as he could. When it was finished he opened a Vestfyn Pilsner beer and drank it straight from the bottle.
Without turning on a lamp he stood by the window overlooking Gamla Stan for more than twenty minutes, while he tried to stop thinking.
Twenty-four hours ago he had been at his sister’s house when Svensson had called him on his mobile. He and Johansson had still been alive.
Blomkvist had not slept for thirty-six hours, and the days when he could skip a night’s sleep with impunity were long gone. And he knew that he would not be able to sleep without thinking about what he had seen. The images from Enskede felt ingrained in his memory for all time.
Finally he turned off his mobile and crept under the covers. At 11:00 he was still awake. He got up and brewed some coffee. He put on the CD player and listened to Debbie Harry singing “Maria.” He wrapped himself in a blanket and sat on the living-room sofa and drank coffee while he worried about Salander.
She had a photographic memory and she was a hell of a hacker. He knew that she was a peculiar, introverted woman who didn’t like to talk about herself, and that she had absolutely no trust in authority of any kind.
She could be viciously violent. He owed his life to that.
But he had had no idea that she had been declared incompetent or was under guardianship, or that she had spent any part of her teenage years in a psychiatric clinic.
He had to choose whose side he was on.
Sometime after midnight he decided that he couldn’t accept the police’s assumption that she had murdered Svensson and Johansson. At the very least, he owed her a chance to explain herself before he passed judgment.
He had no idea when he nodded off, but at 4:30 a.m. he woke up on the sofa. He staggered into the bedroom and fell instantly back to sleep.
CHAPTER 16
Eriksson leaned back into Blomkvist’s sofa. Without thinking, she put her feet up on the coffee table – exactly as she would have done at home – and quickly took them off again. Blomkvist gave her a smile.
“That’s OK,” he said. “Make yourself at home.”
She grinned and put her feet up again.
On Good Friday Blomkvist had brought the copies of Svensson’s papers from the
On Saturday morning Annika Giannini had come to see her brother. She brought the evening newspapers from the day before with their glaring headlines and a huge reproduction of Salander’s passport photograph on the front page. One read:
WANTED FOR
TRIPLE MURDER
The other had opted for the more sensational headline:
PSYCHOTIC MASS MURDERER
They talked for an hour, during which Blomkvist explained his relationship with Salander and why he couldn’t believe that she was guilty. Finally he asked his sister whether she would consider representing Salander if or when she was caught.
“I’ve represented women in various cases of violence and abuse, but I’m not really a criminal defence lawyer,” she said.
“You’re the shrewdest lawyer I know, and Lisbeth is going to need somebody she can trust. I think in the end she would accept you.”
Annika thought for a while before reluctantly agreeing to at least have a discussion with Salander if they ever got to that stage.
At 1:00 on Saturday afternoon, Inspector Modig called and asked if she could come over to pick up Salander’s shoulder bag. The police had evidently opened and read the letter he sent to Salander’s address on Lundagatan.
Modig arrived only twenty minutes later, and Blomkvist asked her to have a seat with Eriksson at the table in the living room. He went into the kitchen and took the bag down from the shelf next to the microwave. He hesitated a moment, then opened the bag and took out the hammer and the Mace canister.
He offered Modig some coffee.
“May I ask you some questions?” the inspector said.
“Please.”
“In your letter to Salander which my colleagues found at Lundagatan, you wrote that you are in her debt. What exactly did you mean by that?”
“Lisbeth Salander did me an enormous favour.”
“What manner of favour was that?”
“It was a favour strictly between her and me, which I don’t intend to discuss.”
Modig looked at him intently. “This is a murder investigation we’re carrying out here.”
“And I hope that you will catch the bastard who killed Dag and Mia as soon as possible.”
“You don’t think Salander is that killer?”
“No, I do not.”
“In that case, who do you think did shoot your friends?”
“I don’t know. But Dag was intending to expose a large number of people who had a great deal to lose. One of them could be the killer.”
“And why would such a person also shoot the lawyer, Nils Bjurman?”
“I don’t know. At least not yet.”
His gaze was steady with his own conviction. Modig suddenly smiled. She knew that he was nicknamed Kalle Blomkvist after the detective in Astrid Lindgren’s books. Now she understood why.
“But you intend to find out?”
“If I can. You can tell that to Inspector Bublanski.”
“I’ll do that. And if Salander gets in touch, I hope you’ll let us know.”
“I don’t expect her to contact me and confess that she’s guilty of the murders, but if she does I’ll do everything I can to persuade her to give herself up. In that case I would support her in any way I can – she’s going to need a friend.”
“And if she says she’s not guilty?”
“Then I just hope she can shed some light on what happened.”
“Herr Blomkvist, just between us and off the record, I hope you realize that Lisbeth Salander has to be apprehended. Don’t do anything stupid if she gets in touch with you. If you’re wrong and she is responsible for these killings, it could be extremely dangerous for you.”
Blomkvist nodded.
