The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets’ Nest

exempt.”

Sellberg rolled his eyes and sighed. He cast an entreating glance at Borgsjo, but the chairman of the board was intently studying Berger’s nine-point program.

Figuerola waited for forty-nine minutes before Martensson and his companion in overalls came out of Bellmansgatan 1. As they started up the hill towards her, she very steadily raised her Nikon with its 300mm telephoto lens and took two pictures. She put the camera in the space under her seat and was just about to fiddle with her map when she happened to glance towards the Maria lift. Her eyes opened wide. At the end of upper Bellmansgatan, right next to the gate to the Maria lift, stood a dark-haired woman with a digital camera filming Martensson and his companion. What the hell? Is there some sort of spy convention on Bellmansgatan today?

The two men parted at the top of the hill without exchanging a word. Martensson went back to his car on Tavastgatan. He pulled away from the curb and disappeared from view.

Figuerola looked into her rear-view mirror, where she could still see the back of the man in the blue overalls. She then saw that the woman with the camera had stopped filming and was heading past the Laurinska building in her direction.

Heads or tails? She already knew who Martensson was and what he was up to. The man in the blue overalls and the woman with the camera were unknown entities. But if she left her car, she risked being seen by the woman.

She sat still. In her rear-view mirror she saw the man in the blue overalls turn into Brannkyrkagatan. She waited until the woman reached the crossing in front of her, but instead of following the man in the overalls, the woman turned 180 degrees and went down the steep hill towards Bellmansgatan 1. Figuerola reckoned that she was in her mid-thirties. She had short dark hair and was dressed in dark jeans and a black jacket. As soon as she was a little way down the hill, Figuerola pushed open her car door and ran towards Brannkyrkagatan. She could not see the blue overalls. The next second a Toyota van pulled away from the kerb. Figuerola saw the man in half-profile and memorized the registration number. But if she got the registration wrong she would be able to trace him anyway. The sides of the van advertised Lars Faulsson Lock and Key Service – with a telephone number.

There was no need to follow the van. She walked calmly back to the top of the hill just in time to see the woman disappear through the entrance door of Blomkvist’s building.

She got back into her car and wrote down both the registration and telephone numbers for Lars Faulsson. There was a lot of mysterious traffic around Blomkvist’s address that morning. She looked up towards the roof of Bellmansgatan 1. She knew that Blomkvist’s apartment was on the top floor, but on the blueprints from the city construction office she knew that it was on the other side of the building, with dormer windows looking out on Gamla Stan and the waters of Riddarfjarden. An exclusive address in a fine old cultural quarter. She wondered whether he was an ostentatious nouveau riche.

Ten minutes later the woman with the camera came out of the building again. Instead of going back up the hill to Tavastgatan, she continued down the hill and turned right at the corner of Pryssgrand. Hmm. If she had a car parked down on Pryssgrand, Figuerola was out of luck. But if she was walking, there was only one way out of the dead end – up to Brannkyrkagatan via Pustegrand and towards Slussen.

Figuerola decided to leave her car behind and turned left in the direction of Slussen on Brannkyrkagatan. She had almost reached Pustegrand when the woman appeared, coming up towards her. Bingo. She followed her past the Hilton on Sodermalmstorg and past the Stadsmuseum at Slussen. The woman walked quickly and purposefully without once looking round. Figuerola gave her a lead of about thirty metres. When she went into Slussen tunnelbana Figuerola picked up her pace, but stopped when she saw the woman head for the Pressbyran kiosk instead of through the turnstiles.

She watched the woman as she stood in the queue at the kiosk. She was about one metre seventy and looked to be in pretty good shape. She was wearing running shoes. Seeing her with both feet planted firmly as she stood by the window of the kiosk, Figuerola suddenly had the feeling that she was a policewoman. She bought a tin of Catch Dry snuff and went back out on to Sodermalmstorg and turned right across Katarinavagen.

Figuerola followed her. She was almost certain the woman had not seen her. The woman turned the corner at McDonald’s and Figuerola hurried after her, but when she got to the corner, the woman had vanished without a trace. Figuerola stopped short in consternation. Shit. She walked slowly past the entrances to the buildings. Then she caught sight of a brass plate that read Milton Security.

Figuerola walked back to Bellmansgatan.

She drove to Gotgatan where the offices of Millennium were and spent the next half hour walking around the streets in the area. She did not see Martensson’s car. At lunchtime she returned to police headquarters in Kungsholmen and spent two hours thinking as she pumped iron in the gym.

“We’ve got a problem,” Cortez said.

Eriksson and Blomkvist looked up from the typescript of the book about the Zalachenko case. It was 1.30 in the afternoon.

“Take a seat,” Eriksson said.

“It’s about Vitavara Inc., the company that makes the 1700 kronor toilets in Vietnam.”

“Alright. What’s the problem?” Blomkvist said.

“Vitavara Inc. is a wholly owned subsidiary of Svea Construction Inc.”

“I see. That’s a very large firm.”

“Yes, it is. The chairman of the board is Magnus Borgsjo, a professional board member. He’s also the chairman of the board of Svenska Morgon-Posten and owns about 10 per cent of it.”

Blomkvist gave Cortez a sharp look. “Are you sure?”

“Yep. Berger’s boss is a bloody crook, a man who exploits child labour in Vietnam.”

Assistant Editor Fredriksson looked to be in a bad mood as he knocked on the door of Berger’s glass cage at 2.00 in the afternoon.

“What is it?”

“Well, this is a little embarrassing, but somebody in the newsroom got an email from you.”

“From me? So? What does it say?

He handed her some printouts of emails addressed to Eva Carlsson, a 26-year-old temp on the culture pages. According to the headers the sender was [email protected]›:

Darling Eva. I want to caress you and kiss your breasts. I’m hot with excitement and can’t control myself. I beg you to reciprocate my feelings. Could we meet? Erika

And then two emails on the following days:

Dearest, darling Eva. I beg you not to reject me. I’m crazy with desire. I want to have you naked. I have to have you. I’m going to make you so happy. You’ll never regret it. I’m going to kiss every inch of your naked skin, your lovely breasts, and your delicious grotto. Erika

Eva. Why don’t you reply? Don’t be afraid of me. Don’t push me away. You’re no innocent. You know what it’s all about. I want to have sex with you and I’m going to reward you handsomely. If you’re nice to me then I’ll be nice to you. You’ve asked for an extension of your temporary job. I have the power to extend it and even make it a full-time position. Let’s meet tonight at 9.00 by my car in the garage. Your Erika

“Alright,” Berger said. “And now she’s wondering if it was me that wrote to her, is that it?”