Friday, May 16–Saturday, May 31 8 page

sheet off him and sat astride him.

“I don’t have any condoms,” he said.

“Screw it.”

When he woke up, he heard her in the kitchen. It was not yet 7:00. He may only have slept for two hours,

and he stayed in bed, dozing.

This woman baffled him. At absolutely no point had she even with a glance indicated that she was the

least bit interested in him.

“Good morning,” she said from the doorway. She even had the hint of a smile.

“Hi.”

“We are out of milk. I’ll go to the petrol station. They open at seven.” And she was gone.

He heard her go out of the front door. He shut his eyes. Then he heard the front door open again and

seconds later she was back in the doorway. This time she was not smiling.

“You’d better come and look at this,” she said in a strange voice.

Blomkvist was on his feet at once and pulled on his jeans.

During the night someone had been to the cottage with an unwelcome present. On the porch lay the half-

charred corpse of a cat. The cat’s legs and head had been cut off, then the body had been flayed and the

guts and stomach removed, flung next to the corpse, which seemed to have been roasted over a fire. The

cat’s head was intact, on the saddle of Salander’s motorcycle. He recognised the reddish-brown fur.

CHAPTER 22

Thursday, July 10

They ate breakfast in the garden in silence and without milk in their coffee. Salander had taken out a Canon digital camera and photographed the macabre tableau before Blomkvist got a rubbish sack and cleaned it away. He put the cat in the boot of the Volvo. He ought to file a police report for animal cruelty, possibly intimidation, but he did not think he would want to explain why the intimidation had taken place.

At 8:30 Isabella Vanger walked past and on to the bridge. She did not see them or at least pretended not

to.

“How are you doing?” Blomkvist said.

“Oh, I’m fine.” Salander looked at him, perplexed. OK, then. He expects me to be upset. “When I find the motherfucker who tortured an innocent cat to death just to send us a warning, I’m going to clobber him with a baseball bat.”

“You think it’s a warning?”

“Have you got a better explanation? It definitely means something.”

“Whatever the truth is in this story, we’ve worried somebody enough for that person to do something

really sick. But there’s another problem too.”

“I know. This is an animal sacrifice in the style of 1954 and 1960 and it doesn’t seem credible that someone active fifty years ago would be putting tortured animal corpses on your doorstep today.”

Blomkvist agreed.

“The only ones who could be suspected in that case are Harald Vanger and Isabella Vanger. There are a

number of older relatives on Johan Vanger’s side, but none of them live in the area.”

Blomkvist sighed.

“Isabella is a repulsive bitch who could certainly kill a cat, but I doubt she was running around killing

women in the fifties. Harald Vanger . . . I don’t know, he seems so decrepit he can hardly walk, and I can’t see him sneaking over here last night, catching a cat, and doing all this.”

“Unless it was two people. One older, one younger.”

Blomkvist heard a car go by and looked up and saw Cecilia driving away over the bridge. Harald and

Cecilia, he thought, but they hardly spoke. Despite Martin Vanger’s promise to talk to her, Cecilia had still not answered any of his telephone messages.

“It must be somebody who knows we’re doing this work and that we’re making progress,” Salander said, getting up to go inside. When she came back out she had put on her leathers.

“I’m going to Stockholm. I’ll be back tonight.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Pick up some gadgets. If someone is crazy enough to kill a cat in that disgusting way, he or she could

attack us next time. Or set the cottage on fire while we’re asleep. I want you to go into Hedestad and buy two fire extinguishers and two smoke alarms today. One of the fire extinguishers has to be halon.”

Without another word, she put on her helmet, kick-started the motorcycle, and roared off across the bridge.

Blomkvist hid the corpse and the head and guts in the rubbish bin beside the petrol station before he drove into Hedestad to do his errands. He drove to the hospital. He had made an appointment to meet Frode in

the cafeteria, and he told him what had happened that morning. Frode blanched.

“Mikael, I never imagined that this story could take this turn.”

“Why not? The job was to find a murderer, after all.”

“But this is disgusting and inhuman. If there’s a danger to your life or to Fröken Salander’s life, we are going to call it off. Let me talk to Henrik.”

“No. Absolutely not. I don’t want to risk his having another attack.”

“He asks me all the time how things are going with you.”

“Say hello from me, please, and tell him I’m moving forward.”

“What is next, then?”

“I have a few questions. The first incident occurred just after Henrik had his heart attack and I was down in Stockholm for the day. Somebody went through my office. I had printed out the Bible verses, and

the photographs from Järnvägsgatan were on my desk. You knew and Henrik knew. Martin knew a part of

it since he organised for me to get into the Courier offices. How many other people knew?”

“Well, I don’t know who Martin talked to. But both Birger and Cecilia knew about it. They discussed

your hunting in the pictures archive between themselves. Alexander knew about it too. And, by the way,

Gunnar and Helena Nilsson did too. They were up to say hello to Henrik and got dragged into the conversation. And Anita Vanger.”

“Anita? The one in London?”

“Cecilia’s sister. She came back with Cecilia when Henrik had his heart attack but stayed at a hotel; as

far as I know, she hasn’t been out to the island. Like Cecilia, she doesn’t want to see her father. But she flew back when Henrik came out of intensive care.”

“Where’s Cecilia living? I saw her this morning as she drove across the bridge, but her house is always

dark.”

“She’s not capable of doing such a thing, is she?”

“No, I just wonder where she’s staying.”

“She’s staying with her brother, Birger. It’s within walking distance to visit Henrik.”

“Do you know where she is right now?”

“No. She’s not visiting Henrik, at any rate.”

“Thanks,” Blomkvist said, getting up.

The Vanger family was hovering around Hedestad Hospital. In the reception Birger Vanger passed on his

way to the lifts. Blomkvist waited until he was gone before he went out to the reception. Instead he ran

into Martin Vanger at the entrance, at exactly the same spot where he had run into Cecilia on his previous visit. They said hello and shook hands.

“Have you been up to see Henrik?”

“No, I just happened to meet Dirch Frode.”

Martin looked tired and hollow-eyed. It occurred to Mikael that he had aged appreciably during the six

months since he had met him.

“How are things going with you, Mikael?” he said.

“More interesting with every day that passes. When Henrik is feeling better I hope to be able to satisfy

his curiosity.”

Birger Vanger’s was a white-brick terrace house a five-minute walk from the hospital. He had a view of

the sea and the Hedestad marina. No-one answered when Blomkvist rang the doorbell. He called Cecilia’s mobile number but got no answer there either. He sat in the car for a while, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Birger Vanger was the wild card in the deck; born in 1939 and so ten years

old when Rebecka Jacobsson was murdered; twenty-seven when Harriet disappeared.

According to Henrik, Birger and Harriet hardly ever saw each other. He had grown up with his family

in Uppsala and only moved to Hedestad to work for the firm. He jumped ship after a couple of years and

devoted himself to politics. But he had been in Uppsala at the time Lena Andersson was murdered.

The incident with the cat gave him an ominous feeling, as if he were about to run out of time.

Otto Falk was thirty-six when Harriet vanished. He was now seventy-two, younger than Henrik Vanger but in a considerably worse mental state. Blomkvist sought him out at the Svalan convalescent home, a yellow-brick building a short distance from the Hede River at the other end of the town. Blomkvist introduced himself to the receptionist and asked to be allowed to speak with Pastor Falk. He knew, he explained, that the pastor suffered from Alzheimer’s and enquired how lucid he was now. A nurse replied

that Pastor Falk had first been diagnosed three years earlier and that alas the disease had taken an aggressive course. Falk could communicate, but he had a very feeble short-term memory, and did not recognise all of his relatives. He was on the whole slipping into the shadows. He was also prone to anxiety attacks if he was confronted with questions he could not answer.

Falk was sitting on a bench in the garden with three other patients and a male nurse. Blomkvist spent an

hour trying to engage him in conversation.

He remembered Harriet Vanger quite well. His face lit up, and he described her as a charming girl. But

Blomkvist was soon aware that the pastor had forgotten that she had been missing these last thirty-seven

years. He talked about her as if he had seen her recently and asked Blomkvist to say hello to her and urge her to come and see him. Blomkvist promised to do so.

He obviously did not remember the accident on the bridge. It was not until the end of their conversation

that he said something which made Blomkvist prick up his ears.

It was when Blomkvist steered the talk to Harriet’s interest in religion that Falk suddenly seemed hesitant. It was as though a cloud passed over his face. Falk sat rocking back and forth for a while and

then looked up at Blomkvist and asked who he was. Blomkvist introduced himself again and the old man

thought for a while. At length he said: “She’s still a seeker. She has to take care of herself and you have to warn her.”

“What should I warn her about?”

Falk grew suddenly agitated. He shook his head with a frown.

“She has to read sola scriptura and understand sufficientia scripturae. That’s the only way that she can maintain sola fide. Josef will certainly exclude them. They were never accepted into the canon.”

Blomkvist understood nothing of this, but took assiduous notes. Then Pastor Falk leaned towards him

and whispered, “I think she’s a Catholic. She loves magic and has not yet found her God. She needs guidance.”

The word “Catholic” obviously had a negative connotation for Pastor Falk.

“I thought she was interested in the Pentecostal movement?”

“No, no, no, not the Pentecostals. She’s looking for the forbidden truth. She is not a good Christian.”

Then Pastor Falk seemed to forget all about Blomkvist and started talking with the other patients.

He got back to Hedeby Island just after 2:00. He walked over to Cecilia Vanger’s and knocked on the door, but without success. He tried her mobile number again but no answer.

He attached one smoke alarm to a wall in the kitchen and one next to the front door. He put one fire extinguisher next to the woodstove beside the bedroom door and another one beside the bathroom door.

Then he made himself lunch, which consisted of coffee and open sandwiches, and sat in the garden, where

he was typing up the notes of his conversation with Pastor Falk. When that was done, he raised his eyes to the church.

Hedeby’s new parsonage was quite an ordinary modern dwelling a few minutes’ walk from the church.

Blomkvist knocked on the door at 4:00 and explained to Pastor Margareta Strandh that he had come to seek advice on a theological matter. Margareta Strandh was a dark-haired woman of about his own age,

dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. She was barefoot and had painted toenails. He had run into her before at Susanne’s Bridge Café on a couple of occasions and talked to her about Pastor Falk. He was given a

friendly reception and invited to come and sit in her courtyard.

Blomkvist told her that he had interviewed Otto Falk and what the old man had said. Pastor Strandh listened and then asked him to repeat it word for word.

“I was sent to serve here in Hedeby only three years ago, and I’ve never actually met Pastor Falk. He

retired several years before that, but I believe that he was fairly high-church. What he said to you meant something on the lines of ‘keep to Scripture alone’— sola scriptura—and that it is sufficientia scripturae. This latter is an expression that establishes the sufficiency of Scripture among literal believers. Sola fide means faith alone or the true faith.”

“I see.”

“All this is basic dogma, so to speak. In general it’s the platform of the church and nothing unusual at

all. He was saying quite simply: ‘ Read the Bible—it will provide sufficient knowledge and vouches for

the true faith.’ ”

Mikael felt a bit embarrassed.

“Now I have to ask you in what connection this conversation occurred,” she said.

“I was asking him about a person he had met many years ago, someone I’m writing about.”

“A religious seeker?”

“Something along that line.”

“OK. I think I understand the context. You told me that Pastor Falk said two other things—that ‘ Josef

will certainly exclude them’ and that ‘ they were never accepted into the canon.’ Is it possible that you misunderstood and that he said Josefus instead of Josef? It’s actually the same name.”

“That’s possible,” Blomkvist said. “I taped the conversation if you want to listen to it.”

“No, I don’t think that’s necessary. These two sentences establish fairly unequivocally what he was alluding to. Josefus was a Jewish historian, and the sentence ‘ they were never accepted into the canon’

may have meant that they were never in the Hebrew canon.”

“And that means?”

She laughed.

“Pastor Falk was saying that this person was enthralled by esoteric sources, specifically the Apocrypha. The Greek word apokryphos means ‘hidden,’ and the Apocrypha are therefore the hidden books which some consider highly controversial and others think should be included in the Old Testament. They are Tobias, Judith, Esther, Baruch, Sirach, the books of the Maccabees, and some others.”

“Forgive my ignorance. I’ve heard about the books of the Apocrypha but have never read them. What’s

special about them?”

“There’s really nothing special about them at all, except that they came into existence somewhat later

than the rest of the Old Testament. The Apocrypha were deleted from the Hebrew Bible—not because Jewish scholars mistrusted their content but simply because they were written after the time when God’s

revelatory work was concluded. On the other hand, the Apocrypha are included in the old Greek translation of the Bible. They’re not considered controversial in, for example, the Roman Catholic Church.”

“I see.”

“However, they are controversial in the Protestant Church. During the Reformation, theologians looked to the old Hebrew Bible. Martin Luther deleted the Apocrypha from the Reformation’s Bible and later Calvin declared that the Apocrypha absolutely must not serve as the basis for convictions in matters of

faith. Thus their contents contradict or in some way conflict with claritas scripturae—the clarity of Scripture.”

“In other words, censored books.”

“Quite right. For example, the Apocrypha claim that magic can be practised and that lies in certain cases may be permissible, and such statements, of course, upset dogmatic interpreters of Scripture.”

“So if someone has a passion for religion, it’s not unthinkable that the Apocrypha will pop up on their

reading list, or that someone like Pastor Falk would be upset by this.”

“Exactly. Encountering the Apocrypha is almost unavoidable if you’re studying the Bible or the Catholic faith, and it’s equally probable that someone who is interested in esoterica in general might read them.”

“You don’t happen to have a copy of the Apocrypha, do you?”

She laughed again. A bright, friendly laugh.

“Of course I do. The Apocrypha were actually published as a state report from the Bible Commission

in the eighties.”

Armansky wondered what was going on when Salander asked to speak to him in private. He shut the door

behind her and motioned her to the visitor’s chair. She told him that her work for Mikael Blomkvist was

done—the lawyer would be paying her before the end of the month—but that she had decided to keep on

with this particular investigation. Blomkvist had offered her a considerably higher salary for a month.

“I am self-employed,” Salander said. “Until now I’ve never taken a job that you haven’t given me, in

keeping with our agreement. What I want to know is what will happen to our relationship if I take a job on my own?”

Armansky shrugged.

“You’re a freelancer, you can take any job you want and charge what you think it’s worth. I’m just glad

you’re making your own money. It would, however, be disloyal of you to take on clients you find through

us.”

“I have no plans to do that. I’ve finished the job according to the contract we signed with Blomkvist.

What this is about is that I want to stay on the case. I’d even do it for nothing.”

“Don’t ever do anything for nothing.”

“You know what I mean. I want to know where this story is going. I’ve convinced Blomkvist to ask the

lawyer to keep me on as a research assistant.”

She passed the agreement over to Armansky, who read rapidly through it.

“With this salary you might as well be working for free. Lisbeth, you’ve got talent. You don’t have to

work for small change. You know you can make a hell of a lot more with me if you come on board full-

time.”

“I don’t want to work full-time. But, Dragan, my loyalty is to you. You’ve been great to me since I started here. I want to know if a contract like this is OK with you, that there won’t be any friction between us.”

“I see.” He thought for a moment. “It’s 100 percent OK. Thanks for asking. If any more situations like

this crop up in the future I’d appreciate it if you asked me so there won’t be any misunderstandings.”

Salander thought over whether she had anything to add. She fixed her gaze on Armansky, saying not a

word. Instead she just nodded and then stood up and left, as usual with no farewell greeting.

She got the answer she wanted and instantly lost interest in Armansky. He smiled to himself. That she

had even asked him for advice marked a new high point in her socialisation process.

He opened a folder with a report on security at a museum where a big exhibition of French Impressionists was opening soon. Then he put down the folder and looked at the door through which Salander had just gone. He thought about how she had laughed with Blomkvist in her office and wondered

if she was finally growing up or whether it was Blomkvist who was the attraction. He also felt a strange

uneasiness. He had never been able to shake off the feeling that Lisbeth Salander was a perfect victim.

And here she was, hunting a madman out in the back of beyond.

On the way north again, Salander took on impulse a detour by way of Äppelviken Nursing Home to see

her mother. Except for the visit on Midsummer Eve, she had not seen her mother since Christmas, and she

felt bad for so seldom taking the time. A second visit within the course of a few weeks was quite unusual.

Her mother was in the day room. Salander stayed a good hour and took her mother for a walk down to

the duck pond in the grounds of the hospital. Her mother was still muddling Lisbeth with her sister. As usual, she was hardly present, but she seemed troubled by the visit.

When Salander said goodbye, her mother did not want to let go of her hand. Salander promised to visit

her again soon, but her mother gazed after her sadly and anxiously.

It was as if she had a premonition of some approaching disaster.

Blomkvist spent two hours in the garden behind his cabin going through the Apocrypha without gaining a

single insight. But a thought had occurred to him. How religious had Harriet Vanger actually been? Her

interest in Bible studies had started the last year before she vanished. She had linked a number of Bible

quotes to a series of murders and then had methodically read not only her Bible but also the Apocrypha,

and she had developed an interest in Catholicism.

Had she really done the same investigation that Blomkvist and Salander were doing thirty-seven years

later? Was it the hunt for a murderer that had spurred her interest rather than religiosity? Pastor Falk had indicated that in his eyes she was more of a seeker, less a good Christian.

He was interrupted by Berger calling him on his mobile.

“I just wanted to tell you that Greger and I are leaving on holiday next week. I’ll be gone for four weeks.”

“Where are you going?”

“New York. Greger has an exhibition, and then we thought we’d go to the Caribbean. We have a chance

to borrow a house on Antigua from a friend of Greger’s and we’re staying there two weeks.”

“That sounds wonderful. Have a great time. And say hi to Greger.”

“The new issue is finished and we’ve almost wrapped up the next one. I wish you could take over as

editor, but Christer has said he will do it.”

“He can call me if he needs any help. How’s it going with Janne Dahlman?”

She hesitated.

“He’s also going on holiday. I’ve pushed Henry into being the acting managing editor. He and Christer

are minding the store.”

“OK.”

“I’ll be back on August seventh.”

In the early evening Blomkvist tried five times to telephone Cecilia Vanger. He sent her a text asking her to call him. But he received no answer.

He put away the Apocrypha and got into his tracksuit, locking the door before he set off.

He followed the narrow path along the shore and then turned into the woods. He ground his way through thickets and around uprooted trees as fast as he could go, emerging exhausted at the Fortress with his pulse racing. He stopped by one of the old artillery batteries and stretched for several minutes.

Suddenly he heard a sharp crack and the grey concrete wall next to his head exploded. Then he felt the

pain as fragments of concrete and shrapnel tore a deep gash in his scalp.

For what seemed an eternity Blomkvist stood paralysed. Then he threw himself into the artillery trench,

landing hard on his shoulder and knocking the wind out of himself. A second round came at the instant he

dived. The bullet smacked into the concrete foundation.

He got to his feet and looked all around. He was in the middle of the Fortress. To the right and left narrow, overgrown passages a yard deep ran to the batteries that were spread along a line of 250 yards.

In a crouch, he started running south through the labyrinth.

He suddenly heard an echo of Captain Adolfsson’s inimitable voice from winter manoeuvres at the infantry school in Kiruna. Blomkvist, keep your fucking head down if you don’t want to get your arse

shot off. Years later he still remembered the extra practise drills that Captain Adolfsson used to devise.

He stopped to catch his breath, his heart pounding. He could hear nothing but his own breathing. The

human eye perceives motion much quicker than shapes and figures. Move slowly when you’re scouting.

Blomkvist slowly peeked an inch over the top edge of the battery. The sun was straight ahead and made it

impossible to make out details, but he could see no movement.

He pulled his head back down and ran on to the next battery. It doesn’t matter how good the enemy’s

weapons are. If he can’t see you, he can’t hit you. Cover, cover, cover. Make sure you’re never exposed.

He was 300 yards from the edge of Östergården farm. Some 40 yards from where he knelt there was an

almost impenetrable thicket of low brush. But to reach the thicket he would have to sprint down a grass

slope from the artillery battery, and he would be completely exposed. It was the only way. At his back was the sea.

He was suddenly aware of pain in his temple and discovered that he was bleeding and that his T-shirt

was drenched with blood. Scalp wounds never stop bleeding, he thought before he again concentrated on his position. One shot could just have been an accident, but two meant that somebody was trying to kill

him. He had no way of knowing if the marksman was waiting for him to reappear.

He tried to be calm, think rationally. The choice was to wait or to get the hell out. If the marksman was

still there, the latter alternative was assuredly not a good idea. If he waited where he was, the marksman would calmly walk up to the Fortress, find him, and shoot him at close range.

He (or she?) can’t know if I’ve gone to the right or left. Rifle, maybe a moose rifle. Probably with telescopic sights. Which would mean that the marksman would have a limited field of vision if he was looking for Mikael through the sights.

If you’re in a tight spot—take the initiative. Better than waiting. He watched and listened for sounds for two minutes; then he clambered out of the battery and raced down the slope as fast as he could.

He was halfway down the slope as a third shot was fired, but he only heard a vague smack behind him.

He threw himself flat through the curtain of brush and rolled through a sea of stinging nettles. Then he was on his feet and moving away from the direction of the fire, crouching, running, stopping every fifty yards, listening. He heard a branch crack somewhere between him and the Fortress. He dropped to his stomach.

Crawl using your elbows was another of Captain Adolfsson’s favourite expressions. Blomkvist covered the next 150 yards on his knees and toes and elbows through the undergrowth. He pushed aside

twigs and branches. Twice he heard sudden cracks in the thicket behind him. The first seemed to be very

close, maybe twenty paces to the right. He froze, lay perfectly still. After a while he cautiously raised his head and looked around, but he could see no-one. He lay still for a long time, his nerves on full alert, ready to flee or possibly make a desperate counterattack if the enemy came at him. The next crack was

from farther away. Then silence.

He knows I’m here. Has he taken up a position somewhere, waiting for me to start moving, or has he

retreated?

Blomkvist kept crawling through the undergrowth until he reached the Östergården’s fence.

This was the next critical moment. A path ran inside the fence. He lay stretched out on the ground, watching. The farmhouse was 400 yards down a gentle slope. To the right of the house he saw cows grazing. Why hadn’t anyone heard the shots and come to investigate? Summer. Maybe nobody is at home right now.

There was no question of crossing the pasture—there he would have no cover at all. The straight path

beside the fence was the place he himself would have picked for a clear field of fire. He retreated into the brush until he came out on the other side into a sparse pine wood.

He took the long way around Östergården’s fields and Söderberget to reach home. When he passed Östergården he could see that their car was gone. At the top of Söderberget he stopped and looked down

on Hedeby. In the old fishing cabins by the marina there were summer visitors; women in bathing suits were sitting talking on a dock. He smelled something cooking on an outdoor grill. Children were splashing in the water near the docks in the marina.

Just after 8:00. It was fifty minutes since the shots had been fired. Nilsson was watering his lawn, wearing shorts and no shirt. How long have you been there? Vanger’s house was empty but for Anna.

Harald Vanger’s house looked deserted as always. Then he saw Isabella Vanger in her back garden. She

was sitting there, obviously talking to someone. It took a second for Blomkvist to realise it was the sickly Gerda Vanger, born in 1922 and living with her son, Alexander, in one of the houses beyond Henrik’s. He

Date: 2015-12-11; view: 718