any more.”
“And Faste has replaced us. Jan, I’m going to the media if these bastards piss all over Salander one more time.”
“No, Sonja. You won’t. First of all, we no longer have access to the report, so you have no way of backing up your claims. You’re going to look like a paranoid, and then your career will be over.”
“I still have the report,” Modig said in a low voice. “I made a copy for Curt but I never had a chance to give it to him before the Prosecutor General collected the others.”
“If you leak that report, you’ll not only be fired but you’ll be guilty of gross misconduct.”
Modig sat in silence for a moment and looked at her superior.
“Sonja, don’t do it. Promise me.”
“No, Jan. I can’t promise that. There’s something very sick about this whole story.”
“You’re right, it
Modig tilted her head to one side. “Are
“I’m not going to discuss that with you. Trust me. It’s Friday night. Take a break, go home. And… this discussion never took place.”
Niklas Adamsson, the Securitas guard, was studying for a test in three weeks’ time. It was 1.30 on Saturday afternoon when he heard the sound of rotating brushes from the low-humming floor polisher and saw that it was the dark-skinned immigrant who walked with a limp. The man would always nod politely but never laughed if he said anything humorous. Adamsson watched as he took a bottle of cleaning fluid and sprayed the reception counter-top twice before wiping it with a rag. Then he took his mop and swabbed the corners in the reception area where the brushes of the floor polisher could not reach. The guard put his nose back into his book about the national economy and kept reading.
It took ten minutes for the cleaner to work his way over to Adamsson’s spot at the end of the corridor. They nodded to each other. Adamsson stood to let the man clean the floor around his chair outside Salander’s room. He had seen him almost every day since he had been posted outside the room, but he could not remember his name – some sort of foreign name – but Adamsson did not feel the need to check his I.D. For one thing, the nigger was not allowed to clean inside the prisoner’s room – that was done by two cleaning women in the morning – and besides, he did not feel that the cripple was any sort of threat.
When the cleaner had finished in the corridor, he opened the door to the room next to Salander’s. Adamsson glanced his way, but this was no deviation from the daily routine. This was where the cleaning supplies were kept. In the course of the next five minutes he emptied his bucket, cleaned the brushes, and replenished the cart with plastic bags for the wastepaper baskets. Finally he manoeuvred the cart into the cubbyhole.
Ghidi was aware of the guard in the corridor. It was a young blond man who was usually there two or three
