The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Trilogy Bundle (193 page)

He turned and made to run away.

Linder raised her baton and directed a devastatingly painful blow to his left kneecap.

He fell with a moan.

She raised the baton a second time, but then caught herself. She thought she could feel Armansky's eyes on the back of her neck.

She bent down, flipped Fredriksson over onto his stomach, and put her knee in the small of his back. She took hold of his right hand and twisted it around onto his back and handcuffed him. He was frail, and he put up no resistance.

Berger turned off the lamp in the living room and limped upstairs. She no longer needed the crutches, but the sole of her foot still hurt when she put any weight on it. Beckman turned off the light in the kitchen and followed his wife upstairs. He had never before seen her so unhappy. Nothing he said could soothe her or alleviate the anxiety she was feeling.

She got undressed, crept into bed, and turned her back to him.

“It's not your fault, Greger,” she said when she heard him get in beside her.

“You're not well,” he said. “I want you to stay at home for a few days.”

He put an arm around her shoulders. She did not push him away, but she was completely passive. He bent over, kissed her cautiously on the neck, and held her.

“There's nothing you can say or do to make the situation any better. I know I need to take a break. I feel as though I've climbed onto an express train and discovered that I'm on the wrong track.”

“We could go sailing for a few days. Get away from it all.”

“No. I can't get away from it all.”

She turned to him. “The worst thing I could do now would be to run away. I have to sort things out first. Then we can go.”

“OK,” Beckman said. “I'm not being much help.”

She smiled wanly. “No, you're not. But thanks for being here. I love you insanely—you know that.”

He mumbled something inaudible.

“I simply can't believe it's Fredriksson,” Berger said. “I've never felt the least bit of hostility from him.”

Linder was just wondering whether she should ring Berger's doorbell when she saw the lights go off on the ground floor. She looked down at Fredriksson. He had not said a word. He was quite still. She thought for a long time before she made up her mind.

She bent down and grabbed the handcuffs, pulled him to his feet, and leaned him against the wall.

“Can you stand by yourself?” she said.

He did not answer.

“Right, we'll make this easy. You struggle in any way and you'll get the same treatment on your right leg. You struggle even more and I'll break your arms. Do you understand?”

She could hear him breathing heavily. Fear?

She pushed him along in front of her out onto the street and all the way to his car. He was limping badly, so she held him up. Just as they reached the car, they met a man out walking his dog. The man stopped and looked at Fredriksson in his handcuffs.

“This is a police matter,” Linder said in a firm voice. “You go home.” The man turned and walked away in the direction he had come from.

She put Fredriksson in the back seat and drove him home to Fisksätra. It was 12:30 and they saw no-one as they walked into his building. Linder fished out his keys and followed him up the stairs to his apartment on the fourth floor.

“You can't go into my apartment,” said Fredriksson.

It was the first thing he had said since she cuffed him. She opened the apartment door and shoved him inside.

“You have no right. You have to have a search warrant—”

“I'm not a police officer,” she said in a low voice.

He stared at her suspiciously.

She took hold of his shirt and dragged him into the living room, pushing him down onto a sofa. He had a neatly kept two-bedroom apartment. Bedroom to the left of the living room, kitchen across the hall, a small office off the living room.

She looked in the office and heaved a sigh of relief.
The smoking gun
. Right away she saw photographs from Berger's album spread out on a desk next to a computer. He had pinned up thirty or so pictures on the wall behind the computer. She regarded the exhibition with raised eyebrows. Berger was a fine-looking woman. And her sex life was more active than Linder's own.

She heard Fredriksson moving and went back to the living room, rapped him once across his lower back, and then dragged him into the office and sat him down on the floor.

“You stay there,” she said.

She went into the kitchen and found a paper shopping bag from Konsum. She took down one picture after another and then found the stripped album and Berger's diaries.

“Where's the video?” she said.

Fredriksson did not answer. Linder went into the living room and turned on the TV. There was a tape in the VCR, but it took a while before she found the video channel on the remote so she could check it. She popped out the video and looked around to ensure that he had not made any copies.

She found Berger's teenage love letters and the Borgsjö folder. Then she turned her attention to Fredriksson's computer. She saw that he had a Microtek scanner hooked up to his PC, and when she lifted the lid she found a photograph of Berger at a Club Xtreme party—New Year's Eve 1986, according to a banner on the wall.

She booted up the computer and discovered that it was password-protected.

“What's your password?” she asked.

Fredriksson sat obstinately silent and refused to answer.

Linder suddenly felt utterly calm. She knew that technically she had committed one crime after another this evening, including unlawful restraint and even aggravated kidnapping. She did not care. On the contrary, she felt almost exhilarated.

After a while she shrugged and dug in her pocket for her Swiss Army knife. She unplugged all the cables from the computer, turned it around, and used the screwdriver to open the back. It took her fifteen minutes to take it apart and remove the hard drive.

She had taken everything, but for safety's sake she did a thorough search of the desk drawers, the stacks of paper, and the shelves. Suddenly her gaze fell on an old school yearbook lying on the windowsill. She saw that it was from Djursholm Gymnasium, 1978. Did Berger not come from Djursholm's
upper class? She opened the yearbook and began to look through the pictures of that year's graduating class.

She found Erika Berger, eighteen years old, with a mortarboard and a sunny smile with dimples. She wore a thin white cotton dress and held a bouquet of flowers in her hand. She looked the epitome of an innocent teenager with top grades.

Linder almost missed the connection, but there it was on the next page. She would never have recognized him but for the caption. Peter Fredriksson. He was in a different class from Berger. Linder studied the photograph of a thin boy who looked into the camera with a serious expression.

Her eyes met Fredriksson's.

“Even then she was a whore.”

“Fascinating,” Linder said.

“She fucked every guy in the school.”

“I doubt that.”

“She was a fucking—”

“Don't say it. So what happened? Couldn't you get into her pants?”

“She treated me as though I didn't exist. She laughed at me. And when she started at
SMP
she didn't even recognize me.”

“Right,” said Linder wearily. “I'm sure you had a terrible childhood. How about we have a serious talk?”

“What do you want?”

“I'm not a police officer,” Linder said. “I'm someone who takes care of people like you.”

She paused and let his imagination do the work.

“I want to know if you put photographs of her anywhere on the Internet.”

He shook his head.

“Are you quite sure about that?”

He nodded.

“Berger will have to decide for herself whether she wants to make a formal complaint against you for harassment, threats, and breaking and entering, or whether she wants to settle things amicably.”

He said nothing.

“If she decides to ignore you—and I think that's about what you're worth—then I'll be keeping an eye on you.”

She held up her baton.

“If you ever go near her house again, or send her email or otherwise molest her, I'll be back. I'll beat you so hard that even your own mother won't recognize you. Do I make myself clear?”

Still he said nothing.

“So you have the opportunity to influence how this story ends. Are you interested?”

He nodded slowly.

“In that case, I'm going to recommend to Fru Berger that she let you off, but don't think about coming in to work again. As of right now you're fired.”

He nodded.

“You will disappear from her life and move out of Stockholm. I don't give a shit what you do with your life or where you end up. Find a job in Göteborg or Malmö. Go on sick leave again. Do whatever you like. But leave Berger in peace. Are we agreed?”

Fredriksson began to sob.

“I didn't mean any harm,” he said. “I just wanted—”

“You just wanted to make her life a living hell, and you certainly succeeded. Do I or do I not have your word?”

He nodded.

She bent over, turned him onto his stomach, and unlocked the handcuffs. She took the Konsum bag containing Berger's life and left him there on the floor.

It was 2:30 a.m. on Monday when Linder left Fredriksson's building. She considered letting the matter rest until the next day, but then it occurred to her that if she had been the one involved, she would have wanted to know right away. Besides, her car was still parked out in Saltsjöbaden. She called a taxi.

Beckman opened the door even before she managed to ring the bell. He was wearing jeans and did not look as if he had just got out of bed.

“Is Erika awake?” Linder asked.

He nodded.

“Has something else happened?” he said.

She smiled at him.

“Come in. We're just talking in the kitchen.”

They went in.

“Hello, Erika,” Linder said. “You need to learn to get some sleep once in a while.”

“What's happened?”

Linder held out the Konsum bag.

“Fredriksson promises to leave you alone from now on. God knows if
we can trust him, but if he keeps his word it'll be less painful than hassling with a police report and a trial. It's up to you.”

“So it
was
him?”

Linder nodded. Beckman poured her a coffee, but she did not want one. She had drunk much too much coffee over the past few days. She sat down and told them what had happened outside their house that night.

Berger sat in silence for a moment. Then she went upstairs and came back with her copy of the school yearbook. She looked at Fredriksson's face for a long time.

“I do remember him,” she said at last. “But I had no idea it was the same Peter Fredriksson. I wouldn't even have remembered his name if it weren't written here.”

“What happened?” Linder asked.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He was a quiet and totally uninteresting boy in another class. I think we might have had some subjects together. French, if I remember correctly.”

“He said you treated him as though he didn't exist.”

“I probably did. He wasn't somebody I knew, and he wasn't in our group.”

“I know how cliques work. Did you bully him or anything like that?”

“No … no, for God's sake. I hated bullying. We had campaigns against bullying in the school, and I was president of the student council. I don't remember that he ever spoke to me.”

“OK,” Linder said. “But he obviously had a grudge against you. He was out sick for two long periods, suffering from stress and overwork. Maybe there were other reasons for his being out that we don't know about.”

She got up and put on her leather jacket.

“I've got his hard drive. Technically it's stolen goods, so I shouldn't leave it with you. You don't have to worry—I'll destroy it as soon as I get home.”

“Wait, Susanne. How can I ever thank you?”

“Well, you can back me up when Armansky's wrath hits me like a bolt of lightning.”

Berger gave her a concerned look.

“Will you get into trouble for this?”

“I don't know. I really don't know.”

“Can we pay you for—”

“No. But Armansky may bill you for tonight. I hope he does, because that would mean he approves of what I did and probably won't decide to fire me.”

“I'll make sure he sends us a bill.”

Berger stood up and gave Linder a long hug.

“Thanks, Susanne. If you ever need a friend, you've got one in me. If there's anything I can do for you …”

“Thanks. Don't leave those pictures lying around. And while we're on the subject, Milton could install a much better safe for you.”

Berger smiled as Beckman walked Linder back to her car.

Berger woke up at 6:00 on Monday morning. She had not slept for more than an hour, but she felt strangely rested. She supposed it was a physical reaction of some sort. For the first time in several months she put on her jogging clothes and went for a furious and excruciatingly painful sprint down to the steamboat wharf. But after a hundred yards or so her heel hurt so much that she had to slow down and go on at a more leisurely pace, relishing the pain in her foot with each step she took.

She felt reborn. It was as though the Grim Reaper had passed by her door and at the last moment changed his mind and moved on to the next house. She could still not take in how fortunate she was that Fredriksson had had her pictures in his possession for four days and done nothing with them. The scanning he had done indicated that he had something planned, but he had simply not gotten around to whatever it was.

She decided to give Susanne Linder a very expensive Christmas present this year. She would think of something really special.