The Girl who played with Fire

After a great deal of patient negotiation Blomkvist was allowed to see Holger Palmgren. He was so insistent that the nurse in charge called Dr. Sivarnandan, who apparently lived nearby. Sivarnandan arrived fifteen minutes later and assumed responsibility for dealing with the stubborn journalist. At first he was not at all sympathetic. Over the past two weeks several reporters had found out where Palmgren was and had used all sorts of strategies to get a statement. Palmgren himself had refused on any account to receive such visitors, and the staff had instructions to let no-one in to see him.

Dr. Sivarnandan had been following the case with much distress. He was shocked at the headlines that Salander had generated in the press. Palmgren had fallen into a deep depression which, Sivarnandan suspected, was a result of his inability to help Salander in any way. Palmgren had broken off his rehabilitation therapy and now spent the days reading newspapers and following the hunt for the girl on TV. Otherwise he sat in his room and brooded.

Blomkvist remained standing at Sivarnandan’s desk and explained that of course he had no wish to subject Palmgren to any unpleasantness. He didn’t want a statement from him. He was a good friend of Salander, he was persuaded of her innocence, and he was desperately searching for information that might shed some light on certain aspects of her past.

Dr. Sivarnandan was hard to convince. Blomkvist had to explain in detail his own role in the drama. Not until half an hour of discussion had passed did Sivarnandan give his consent. He asked Blomkvist to wait while he went up to ask Palmgren whether he would see him.

Sivarnandan returned after ten minutes.

“He’s agreed to see you. If he doesn’t like you then he’ll put you out on your ear. You are not to interview him or write anything in the press about the visit.”

“I won’t write a line about this.”

Palmgren had a small room containing a bed, a bureau, a table, and a couple of chairs. He was white- haired and thin as a scarecrow. He evidently had trouble with his balance, but he stood up anyway when Blomkvist was shown into the room. He did not hold out his hand, but motioned to one of the chairs by the table. Blomkvist sat down. Dr. Sivarnandan remained in the room. Blomkvist had difficulty at first understanding Palmgren’s slurred speech.

“Who are you, claiming to be Lisbeth’s friend, and what do you want?”

“You don’t have to say anything to me. But I ask you to listen to what I have to say before you throw me out.”

Palmgren nodded curtly and shuffled over to the chair opposite Blomkvist.

“I met Lisbeth Salander for the first time two years ago. I hired her to do some research for me. She visited me in another town where I was living at the time, and we worked together for several weeks.”

He wondered how much he had to explain to Palmgren. He decided to stay as close to the truth as possible.

“During that time two important things happened. One was that Lisbeth saved my life. The other was that we became very good friends. I came to know her well and I think very highly of her.”

Without going into detail, Blomkvist told Palmgren how his relationship with her had suddenly ended after the Christmas holiday a year ago, when Salander left the country.

Then he told Palmgren about his work at Millennium and about how Svensson and Johansson were murdered and how he had been drawn into the hunt for the killer.

“I’ve heard that you’ve been bothered by reporters lately, and certainly the papers have published one idiotic story after the other. All I can do now is to assure you that I’m not here to gather material for yet another article. I’m here because of Lisbeth, as her friend. I’m probably one of the few people in the country right now who unhesitatingly, and without an ulterior motive, is on her side. I believe her to be innocent. I believe that a man named Zalachenko is behind the murders.”

Blomkvist paused. Something had glimmered in Palmgren’s eyes when he said the name Zalachenko.

“If you can contribute anything that would shed some light on Lisbeth’s past, this is the time to do it. If you don’t want to help her, then I’m wasting my time and yours and I’ll know where you stand.”

Palmgren had not said a word during this monologue. As Blomkvist finished, his eyes flashed again. But he was smiling. He spoke as clearly as he could.

“You really want to help her.”

Blomkvist nodded.

Palmgren leaned forward. “Describe the sofa in her living room.”

“On the occasions I visited her she had a worn-out, extremely ugly piece of furniture with a certain curiosity value. I would guess it’s from the early fifties. It has two shapeless cushions covered in brown cloth with a yellow pattern of sorts on it. The cloth is torn in several places and the stuffing was coming out when I last saw it.”

All of a sudden Palmgren laughed. It sounded more like he was clearing his throat. He looked at Dr. Sivarnandan.

“He’s been to her apartment at least. Does the doctor think it would be possible to offer my guest a cup of coffee?”

“Certainly.” Dr. Sivarnandan got up to leave. He paused in the doorway to nod at Blomkvist.

“Alexander Zalachenko,” Palmgren said as soon as the door was closed.

“So you know that name?”

“Lisbeth told me the name. And I think it’s important that I tell this story to someone… should I happen to drop dead, which is all too possible.”

“Lisbeth? How would she know anything about his existence?”

“He is Lisbeth’s father.”

At first Blomkvist could not make out what Palmgren was saying. Then the words sank in.

“What the hell are you saying?”

“Zalachenko was some sort of a political refugee – I’ve never gotten the story quite straight, and Lisbeth was always tight-lipped about it. It was something she absolutely did not want to talk about.”

Her birth certificate. Father unknown.

“Zalachenko is Lisbeth’s father,” Blomkvist repeated aloud.

“On only one occasion in all the years I’ve known her did she tell me what happened. Here’s how I understood it – Zalachenko came here in the mid-seventies. He met Lisbeth’s mother in 1977, they had a relationship, and the result was two children.”

“Two?”

“Lisbeth and her twin sister Camilla.”

“Good God – there are two of her?”

“They’re very different. But that’s another story. Lisbeth’s mother’s name was in fact Agneta Sofia Sjolander. She was seventeen when she met Zalachenko. I don’t know anything else about how they met, but I gather she was quite a dependent young girl and easy prey for an older, more experienced man. She was impressed by him and probably head over heels in love with him. Zalachenko turned out to be anything but nice. I assume he was just after a willing woman and not much else. Naturally she fantasized about a secure future with him, but he wasn’t the least bit interested in marriage. They never did marry, but in 1979 she changed her name from Sjolander to Salander. That was, I suppose, her way of showing that they belonged together.”

“How do you mean?”

“Zala. Salander.”

“Jesus,” Blomkvist said.

“I started looking into the whole matter just before I fell ill. She had the right to take the name because her mother, Lisbeth’s grandmother, was actually named Salander. Then what happened was that Zalachenko proved himself to be a psychopath on a grand scale. He drank and savagely abused Agneta. As far as I know, this abuse went on throughout the girls’ childhood. As long as Lisbeth can remember, Zalachenko would turn up from time to time. Sometimes he would be gone for long periods, but then he was suddenly there again in the apartment on Lundagatan. And every time it was the same old story. He came there to have sex and to get drunk, and it ended with him abusing Lisbeth’s mother in various ways. Lisbeth told me things that indicated it was more than physical abuse. He carried a gun and was threatening, and there were elements of sadism and psychological terrorizing. I