The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo Trilogy Bundle (33 page)

Armansky assured him that she was their very best researcher, and her report on him was excruciatingly thorough.
A strange girl.

         

Salander was sitting at her PowerBook, but she was thinking about Mikael Blomkvist. She had never in her adult life allowed anyone to cross her threshold without an express invitation, and she could count those she had invited on one hand. Blomkvist had nonchalantly barged into her life, and she had uttered only a few lame protests.

Not only that, he had teased her.

Under normal circumstances that sort of behaviour would have made her mentally cock a pistol. But she had not felt an iota of threat or any sort of hostility from his side. He had good reason to read her the riot act, even report her to the police. Instead he had treated even her hacking into his computer as a joke.

That had been the most sensitive part of their conversation. Blomkvist seemed to be deliberately not broaching the subject, and finally she could not help asking the question.

“You said that you knew what I did.”

“You've been inside my computer. You're a hacker.”

“How do you know that?” Salander was absolutely positive that she had left no traces and that her trespassing could not be discovered by anyone unless a top security consultant sat down and scanned the hard drive at the same time as she was accessing the computer.

“You made a mistake.”

She had quoted from a text that was only on his computer.

Salander sat in silence. Finally she looked up at him, her eyes expressionless.

“How did you do it?” he asked.

“My secret. What are you thinking of doing about it?”

Mikael shrugged.

“What can I do?”

“It's exactly what you do as a journalist.”

“Of course. And that's why we journalists have an ethics committee that keeps track of the moral issues. When I write an article about some bastard in the banking industry, I leave out, for instance, his or her private life. I don't say that a forger is a lesbian or gets turned on by having sex with her dog or anything like that, even if it happens to be true. Bastards too have a right to their private lives. Does that make sense?”

“Yes.”

“So you encroached on my integrity. My employer doesn't need to know who I have sex with. That's my business.”

Salander's face was creased by a crooked smile.

“You think I shouldn't have mentioned that?”

“In my case it didn't make a lot of difference. Half the city knows about my relationship with Erika. But it's a matter of principle.”

“In that case, it might amuse you to know that I also have principles comparable to your ethics committee's. I call them
Salander's Principles
. One of them is that a bastard is always a bastard, and if I can hurt a bastard by digging up shit about him, then he deserves it.”

“OK,” Blomkvist said. “My reasoning isn't too different from yours, but …”

“But the thing is that when I do a PI, I also look at what I think about the person. I'm not neutral. If the person seems like a good sort, I might tone down my report.”

“Really?”

“In your case I toned it down. I could have written a book about your sex life. I could have mentioned to Frode that Erika Berger has a past in Club Xtreme and played around with BDSM in the eighties—which would have prompted certain unavoidable notions about your sex life and hers.”

Blomkvist met Salander's gaze. After a moment he laughed.

“You're really meticulous, aren't you? Why didn't you put it in the report?”

“You are adults who obviously like each other. What you do in bed is nobody's business, and the only thing I would have achieved by talking about her was to hurt both of you, or to provide someone with blackmail material. I don't know Frode—the information could have ended up with Wennerström.”

“And you don't want to provide Wennerström with information?”

“If I had to choose between you and him, I'd probably end up in your court.”

“Erika and I have a … our relationship is …”

“Please, I really don't give a toss about what sort of relationship you have. But you haven't answered my question: what do you plan to do about my hacking into your computer?”

“Lisbeth, I'm not here to blackmail you. I'm here to ask you to help me do some research. You can say yes or no. If you say no, fine, I'll find someone else and you'll never hear from me again.”

While he waited for word on whether Vanger was going to pull through or not, Blomkvist spent the days going over his materials. He kept in close touch with Frode. On Thursday evening Frode brought him the news that the immediate crisis seemed to be over.

“I was able to talk to him for a while today. He wants to see you as soon as possible.”

So it was that, around 1:00 on the afternoon of Midsummer Eve, Blomkvist drove to Hedestad Hospital and went in search of the ward. He encountered an angry Birger Vanger, who blocked his way. Henrik could not possibly receive visitors, he said.

“That's odd,” Blomkvist said, “Henrik sent word saying that he expressly wanted to see me today.”

“You're not a member of the family; you have no business here.”

“You're right. I'm not a member of the family. But I'm working for Henrik Vanger, and I take orders only from him.”

This might have led to a heated exchange if Frode had not at that moment come out of Vanger's room.

“Oh, there you are. Henrik has been asking after you.”

Frode held open the door and Blomkvist walked past Birger into the room.

Vanger looked to have aged ten years. He was lying with his eyes half closed, an oxygen tube in his nose, and his hair more dishevelled than ever. A nurse stopped Blomkvist, putting a hand firmly on his arm.

“Two minutes. No more. And don't upset him.” Blomkvist sat on a visitor's chair so that he could see Vanger's face. He felt a tenderness that astonished him, and he stretched out his hand to gently squeeze the old man's hand.

“Any news?” The voice was weak.

Blomkvist nodded.

“I'll give you a report as soon as you're better. I haven't solved the mystery yet, but I've found more new stuff and I'm following up a number of leads. In a week, perhaps two, I'll be able to tell the results.”

The most Vanger could manage was to blink, indicating that he understood.

“I have to be away for a few days.”

Henrik raised his eyebrows.

“I'm not jumping ship. I have some research to do. I've reached an agreement with Dirch that I should report to him. Is that OK with you?”

“Dirch is … my man … in all matters.”

Blomkvist squeezed Vanger's hand again.

“Mikael … if I don't … I want you to … finish the job.”

“I will finish the job.”

“Dirch has … full …”

“Henrik, I want you to get better. I'd be furious with you if you went and died after I've made such progress.”

“Two minutes,” the nurse said.

“Next time we'll have a long talk.”

         

Birger Vanger was waiting for him when he came out. He stopped him by laying a hand on his shoulder.

“I don't want you bothering Henrik any more. He's very ill, and he's not supposed to be upset or disturbed.”

“I understand your concern, and I sympathise. And I'm not going to upset him.”

“Everyone knows that Henrik hired you to poke around in his little hobby … Harriet. Dirch said that Henrik became very upset after a conversation you had with him before he had the heart attack. He even said that you thought you had caused the attack.”

“I don't think so any more. Henrik had severe blockages in his arteries. He could have had a heart attack just by having a pee. I'm sure you know that by now.”

“I want full disclosure into this lunacy. This is my family you're mucking around in.”

“I told you, I work for Henrik, not for the family.”

Birger Vanger was apparently not used to having anyone stand up to him. For a moment he stared at Blomkvist with an expression that was presumably meant to instil respect, but which made him look more like an inflated moose. Birger turned and went into Vanger's room.

Blomkvist restrained the urge to laugh. This was no place for laughter, in the corridor outside Vanger's sickbed, which might also turn out to be his deathbed. But he thought of a verse from Lennart Hyland's rhyming alphabet. It was the letter
M
.
And all alone the moose he stood
,
laughing in a shot-up wood.

In the hospital lobby he ran into Cecilia Vanger. He had tried calling her mobile a dozen times since she came back from her interrupted holiday, but she had never answered or returned his calls. And she was never home at her place on Hedeby Island whenever he walked past and knocked on the door.

“Hi, Cecilia,” he said. “I'm so sorry about all this with Henrik.”

“Thanks,” she said.

“We need to talk.”

“I'm sorry that I've shut you out like this. I can understand that you must be cross, but I'm not having an easy time of it these days.”

Mikael put his hand on her arm and smiled at her.

“Wait, you've got it wrong, Cecilia. I'm not cross at all. I am still hoping that we can be friends. Can we have a cup of coffee?” He nodded in the direction of the hospital cafeteria.

Cecilia Vanger hesitated. “Not today. I need to go and see Henrik.”

“OK, but I still need to talk to you. It's purely professional.”

“What does that mean?” She was suddenly alert.

“Do you remember the first time we met, when you came to the cottage in January? I said that we were talking off the record, and that if I needed to ask you any real questions, I would tell you. It has to do with Harriet.”

Cecilia Vanger's face was suddenly flushed with anger.

“You really are the fucking pits.”

“Cecilia, I've found some things that I really do have to talk to you about.”

She took a step away from him.

“Don't you realise that this bloody hunt for that cursed Harriet is just occupational therapy for Henrik? Don't you see that he might be up there dying, and that the very last thing he needs is to get upset again and be filled with false hopes and …”

“It may be a hobby for Henrik, but there is now more material to go on than anyone has had to work with in a very long time. There are questions that do now need to be answered.”

“If Henrik dies, that investigation is going to be over awfully damned fast. Then you'll be out on your grubby, snivelling investigative backside,” Cecilia said, and she walked away.

         

Everything was closed. Hedestad was practically deserted, and the inhabitants seemed to have retreated to their Midsummer poles at their summer cottages. Blomkvist made for the Stadshotel terrace, which was actually open, and there he was able to order coffee and a sandwich and read the evening papers. Nothing of importance was happening in the world.

He put the paper down and thought about Cecilia Vanger. He had told no-one—apart from the Salander girl—that she was the one who had opened the window in Harriet's room. He was afraid that it would make her a suspect, and the last thing he wanted to do was hurt her. But the question was going to have to be asked, sooner or later.

He sat on the terrace for an hour before he decided to set the whole problem aside and devote Midsummer Eve to something other than the Vanger family. His mobile was silent. Berger was away amusing herself somewhere with her husband, and he had no-one to talk to.

He went back to Hedeby Island at around 4:00 in the afternoon and made another decision—to stop smoking. He had been working out regularly ever since he did his military service, both at the gym and by running along Söder Mälarstrand, but had fallen out of the habit when the problems with Wennerström began. It was at Rullåker Prison that he had starting pumping iron again, mostly as therapy. But since his release he had taken almost no exercise. It was time to start again. He put on his tracksuit and set off at a lazy pace along the road to Gottfried's cabin, turned off towards the Fortress, and took a rougher course cross country. He had done no orienteering since he was in the military, but he had always thought it was more fun to run through a wooded terrain than on a flat track. He followed the fence around Östergården back to the village. He was aching all over and out of breath by the time he took the last steps up to the guest house.

At 6:00 he took a shower. He boiled some potatoes and had open sandwiches of pickled herring in mustard sauce with chives and egg on a rickety table outside the cottage, facing the bridge. He poured himself a shot of aquavit and drank a toast to himself. After that he opened a crime novel by Val McDermid entitled
The Mermaids Singing
.

         

At around 7:00 Frode drove up and sat heavily in the chair across from him. Blomkvist poured him a shot of Skåne aquavit.

“You stirred up some rather lively emotions today,” Frode said.

“I could see that.”

“Birger is a conceited fool.”

“I know that.”

“But Cecilia is not a conceited fool, and she's furious.”

Mikael nodded.

“She has instructed me to see that you stop poking around in the family's affairs.”

“I see. And what did you say to her?”

Frode looked at his glass of Skåne and downed the liquor in one gulp.

“My response was that Henrik has given me clear instructions about what he wants you to do. As long as he doesn't change those instructions, you will continue to be employed under the terms of your contract. I expect you to do your best to fulfil your part of the contract.”

Blomkvist looked up at the sky, where rain clouds had begun to gather.

“Looks like a storm is brewing,” Frode said. “If the winds get too strong, I'll have to back you up.”

“Thank you.”

They sat in silence for a while.

“Could I have another drink?”

Only minutes after Frode had gone home, Martin Vanger drove up and parked his car by the road in front of the cottage. He came over and said hello. Mikael wished him a happy Midsummer and asked if he'd like a drink.

“No, it's better if I don't. I'm just here to change my clothes and then I'm going to drive back to town to spend the evening with Eva.”

Blomkvist waited.

“I've talked to Cecilia. She's a little traumatised just now—she and Henrik have always been close. I hope you'll forgive her if she says anything … unpleasant.”

“I'm very fond of Cecilia.”

“I know that. But she can be difficult. I just want you to know that she's very much against your going on digging into our past.”

Blomkvist sighed. Everyone in Hedestad seemed to know why Vanger had hired him.

“What's your feeling?”

“This thing with Harriet has been Henrik's obsession for decades. I don't know … Harriet was my sister, but somehow it feels all so far away. Dirch says that you have a contract that only Henrik can break, and I'm afraid that in his present condition it would do more harm than good.”

“So you want me to continue?”

“Have you made any progress?”

“I'm sorry, Martin, but it would be a breach of that contract if I told you anything without Henrik's permission.”

“I understand.” Suddenly he smiled. “Henrik is a bit of a conspiracy fanatic. But above all, I don't want you to get his hopes up unnecessarily.”

“I won't do that.”

“Good … By the way, to change the subject, we now have another contract to consider as well. Given that Henrik is ill and can't in the short term fulfil his obligations on the
Millennium
board, it's my responsibility to take his place.”

Mikael waited.

“I suppose we should have a board meeting to look at the situation.”

“That's a good idea. But as far as I know, it's been decided that the next board meeting won't be held until August.”

“I know that, but maybe we should hold it earlier.”

Blomkvist smiled politely.

“You're really talking to the wrong person. At the moment I'm not on the board. I left in December. You should get in touch with Erika Berger. She knows that Henrik has been taken ill.”

Martin Vanger had not expected this response.

“You're right, of course. I'll talk to her.” He patted Blomkvist on the shoulder to say goodbye and was gone.

Nothing concrete had been said, but the threat hung in the air. Martin Vanger had set
Millennium
on the balance tray. After a moment Blomkvist poured himself another drink and picked up his Val McDermid.

The mottled brown cat came to say hello and rubbed on his leg. He lifted her up and scratched behind her ears.

“The two of us are having a very boring Midsummer Eve, aren't we?” he said.

When it started to rain, he went inside and went to bed. The cat preferred to stay outdoors.

         

Salander got out her Kawasaki on Midsummer Eve and spent the day giving it a good overhaul. A lightweight 125cc might not be the toughest bike in the world, but it was hers, and she could handle it. She had restored it, one nut at a time, and she had souped it up just a bit over the legal limit.