The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest
Page 8

She was in a bad way. She did not need anyone to tell her that. She raised her right hand and felt her head. There were bandages. She had a brace on her neck. Then she remembered it all. Niedermann. Zalachenko. The old bastard had a pistol too. A.22 calibre Browning. Which, compared to all other handguns, had to be considered a toy. That was why she was still alive.
I was shot in the head. I could stick my finger in the entry wound and touch my brain.
She was surprised to be alive. Yet she felt indifferent. If death was the black emptiness from which she had just woken up, then death was nothing to worry about. She would hardly notice the difference. With which esoteric thought she closed her eyes and fell asleep again.
She had been dozing only a few minutes when she was aware of movement and opened her eyelids to a narrow slit. She saw a nurse in a white uniform bending over her. She closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep.
"I think you're awake," the nurse said.
"Mmm," Salander said.
"Hello, my name is Marianne. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
Salander tried to nod, but her head was immobilized by the brace.
"No, don't try to move. You don't have to be afraid. You've been hurt and had surgery."
"Could I have some water?" Salander whispered.
The nurse gave her a beaker with a straw to drink water through. As she swallowed the water she saw another person appear on her left side.
"Hello, Lisbeth. Can you hear me?"
"Mmm."
"I'm Dr Helena Endrin. Do you know where you are?"
"Hospital."
"You're at the Sahlgrenska in Goteborg. You've had an operation and you're in the intensive care unit."
"Umm-hmm."
"There is no need to be afraid."
"I was shot in the head."
Endrin hesitated for a moment, then said, "That's right. So you remember what happened."
"The old bastard had a pistol."
"Ah... yes, well someone did."
"A.22."
"I see. I didn't know that."
"How badly hurt am I?"
"Your prognosis is good. You were in pretty bad shape, but we think you have a good chance of making a full recovery."
Salander weighed this information. Then she tried to fix her eyes on the doctor. Her vision was blurred.
"What happened to Zalachenko?"
"Who?"
"The old bastard. Is he alive?"
"You must mean Karl Axel Bodin."
"No, I don't. I mean Alexander Zalachenko. That's his real name."
"I don't know anything about that. But the elderly man who came in at the same time as you is critical but out of danger."
Salander's heart sank. She considered the doctor's words.
"Where is he?"
"He's down the hall. But don't worry about him for the time being. You have to concentrate on getting well."
Salander closed her eyes. She wondered whether she could manage to get out of bed, find something to use as a weapon, and finish the job. But she could scarcely keep her eyes open. She thought, He's going to get away again. She had missed her chance to kill Zalachenko.
"I'd like to examine you for a moment. Then you can go back to sleep," Dr Endrin said.
Blomkvist was suddenly awake and he did not know why. He did not know where he was, and then he remembered that he had booked himself a room in City Hotel. It was as dark as coal. He fumbled to turn on the bedside lamp and looked at the clock. 2.00. He had slept through fifteen hours.
He got up and went to the bathroom. He would not be able to get back to sleep. He shaved and took a long shower. Then he put on some jeans and the maroon sweatshirt that needed washing. He called the front desk to ask if he could get coffee and a sandwich at this early hour. The night porter said that was possible.
He put on his sports jacket and went downstairs. He ordered a coffee and a cheese and liver pate sandwich. He bought the Goteborgs-Posten. The arrest of Lisbeth Salander was front-page news. He took his breakfast back to his room and read the paper. The reports at the time of going to press were somewhat confused, but they were on the right track. Ronald Niedermann, thirty-five, was being sought for the killing of a policeman. The police wanted to question him also in connection with the murders in Stockholm. The police had released nothing about Salander's condition, and the name Zalachenko was not mentioned. He was referred to only as a 66-year-old landowner from Gosseberga, and apparently the media had taken him for an innocent victim.
When Blomkvist had finished reading, he flipped open his mobile and saw that he had twenty unread messages. Three were messages to call Berger. Two were from his sister Annika. Fourteen were from reporters at various newspapers who wanted to talk to him. One was from Malm, who had sent him the brisk advice: It would be best if you took the first train home.
Blomkvist frowned. That was unusual, coming from Malm. The text was sent at 7.06 in the evening. He stifled the impulse to call and wake someone up at 3.00 in the morning. Instead he booted up his iBook and plugged the cable into the broadband jack. He found that the first train to Stockholm left at 5.20, and there was nothing new in Aftonbladet online.
He opened a new Word document, lit a cigarette, and sat for three minutes staring at the blank screen. Then he began to type.
Her name is Lisbeth Salander. Sweden has got to know her through police reports and press releases and the headlines in the evening papers. She is twenty-seven years old and one metre fifty centimetres tall. She has been called a psychopath, a murderer, and a lesbian Satanist. There has been almost no limit to the fantasies that have been circulated about her. In this issue, Millennium will tell the story of how government officials conspired against Salander in order to protect a pathological murderer...
He wrote steadily for fifty minutes, primarily a recapitulation of the night on which he had found Dag Svensson and Mia Johansson and why the police had focused on Salander as the suspected killer. He quoted the newspaper headlines about lesbian Satanists and the media's apparent hope that the murders might have involved S.&M. sex.
When he checked the clock he quickly closed his iBook. He packed his bag and went down to the front desk. He paid with a credit card and took a taxi to Goteborg Central Station.
Blomkvist went straight to the dining car and ordered more coffee and sandwiches. He opened his iBook again and read through his text. He was so absorbed that he did not notice Inspector Modig until she cleared her throat and asked if she could join him. He looked up, smiled sheepishly, and closed his computer.
"On your way home?"
"You too, I see."
She nodded. "My colleague is staying another day."
"Do you know anything about how Salander is? I've been sound asleep since I last saw you."
"She had an operation soon after she was brought in and was awake in the early evening. The doctors think she'll make a full recovery. She was incredibly lucky."
Blomkvist nodded. It dawned on him that he had not been worried about her. He had assumed that she would survive. Any other outcome was unthinkable.
"Has anything else of interest happened?" he said.
Modig wondered how much she should say to a reporter, even to one who knew more of the story than she did. On the other hand, she had joined him at his table, and maybe a hundred other reporters had by now been briefed at police headquarters.
"I don't want to be quoted," she said.
"I'm simply asking out of personal interest."
She told him that a nationwide manhunt was under way for Ronald Niedermann, particularly in the Malmo area.
"And Zalachenko? Have you questioned him?"
"Yes, we questioned him."
"And?"
"I can't tell you anything about that."
"Come on, Sonja. I'll know exactly what you talked about less than an hour after I get to my office in Stockholm. And I won't write a word of what you tell me."
She hesitated for a while before she met his gaze.
"He made a formal complaint against Salander, that she tried to kill him. She risks being charged with grievous bodily harm or attempted murder."
"And in all likelihood she'll claim self-defence."
"I hope she will," Modig said.
"That doesn't sound like an official line."
"Bodin... Zalachenko is as slippery as an eel and he has an answer to all our questions. I'm persuaded that things are more or less as you told us yesterday, and that means that Salander has been subjected to a lifetime of injustice  -  since she was twelve."
"That's the story I'm going to publish," Blomkvist said.
"It won't be popular with some people."
Modig hesitated again. Blomkvist waited.
"I talked with Bublanski half an hour ago. He didn't go into any detail, but the preliminary investigation against Salander for the murder of your friends seems to have been shelved. The focus has shifted to Niedermann."
"Which means that..." He let the question hang in the air between them.
Modig shrugged.
"Who's going to take over the investigation of Salander?"
"I don't know. What happened in Gosseberga is primarily Goteborg's problem. I would guess that somebody in Stockholm will be assigned to compile all the material for a prosecution."
"I see. What do you think the odds are that the investigation will be transferred to Sapo?"
Modig shook her head.
Just before they reached Alingsås, Blomkvist leaned towards her. "Sonja... I think you understand how things stand. If the Zalachenko story gets out, there'll be a massive scandal. Sapo people conspired with a psychiatrist to lock Salander up in an asylum. The only thing they can do now is to stonewall and go on claiming that Salander is mentally ill, and that committing her in 1991 was justified."
Modig nodded.
"I'm going to do everything I can to counter any such claims. I believe that Salander is as sane as you or I. Odd, certainly, but her intellectual gifts are undeniable." He paused to let what he had said sink in. "I'm going to need somebody on the inside I can trust."
She met his gaze. "I'm not competent to judge whether or not Salander is mentally ill."
"But you are competent to say whether or not she was the victim of a miscarriage of justice."
"What are you suggesting?"
"I'm only asking you to let me know if you discover that Salander is being subjected to another miscarriage of justice."
Modig said nothing.
"I don't want details of the investigation or anything like that. I just need to know what's happening with the charges against her."
"It sounds like a good way for me to get booted off the force."
"You would be a source. I would never, ever mention your name."
He wrote an email address on a page torn from his notebook.
"This is an untraceable hotmail address. You can use it if you have anything to tell me. Don't use your official address, obviously, just set up your own temporary hotmail account."
She put the address into the inside pocket of her jacket. She did not make him any promises.
Inspector Erlander woke at 7.00 on Saturday morning to the ringing of his telephone. He heard voices from the T.V. and smelled coffee from the kitchen where his wife was already about her morning chores. He had returned to his apartment in Molndal at 1.00 in the morning having being on duty for twenty-two hours, so he was far from wide awake when he reached to answer it.
"Rikardsson, night shift. Are you awake?"
"No," Erlander said. "Hardly. What's happened?"
"News. Anita Kaspersson has been found."
"Where?"
"Outside Seglora, south of Borås."
Erlander visualized the map in his head.
"South," he said. "He's taking the back roads. He must have driven up the 180 through Borås and swung south. Have we alerted Malmo?"
"Yes, and Helsingborg, Landskrona, and Trelleborg. And Karlskrona. I'm thinking of the ferry to the east."
Erlander rubbed the back of his neck.
"He has almost a 24-hour head start now. He could be clean out of the country. How was Kaspersson found?"
"She turned up at a house on the outskirts of Seglora."
"She what?"
"She knocked  - "
"You mean she's alive?"
"I'm sorry, I'm not expressing myself clearly enough. The Kaspersson woman kicked on the door of a house at 3.10 this morning, scaring the hell out of a couple and their kids, who were all asleep. She was barefoot and suffering from severe hypothermia. Her hands were tied behind her back. She's at the hospital in Borås, reunited with her husband."
"Amazing. I think we all assumed she was dead."
"Sometimes you can be surprised. But here's the bad news: Assistant County Police Chief Spångberg has been here since 5.00 this morning. She's made it plain that she wants you up and over to Borås to interview the woman."
It was Saturday morning and Blomkvist assumed that the Millennium offices would be empty. He called Malm as the train was coming into Stockholm and asked him what had prompted the tone of his text message.
"Have you had breakfast?" Malm said.
"On the train."
"O.K. Come over to my place and I'll make you something more substantial."
"What's this about?"
"I'll tell you when you get here."
Blomkvist took the tunnelbana to Medborgarplatsen and walked to Allhelgonagatan. Malm's boyfriend, Arnold Magnusson, opened the door to him. No matter how hard Blomkvist tried, he could never rid himself of the feeling that he was looking at an advertisement for something. Magnusson was often onstage at the Dramaten, and was one of Sweden's most popular actors. It was always a shock to meet him in person. Blomkvist was not ordinarily impressed by celebrity, but Magnusson had such a distinctive appearance and was so familiar from his T.V. and film roles, in particular for playing the irascible but honest Inspector Frisk in a wildly popular T.V. series that aired in ninety-minute episodes. Blomkvist always expected him to behave just like Gunnar Frisk.