Friday, May 16–Saturday, May 31 12 page

He stretched out his hand and placed it on her knee.

“Thank you,” he said. “But for you, I would be dead.”

Salander smiled her crooked smile.

“All the same . . . I don’t understand how you could be such an idiot as to tackle him on your own. I

was chained to the floor down there, praying that you’d see the picture and put two and two together and

call the police.”

“If I’d waited for the police, you wouldn’t have survived. I wasn’t going to let that motherfucker kill

you.”

“Why don’t you want to talk to the police?”

“I never talk to the authorities.”

“Why not?”

“That’s my business. But in your case, I don’t think it would be a terrific career move to be hung out to

dry as the journalist who was stripped naked by Martin Vanger, the famous serial killer. If you don’t like

‘Kalle Blomkvist,’ you can think up a whole new epithet. Just don’t take it out of this chapter of your heroic life.”

Blomkvist gave her a searching look and dropped the subject.

“We do still have a problem,” she said.

Blomkvist nodded. “What happened to Harriet. Yes.”

Salander laid the two Polaroid pictures on the table in front of him. She explained where she’d found

them. Mikael studied the pictures intently for a while before he looked up.

“It might be her,” he said at last. “I wouldn’t swear to it, but the shape of her body and the hair remind me of the pictures I’ve seen.”

They sat in the garden for an hour, piecing together the details. They discovered that each of them, independently and from different directions, had identified Martin Vanger as the missing link.

Salander never did find the photograph that Blomkvist had left on the kitchen table. She had come to the

conclusion that Blomkvist had done something stupid after studying the pictures from the surveillance cameras. She had gone over to Martin Vanger’s house by way of the shore and looked in all the windows

and seen no-one. She had tried all the doors and windows on the ground floor. Finally she had climbed in

through an open balcony door upstairs. It had taken a long time, and she had moved extremely cautiously

as she searched the house, room by room. Eventually she found the stairs down to the basement. Martin

had been careless. He left the door to his chamber of horrors ajar, and she was able to form a clear impression of the situation.

Blomkvist asked her how much she had heard of what Martin said.

“Not much. I got there when he was asking you about what happened to Harriet, just before he hung you

up by the noose. I left for a few minutes to go back and find a weapon.”

“Martin had no idea what happened to Harriet,” Blomkvist said.

“Do you believe that?”

“Yes,” Blomkvist said without hesitation. “Martin was dafter than a syphilitic polecat—where do I get

these metaphors from?—but he confessed to all the crimes he had committed. I think that he wanted to impress me. But when it came to Harriet, he was as desperate as Henrik Vanger to find out what happened.”

“So . . . where does that take us?”

“We know that Gottfried was responsible for the first series of murders, between 1949 and 1965.”

“OK. And he brought on little Martin.”

“Talk about a dysfunctional family,” Blomkvist said. “Martin really didn’t have a chance.”

Salander gave him a strange look.

“What Martin told me—even though it was rambling—was that his father started his apprenticeship after he reached puberty. He was there at the murder of Lea in Uddevalla in 1962. He was fourteen, for

God’s sake. He was there at the murder of Sara in 1964 and that time he took an active part. He was sixteen.”

“And?”

“He said that he had never touched another man—except his father. That made me think that . . . well,

the only possible conclusion is that his father raped him. Martin called it ‘his duty.’ The sexual assaults must have gone on for a long time. He was raised by his father, so to speak.”

“Bullshit,” Salander said, her voice as hard as flint.

Blomkvist stared at her in astonishment. She had a stubborn look in her eyes. There was not an ounce of

sympathy in it.

“Martin had exactly the same opportunity as anyone else to strike back. He killed and he raped because

he liked doing it.”

“I’m not saying otherwise. But Martin was a repressed boy and under the influence of his father, just as

Gottfried was cowed by his father, the Nazi.”

“So you’re assuming that Martin had no will of his own and that people become whatever they’ve been

brought up to be.”

Blomkvist smiled cautiously. “Is this a sensitive issue?”

Salander’s eyes blazed with fury. Blomkvist quickly went on.

“I’m only saying that I think that a person’s upbringing does play a role. Gottfried’s father beat him mercilessly for years. That leaves its mark.”

“Bullshit,” Salander said again. “Gottfried isn’t the only kid who was ever mistreated. That doesn’t give him the right to murder women. He made that choice himself. And the same is true of Martin.”

Blomkvist held up his hand.

“Can we not argue?”

“I’m not arguing. I just think that it’s pathetic that creeps always have to have someone else to blame.”

“They have a personal responsibility. We’ll work it all out later. What matters is that Martin was seventeen when Gottfried died, and he didn’t have anyone to guide him. He tried to continue in his father’s footsteps. In February 1966, in Uppsala.”

Blomkvist reached for one of Salander’s cigarettes.

“I won’t speculate about what impulses Gottfried was trying to satisfy or how he himself interpreted

what he was doing. There’s some sort of Biblical gibberish that a psychiatrist might be able to figure out, something to do with punishment and purification in a figurative sense. It doesn’t matter what it was. He

was a cut and dried serial killer.

“Gottfried wanted to kill women and clothe his actions in some sort of pseudo-religious clap-trap.

Martin didn’t even pretend to have an excuse. He was organised and did his killing systematically. He also had money to put into his hobby. And he was shrewder than his father. Every time Gottfried left a body behind, it led to a police investigation and the risk that someone might track him down, or at least

link together the various murders.”

“Martin Vanger built his house in the seventies,” Salander said pensively.

“I think Henrik mentioned it was in 1978. Presumably he ordered a safe room put in for important files

or some such purpose. He got a soundproofed, windowless room with a steel door.”

“He’s had that room for twenty-five years.”

They fell silent for a while as Blomkvist thought about what atrocities must have taken place there for a

quarter of a century. Salander did not need to think about the matter; she had seen the videotapes. She noticed that Blomkvist was unconsciously touching his neck.

“Gottfried hated women and taught his son to hate women at the same time as he was raping him. But

there’s also some sort of undertone . . . I think Gottfried fantasised that his children would share his, to put it mildly, perverted world view. When I asked about Harriet, his own sister, Martin said: ‘We tried to talk to her. But she was just an ordinary cunt. She was planning to tell Henrik.’ ”

“I heard him. That was about when I got down to the basement. And that means that we know what her

aborted conversation with Henrik was to have been about.”

Blomkvist frowned. “Not really. Think of the chronology. We don’t know when Gottfried first raped his

son, but he took Martin with him when he murdered Lea Persson in Uddevalla in 1962. He drowned in

1965. Before that, he and Martin tried to talk to Harriet. Where does that lead us?”

“Martin wasn’t the only one that Gottfried assaulted. He also assaulted Harriet.”

“Gottfried was the teacher. Martin was the pupil. Harriet was what? Their plaything?”

“Gottfried taught Martin to screw his sister.” Salander pointed at the Polaroid prints. “It’s hard to determine her attitude from these two pictures because we can’t see her face, but she’s trying to hide from the camera.”

“Let’s say that it started when she was fourteen, in 1964. She defended herself—couldn’t accept it, as

Martin put it. That was what she was threatening to tell Henrik about. Martin undoubtedly had nothing to

say in this connection; he just did what his father told him. But he and Gottfried had formed some sort of .

. . pact, and they tried to initiate Harriet into it too.”

Salander said: “In your notes you wrote that Henrik had let Harriet move into his house in the winter of

1964.”

“Henrik could see there was something wrong in her family. He thought it was the bickering and friction between Gottfried and Isabella that was the cause, and he took her in so that she could have some peace and quiet and concentrate on her studies.”

“An unforeseen obstacle for Gottfried and Martin. They couldn’t get their hands on her as easily or control her life. But eventually . . . Where did the assault take place?”

“It must have been at Gottfried’s cabin. I’m almost positive that these pictures were taken there—it should be possible to check. The cabin is in a perfect location, isolated and far from the village. Then Gottfried got drunk one last time and died in a most banal way.”

“So Harriet’s father had attempted to have sex with her, but my guess is that he didn’t initiate her into

the killing.”

Blomkvist realised that this was a weak point. Harriet had made note of the names of Gottfried’s victims, pairing them up with Bible quotes, but her interest in the Bible did not emerge until the last year, and by then Gottfried was already dead. He paused, trying to come up with a logical explanation.

“Sometime along the way Harriet discovered that Gottfried had not only committed incest, but he was

also a serial sex murderer,” he said.

“We don’t know when she found out about the murders. It could have been right before Gottfried drowned. It might also have been after he drowned, if he had a diary or had saved press cuttings about

them. Something put her on his track.”

“But that wasn’t what she was threatening to tell Henrik,” Blomkvist said.

“It was Martin,” Salander said. “Her father was dead, but Martin was going on abusing her.”

“Exactly.”

“But it was a year before she took any action.”

“What would you do if you found out that your father was a murderer who had been raping your brother?”

“I’d kill the fucker,” Salander said in such a sober tone that Blomkvist believed her. He remembered

her face as she was attacking Martin Vanger. He smiled joylessly.

“OK, but Harriet wasn’t like you. Gottfried died before she managed to do anything. That also makes

sense. When Gottfried died, Isabella sent Martin to Uppsala. He might have come home for Christmas or

other holidays, but during that following year he didn’t see Harriet very often. She was able to get some

distance from him.”

“And she started studying the Bible.”

“And in light of what we now know, it didn’t have to be for any religious reasons. Maybe she simply

wanted to know what her father had been up to. She brooded over it until the Children’s Day celebration

in 1966. Then suddenly she sees her brother on Järnvägsgatan and realises that he’s back. We don’t know

if they talked to each other or if he said anything. But no matter what happened, Harriet had an urge to go straight home and talk to Henrik.”

“And then she disappeared.”

After they had gone over the chain of events, it was not hard to understand what the rest of the puzzle must have looked like. Blomkvist and Salander packed their bags. Before they left, Blomkvist called Frode and

told him that he and Salander had to go away for a while, but that he absolutely wanted to see Henrik Vanger before they left.

Blomkvist needed to know what Frode had told Henrik. The man sounded so stressed on the telephone

that Blomkvist felt concerned for him. Frode said that he had only told him that Martin had died in a car

accident.

It was thundering again when Blomkvist parked outside Hedestad Hospital, and the sky was filled once

more with heavy rain clouds. He hurried across the car park just as it started to rain.

Vanger was wearing a bathrobe, sitting at a table by the window of his room. His illness had left its

mark, but Vanger had regained some colour in his face and looked as if he were on the path to recovery.

They shook hands. Blomkvist asked the nurse to leave them alone for a few minutes.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Vanger said.

Mikael nodded. “On purpose. Your family didn’t want me to come at all, but today everyone is over at

Isabella’s house.”

“Poor Martin,” Vanger said.

“Henrik. You gave me an assignment to dig up the truth about what happened to Harriet. Did you expect

the truth to be painless?”

The old man looked at him. Then his eyes widened.

“Martin?”

“He’s part of the story.”

Henrik closed his eyes.

“Now I have got a question for you,” Blomkvist said.

“Tell me.”

“Do you still want to know what happened? Even if it turns out to be painful and even if the truth is

worse than you imagined?”

Henrik gave Blomkvist a long look. Then he said, “I want to know. That was the point of your assignment.”

“OK. I think I know what happened to Harriet. But there’s one last piece of the puzzle missing before

I’m sure.”

“Tell me.”

“No. Not today. What I want you to do right now is to rest. The doctors say that the crisis is over and

that you’re getting better.”

“Don’t you treat me like a child, young man.”

“I haven’t worked it all out yet. What I have is a theory. I am going out to find the last piece of the puzzle. The next time you see me, I’ll tell you the whole story. It may take a while, but I want you to know that I’m coming back and that you’ll know the truth.”

Salander pulled a tarpaulin over her motorcycle and left it on the shady side of the cabin. Then she got

into Blomkvist’s borrowed car. The thunderstorm had returned with renewed force, and just south of Gävle there was such a fierce downpour that Blomkvist could hardly see the road. Just to be safe, he pulled into a petrol station. They waited for the rain to let up, so they did not arrive in Stockholm until 7:00 that evening. Blomkvist gave Salander the security code to his building and dropped her off at the

central tunnelbana. His apartment seemed unfamiliar.

He vacuumed and dusted while Salander went to see Plague in Sundbyberg. She arrived at Blomkvist’s

apartment at around midnight and spent ten minutes examining every nook and cranny of it. Then she stood

at the window for a long time, looking at the view facing the Slussen locks.

They got undressed and slept.

At noon the next day they landed at London’s Gatwick Airport. They were met with rain. Blomkvist had

booked a room at the Hotel James near Hyde Park, an excellent hotel compared to all the one-star places

in Bayswater where he had always ended up on his previous trips to London.

At 5:00 p.m. they were standing at the bar when a youngish man came towards them. He was almost

bald, with a blond beard, and he was wearing jeans and a jacket that was too big for him.

“Wasp?”

“Trinity?” she said. They nodded to each other. He did not ask for Blomkvist’s name.

Trinity’s partner was introduced as Bob the Dog. He was in an old VW van around the corner. They

climbed in through the sliding doors and sat down on folding chairs fastened to the sides. While Bob navigated through the London traffic, Wasp and Trinity talked.

“Plague said this had to do with some crash-bang job.”

“Telephone tapping and checking emails in a computer. It might go fast, or it could take a couple of days, depending on how much pressure he applies.” Lisbeth gestured towards Blomkvist with her thumb.

“Can you do it?”

“Do dogs have fleas?” Trinity said.

Anita Vanger lived in a terrace house in the attractive suburb of St. Albans, about an hour’s drive north.

From the van they saw her arrive home and unlock the door some time after 7:30 that evening. They waited until she had settled, had her supper, and was sitting in front of the TV before Blomkvist rang the doorbell.

An almost identical copy of Cecilia Vanger opened the door, her expression politely questioning.

“Hi, Anita. My name is Mikael Blomkvist. Henrik Vanger asked me to come and see you. I assume that

you’ve heard the news about Martin.”

Her expression changed from surprise to wariness. She knew exactly who Mikael Blomkvist was. But

Henrik’s name meant that she was forced to open the door. She showed Blomkvist into her living room.

He noticed a signed lithograph by Anders Zorn over the fireplace. It was altogether a charming room.

“Forgive me for bothering you out of the blue, but I happened to be in St. Albans, and I tried to call you during the day.”

“I understand. Please tell me what this is about?”

“Are you planning to be at the funeral?”

“No, as a matter of fact, I’m not. Martin and I weren’t close, and anyway, I can’t get away at the moment.”

Anita Vanger had stayed away from Hedestad for thirty years. After her father moved back to Hedeby

Island, she had hardly set foot there.

“I want to know what happened to Harriet Vanger, Anita. It’s time for the truth.”

“Harriet? I don’t know what you mean.”

Blomkvist smiled at her feigned surprise.

“You were Harriet’s closest friend in the family. You were the one she turned to with her horrible story.”

“I can’t think what you’re talking about,” Anita said.

“Anita, you were in Harriet’s room that day. I have photographic proof of it, in spite of what you said to Inspector Morell. In a few days I’m going to report to Henrik, and he’ll take it from there. It would be better to tell me what happened.”

Anita Vanger stood up.

“Get out of my house this minute.”

Blomkvist got up.

“Sooner or later you’re going to have to talk to me.”

“I have nothing now, nor ever will have, anything to say to you.”

“Martin is dead,” Blomkvist said. “You never liked Martin. I think that you moved to London not only

to avoid seeing your father but also so that you wouldn’t have to see Martin. That means that you also knew about Martin, and the only one who could have told you was Harriet. The question is: what did you

do with that knowledge?”

Anita Vanger slammed her front door in his face.

Salander smiled with satisfaction as she unfastened the microphone from under his shirt.

“She picked up the telephone about twenty seconds after she nearly took the door off its hinges,” she

said.

“The country code is Australia,” Trinity said, putting down the earphones on the little desk in the van.

“I need to check the area code.” He switched on his laptop. “OK, she called the following number, which

is a telephone in a town called Tennant Creek, north of Alice Springs in the Northern Territory. Do you

want to hear the conversation?”

Blomkvist nodded. “What time is it in Australia right now?”

“About 5:00 in the morning.” Trinity started the digital player and attached a speaker. Mikael counted

eight rings before someone picked up the telephone. The conversation took place in English.

“Hi. It’s me.”

“Hmm, I know I’m a morning person but . . .”

“I thought of calling you yesterday . . . Martin is dead. He seems to have driven his car into a truck the day before yesterday.”

Silence. Then what sounded like someone clearing their throat, but it might have been: “Good.”

“But we have got a problem. A disgusting journalist that Henrik dug up from somewhere has just knocked on my door, here in St. Albans. He’s asking questions about what happened in 1966. He knows

something.”

Again silence. Then a commanding voice.

“Anita. Put down the telephone right now. We can’t have any contact for a while.”

“But . . .”

“Write a letter. Tell me what’s going on.” Then the conversation was over.

“Sharp chick,” Salander said.

They returned to their hotel just before 11:00. The front desk manager helped them to reserve seats on

the next available flight to Australia. Soon they had reservations on a plane leaving at 7:05 the following evening, destination Melbourne, changing in Singapore.

This was Salander’s first visit to London. They spent the morning walking from Covent Garden through

Soho. They stopped to have a caffe latte on Old Compton Street. Around 3:00 they were back at the hotel

to collect their luggage. While Blomkvist paid the bill, Salander turned on her mobile. She had a text message.

“Armansky says to call at once.”

She used a telephone in the lobby. Blomkvist, who was standing a short distance away, noticed Salander turn to him with a frozen expression on her face. He was at her side at once.

“What is it?”

“My mother died. I have to go home.”

Salander looked so unhappy that he put his arms around her. She pushed him away.

They sat in the hotel bar. When Blomkvist said that he would cancel the reservations to Australia and

go back to Stockholm with her, she shook her head.

“No,” she said. “We can’t screw up the job now. You’ll have to go by yourself.”

They parted outside the hotel, each of them making for a different airport.

CHAPTER 26

Tuesday, July 15–

Thursday, July 17

Blomkvist flew from Melbourne to Alice Springs. After that he had to choose either to charter a plane or

to rent a car for the remaining 250-mile trip north. He chose to go by car.

An unknown person with the biblical signature of Joshua, who was part of Plague’s or possibly Trinity’s mysterious international network, had left an envelope for him at the central information desk at Melbourne airport.

The number that Anita had called belonged to a place called Cochran Farm. It was a sheep station. An

article pulled off the Internet gave a snapshot guide.

Australia: population of 18 million; sheep farmers, 53,000; approx. 120 million head of sheep. The export of wool approx. 3.5 billion dollars annually. Australia exports 700 million tons of mutton and lamb, plus skins for clothing. Combined meat and wool production one of the country’s most important industries . . .

Cochran Farm, founded 1891 by Jeremy Cochran, Australia’s fifth largest agricultural enterprise, approx 60,000 Merino sheep (wool considered especially fine). The station also raised cattle, pigs, and

chickens. Cochran Farm had impressive annual exports to the U.S.A., Japan, China, and Europe.

The personal biographies were fascinating.

In 1972 Cochran Farm passed down from Raymond Cochran to Spencer Cochran, educ. Oxford.

Spencer d. in 1994, and farm run by widow. Blomkvist found her in a blurry, low-resolution photograph

downloaded from the Cochran Farm website. It showed a woman with short blonde hair, her face partially hidden, shearing a sheep.

According to Joshua’s note, the couple had married in Italy in 1971.

Her name was Anita Cochran.

Blomkvist stopped overnight in a dried-up hole of a town with the hopeful name of Wannado. At the local

pub he ate roast mutton and downed three pints along with some locals who all called him “mate.”

Last thing before he went to bed he called Berger in New York.

“I’m sorry, Ricky, but I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had time to call.”

“What the hell is going on?” she exploded. “Christer called and told me that Martin Vanger had been

killed in a car accident.”

“It’s a long story.”

“And why don’t you answer your telephone? I’ve been calling like crazy for two days.”

“It doesn’t work here.”

“Where is here?”

“Right now I’m about one hundred twenty-five miles north of Alice Springs. In Australia, that is.”

Mikael had rarely managed to surprise Berger. This time she was silent for nearly ten seconds.

“And what are you doing in Australia? If I might ask.”

“I’m finishing up the job. I’ll be back in a few days. I just called to tell you that my work for Henrik

Vanger is almost done.”

He arrived at Cochran Farm around noon the following day, to be told that Anita Cochran was at a sheep

station near a place called Makawaka seventy-five miles farther west.

It was 4:00 in the afternoon by the time Mikael found his way there on dusty back roads. He stopped at

a gate where some sheep ranchers were gathered around the hood of a Jeep having coffee. Blomkvist got

out and explained that he was looking for Anita Cochran. They all turned towards a muscular young man,

clearly the decision-maker of the group. He was bare chested and very brown except for the parts normally covered by his T-shirt. He was wearing a wide-brimmed hat.

“The boss is about eighteen miles off in that direction,” he said, pointing with his thumb.

He cast a sceptical glance at Blomkvist’s vehicle and said that it might not be such a good idea to go on

in that Japanese toy car. Finally the tanned athlete said that he was heading that way and would drive Blomkvist in his Jeep. Blomkvist thanked him and took along his computer case.

The man introduced himself as Jeff and said that he was the “studs manager” at the station. Blomkvist asked him to explain what that meant. Jeff gave him a sidelong look and concluded that Blomkvist was not

from these parts. He explained that a studs manager was rather the equivalent of a financial manager in a

bank, although he administered sheep, and that a “station” was the Australian word for ranch.

They continued to converse as Jeff cheerfully steered the Jeep at about ten kilometres an hour down into a ravine with a 20° slope. Blomkvist thanked his lucky stars that he had not attempted the drive in his rental car. He asked what was down in the ravine and was told that it was the pasture land for 700 head of sheep.

“As I understand it, Cochran Farm is one of the bigger ranches.”

“We’re one of the largest in all of Australia,” Jeff said with a certain pride in his voice. “We run about 9,000 sheep here in the Makawaka district, but we have stations in both New South Wales and Western

Australia. We have 60,000 plus head.”

They came out from the ravine into a hilly but gentler landscape. Blomkvist suddenly heard shots. He

saw sheep cadavers, big bonfires, and a dozen ranch hands. Several men seemed to be carrying rifles.

They were apparently slaughtering sheep.

Involuntarily, he thought of the biblical sacrificial lambs.

Then he saw a woman with short blonde hair wearing jeans and a red-and-white checked shirt. Jeff stopped a few yards away from her.

“Hi, Boss. We’ve got a tourist,” he said.

Blomkvist got out of the Jeep and looked at her. She looked back with an inquisitive expression.

“Hi, Harriet. It’s been a long time,” he said in Swedish.

None of the men who worked for Anita Cochran understood what he said, but they all saw her reaction.

She took a step back, looking shocked. The men saw her response, stopped their joking, and straightened

up, ready to intervene against this odd stranger. Jeff’s friendliness suddenly evaporated and he advanced

toward Blomkvist.

Blomkvist was keenly aware how vulnerable he was. A word from Anita Cochran and he would be done for.

Then the moment passed. Harriet Vanger waved her hand in a peaceful gesture and the men moved back. She came over to Blomkvist and met his gaze. Her face was sweaty and dirty. Her blonde hair had

darker roots. Her face was older and thinner, but she had grown into the beautiful woman that her confirmation portrait had promised.

“Have we met before?” she said.

“Yes, we have. I am Mikael Blomkvist. You were my babysitter one summer when I was three years

old. You were twelve or thirteen at the time.”

It took a few seconds for her puzzled expression to clear, and then he saw that she remembered. She

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