Friday, May 16–Saturday, May 31 13 page

looked surprised.

“What do you want?”

“Harriet, I’m not your enemy. I’m not here to make trouble for you. But I need to talk with you.”

She turned to Jeff and told him to take over, then signalled to Blomkvist to follow her. They walked a

few hundred feet over to a group of white canvas tents in a grove of trees. She motioned him to a camp

stool at a rickety table and poured water into a basin. She rinsed her face, dried it, and went inside the tent to change her shirt. She got two beers out of a cooler.

“So. Talk.”

“Why are you shooting the sheep?”

“We have a contagious epidemic. Most of these sheep are probably healthy, but we can’t risk it spreading. We’re going to have to slaughter more than six hundred in the coming week. So I’m not in a

very good mood.”

Blomkvist said: “Your brother crashed his car into a truck a few days ago. He must have died instantaneously.”

“I heard that.”

“From Anita, who called you.”

She scrutinised him for a long moment. Then she nodded. She knew that it was pointless to deny the fact.

“How did you find me?”

“We tapped Anita’s telephone.” Blomkvist did not think there was any reason to lie. “I saw your brother a few minutes before he died.”

Harriet Vanger frowned. He met her gaze. Then he took off the ridiculous scarf he was wearing, turned

down his collar, and showed her the stripe left from the noose. It was still red and inflamed, and he would probably always have a scar to remind him of Martin Vanger.

“Your brother had hung me from a hook, but by the grace of God my partner arrived in time to stop him

killing me.”

Harriet’s eyes suddenly burned.

“I think you’d better tell me the story from the beginning.”

It took more than an hour. He told her who he was and what he was working on. He described how he

came to be given the assignment by Henrik Vanger. He explained how the police’s investigation had come

to a dead end, and he told her of Henrik’s long investigation, and finally he told her how a photograph of her with friends in Järnvägsgatan in Hedestad had led to the uncovering of the sorrows behind the mystery

of her disappearance and its appalling sequel, which had ended with Martin Vanger’s suicide.

As he talked, dusk set in. The men quit work for the day, fires were started, and pots began to simmer.

Blomkvist noticed that Jeff stayed close to his boss and kept a watchful eye on him. The cook served them

dinner. They each had another beer. When he was finished Harriet sat for a long time in silence.

At length she said: “I was so happy that my father was dead and the violence was over. It never occurred to me that Martin . . . I’m glad he’s dead.”

“I can understand that.”

“Your story doesn’t explain how you knew that I was alive.”

“After we realised what had happened, it wasn’t so difficult to work out the rest. To disappear, you needed help. Anita was your confidante and the only one you could even consider. You were friends, and

she had spent the summer with you. You stayed out at your father’s cabin. If there was anyone you had confided in, it had to be her—and also she had just got her driver’s licence.”

Harriet looked at him with an unreadable expression.

“So now that you know I’m alive, what are you going to do?”

“I have to tell Henrik. He deserves to know.”

“And then? You’re a journalist.”

“I’m not thinking of exposing you. I’ve already breached so many rules of professional conduct in this

whole dismal mess that the Journalists Association would undoubtedly expel me if they knew about it.”

He was trying to make light of it. “One more won’t make any difference, and I don’t want to make my old

babysitter angry.”

She was not amused.

“How many people know the truth?”

“That you’re alive? Right now, you and me and Anita and my partner. Henrik’s lawyer knows about two-thirds of the story, but he still thinks you died in the sixties.”

Harriet Vanger seemed to be thinking something over. She stared out at the dark. Mikael once again had

an uneasy feeling that he was in a vulnerable situation, and he reminded himself that Harriet Vanger’s own rifle was on a camp bed three paces away. Then he shook himself and stopped imagining things. He changed the subject.

“But how did you come to be a sheep farmer in Australia? I already know that Anita smuggled you off

Hedeby Island, presumably in the boot of her car when the bridge re-opened the day after the accident.”

“Actually, I lay on the floor of the back seat with a blanket over me. But no-one was looking. I went to

Anita when she arrived on the island and told her that I had to escape. You guessed right that I confided in her. She helped me, and she’s been a loyal friend all these years.”

“Why Australia?”

“I stayed in Anita’s room in Stockholm for a few weeks. Anita had her own money, which she generously lent me. She also gave me her passport. We looked almost exactly like each other, and all I had to do was dye my hair blonde. For four years I lived in a convent in Italy—I wasn’t a nun. There are convents where you can rent a room cheap, to have peace and quiet to think. Then I met Spencer Cochran.

He was some years older; he’d just finished his degree in England and was hitchhiking around Europe. I

fell in love. He did too. That’s all there was to it. ‘Anita’ Vanger married him in 1971. I’ve never had any regrets. He was a wonderful man. Very sadly, he died eight years ago, and I became the owner of the station.”

“But your passport—surely someone should have discovered that there were two Anita Vangers?”

“No, why should they? A Swedish girl named Anita Vanger who’s married to Spencer Cochran.

Whether she lives in London or Australia makes no difference. The one in London has been Spencer Cochran’s estranged wife. The one in Australia was his very much present wife. They don’t match up computer files between Canberra and London. Besides, I soon got an Australian passport under my married name. The arrangement functioned perfectly. The only thing that could have upset the story was if

Anita herself wanted to get married. My marriage had to be registered in the Swedish national registration files.”

“But she never did.”

“She claims that she never found anyone. But I know that she did it for my sake. She’s been a true friend.”

“What was she doing in your room?”

“I wasn’t very rational that day. I was afraid of Martin, but as long as he was in Uppsala, I could push

the problem out of my mind. Then there he was in Hedestad, and I realised that I’d never be safe the rest

of my life. I went back and forth between wanting to tell Uncle Henrik and wanting to flee. When Henrik

didn’t have time to talk to me, I just wandered restlessly around the village. Of course I know that the accident on the bridge overshadowed everything else for everyone, but not for me. I had my own problems, and I was hardly even aware of the accident. Everything seemed unreal. Then I ran into Anita,

who was staying in a guest cottage in the compound with Gerda and Alexander. That was when I made up

my mind. I stayed with her the whole time and didn’t dare go outside. But there was one thing I had to take with me—I had written down everything that happened in a diary, and I needed a few clothes. Anita got

them for me.”

“I suppose she couldn’t resist the temptation to look out at the accident scene.” Blomkvist thought for a

moment. “What I don’t understand is why you didn’t just go to Henrik, as you had intended.”

“Why do you think?”

“I really don’t know. Henrik would certainly have helped you. Martin would have been removed immediately—probably sent to Australia for some sort of therapy or treatment.”

“You haven’t understood what happened.”

Up to this point Blomkvist had only referred to Gottfried’s sexual assault on Martin, leaving Harriet’s

role out of it.

“Gottfried molested Martin,” he said cautiously. “I suspect that he also molested you.”

Harriet Vanger did not move a muscle. Then she took a deep breath and buried her face in her hands. It

took five seconds before Jeff was beside her, asking if everything was all right. Harriet looked at him and gave him a faint smile. Then she astonished Blomkvist by standing up and giving her studs manager a hug

and a kiss on the cheek. She turned to Blomkvist with her arm around Jeff’s shoulder.

“Jeff, this is Mikael, an old … friend from the past. He’s brought problems and bad news, but we’re

not going to shoot the messenger. Mikael, this is Jeff Cochran, my oldest son. I also have another son and a daughter.”

Blomkvist stood up to shake hands with Jeff, saying that he was sorry to have brought bad news which

had upset his mother. Harriet exchanged a few words with Jeff and then sent him away. She sat down again and seemed to have made a decision.

“No more lies. I accept that it’s all over. In some sense I’ve been waiting for this day since 1966. For

years I was terrified that someone might come up to me and say my name. But you know what? All of a

sudden I don’t care any more. My crime falls outside the statute of limitations. And I don’t give a shit what people think about me.”

“Crime?” said Mikael.

She gave him an urgent look, but he still didn’t understand what she was talking about.

“I was sixteen. I was scared. I was ashamed. I was desperate. I was all alone. The only ones who knew

the truth were Anita and Martin. I had told Anita about the sexual assaults, but I didn’t have the courage to tell her that my father was also an insane killer of women. Anita had never known about that. But I did tell her about the crime that I committed myself. It was so horrible that when it came down to it, I didn’t dare tell Henrik. I prayed to God to forgive me. And I hid inside a convent for several years.”

“Harriet, your father was a rapist and a murderer. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know that. My father molested me for a year. I did everything to avoid … but he was my father and I

couldn’t refuse to have anything to do with him without giving him some explanation. So I lied and played

a role and tried to pretend that everything was OK. And I made sure that someone else was always around

when I saw him. My mother knew what he was doing, of course, but she didn’t care.”

“Isabella knew?”

Harriet’s voice took on a new harshness.

“Of course she knew. Nothing ever happened in our family without Isabella knowing. But she ignored

everything that was unpleasant or showed her in a bad light. My father could have raped me in the middle

of the living room right before her eyes and she wouldn’t have noticed. She was incapable of acknowledging that anything was wrong in her life or mine.”

“I’ve met her. She’s not my favourite in the family.”

“She’s been like that her whole life. I’ve often wondered about my parents’ relationship. I realised that

they rarely or maybe never had sex with each other after I was born. My father had women, but for some

strange reason he was afraid of Isabella. He stayed away from her, but he couldn’t get a divorce.”

“No-one does in the Vanger family.”

She laughed for the first time.

“No, they don’t. But the point is that I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. The whole world would

have found out. My schoolmates, all my relatives …”

“Harriet, I’m so sorry.”

“I was fourteen when he raped me the first time. And during the next year he would take me out to his

cabin. Many times Martin came along. He forced both me and Martin to do things with him. And he held

my arms while Martin … had his way with me. When my father died, Martin was ready to take over his

role. He expected me to become his lover and he thought it was perfectly natural for me to submit to him.

At that time I no longer had any choice. I was forced to do what Martin said. I was rid of one tormentor

only to land in the clutches of another, and the only thing I could do was to make sure there was never an occasion when I was alone with him …”

“Henrik would have …”

“You still don’t understand.”

She raised her voice. Blomkvist saw that several of the men at the next tent were looking at him. She

lowered her voice again and leaned towards him.

“All the cards are on the table. You’ll have to work out the rest.”

She stood up and got two more beers. When she came back, Mikael said a single word to her.

“Gottfried.”

She nodded.

“On August 7, 1965, my father forced me to go out to his cabin. Henrik was away. My father was drinking, and he tried to force himself on me. But he couldn’t get it up and he flew into a drunken rage. He was always … rough and violent towards me when we were alone, but this time he crossed the line. He

urinated on me. Then he started telling me what he was going to do to me. That night he told me about the women he had killed. He was bragging about it. He quoted from the Bible. This went on for an hour. I didn’t understand half of what he was saying, but I realised that he was totally, absolutely sick.”

She took a gulp of her beer.

“Sometime around midnight he had a fit. He was totally insane. We were up in the sleeping loft. He put

a T-shirt around my neck and pulled it as tight as he could. I blacked out. I don’t have the slightest doubt that he really was trying to kill me, and for the first time that night he managed to complete the rape.”

Harriet looked at Blomkvist. Her eyes entreated him to understand.

“But he was so drunk that somehow I managed to get away. I jumped down from the loft and fled. I was

naked and I ran without thinking, and ended up on the jetty by the water. He came staggering after me.”

Blomkvist suddenly wished that she would not tell him anything more.

“I was strong enough to shove an old drunk into the water. I used an oar to hold him under until he wasn’t struggling any more. It didn’t take long.”

When she stopped, the silence was deafening.

“And when I looked up, there stood Martin. He looked terrified, but at the same time he was grinning. I

don’t know how long he was outside the cabin, spying on us. From that moment I was at his mercy. He

came up to me, grabbed me by the hair, and led me back to the cabin—to Gottfried’s bed. He tied me up

and raped me while our father was still floating in the water. And I couldn’t even offer any resistance.”

Blomkvist closed his eyes. He was terribly ashamed and wished that he had left Harriet Vanger in peace. But her voice had taken on a new force.

“From that day on, I was in his power. I did what he told me to do. I felt paralysed, and the only thing

that saved my sanity was that Isabella—or maybe it was Uncle Henrik—decided that Martin needed a change of scenery after his father’s tragic death, so she sent him to Uppsala. Of course this was because

she knew what he was doing to me, and it was her way of solving the problem. You can bet that Martin

was disappointed. During the next year he was home only for the Christmas holiday. I managed to keep

away from him. I went with Henrik on a trip to Copenhagen between Christmas and New Year’s. And during the summer holiday, Anita was there. I confided in her, and she stayed with me the whole time, making sure that he didn’t come near me.”

“Until you saw him on Järnvägsgatan.”

“I was told that he wouldn’t be coming to the family gathering, that he was staying in Uppsala. But obviously he changed his mind, and suddenly there he was on the other side of the street, staring at me. He smiled at me. It felt like a hideous dream. I had murdered my father, and I realised that I would never be free of my brother. Up until then, I had thought about killing myself. I chose instead to flee.” She gave Blomkvist what was almost a look of relief. “It feels fantastic to tell the truth. So now you know.”

CHAPTER 27

Saturday, July 26–

Monday, July 28

Blomkvist picked up Salander by her front door on Lundagatan at 10:00 and drove her to the Norra crematorium. He stayed at her side during the ceremony. For a long time they were the only mourners along with the pastor, but when the funeral began Armansky slipped in. He nodded curtly to Blomkvist and stood behind Salander, gently putting a hand on her shoulder. She nodded without looking at him, as if she knew who was standing there. Then she ignored them both.

Salander had told him nothing about her mother, but the pastor had apparently spoken to someone at the

nursing home where she died, and Blomkvist understood that the cause of death was a cerebral haemorrhage. Salander did not say a word during the ceremony. The pastor lost her train of thought twice

when she turned directly to her. Salander looked her straight in the eye without expression. When it was

over she turned on her heel and left without saying thank you or goodbye. Blomkvist and Armansky took a

deep breath and looked at each other.

“She’s feeling really bad,” Armansky said.

“I know that,” Blomkvist said. “It was good of you to come.”

“I’m not so sure about that.”

Armansky fixed Blomkvist with his gaze.

“If you two are driving back north, keep an eye on her.”

He promised to do that. They said goodbye, and to the pastor, at the church door. Salander was already

in the car, waiting.

She had to go back with him to Hedestad to get her motorcycle and the equipment she had borrowed

from Milton Security. Not until they had passed Uppsala did she break her silence and ask how the trip to

Australia had gone. Blomkvist had landed at Arlanda late the night before and had slept only a few hours.

During the drive he told her Harriet Vanger’s story. Salander sat in silence for half an hour before she opened her mouth.

“Bitch,” she said.

“Who?”

“Harriet Fucking Vanger. If she had done something in 1966, Martin Vanger couldn’t have kept killing

and raping for thirty-seven years.”

“Harriet knew about her father murdering women, but she had no idea that Martin had anything to do

with it. She fled from a brother who raped her and then threatened to reveal that she had drowned her father if she didn’t do what he said.”

“Bullshit.”

After that they sat in silence all the way to Hedestad. Blomkvist was late for his appointment and dropped her at the turnoff to Hedeby Island; he asked if she would please be there when he came back.

“Are you thinking of staying overnight?” she said.

“I think so.”

“Do you want me to be here?”

He climbed out of the car and went around and put his arms around her. She pushed him away, almost

violently. Blomkvist took a step back.

“Lisbeth, you’re my friend.”

“Do you want me to stay here so you’ll have somebody to fuck tonight?”

Blomkvist gave her a long look. Then he turned and got into the car and started the engine. He wound

down the window. Her hostility was palpable.

“I want to be your friend,” he said. “If you want otherwise, then you don’t need to be here when I get

home.”

Henrik Vanger was sitting up, dressed, when Dirch Frode let him into the hospital room.

“They’re thinking of letting me out for Martin’s funeral tomorrow.”

“How much has Dirch told you?”

Henrik looked down at the floor.

“He told me about what Martin and Gottfried got up to. This is far, far worse than I could have imagined.”

“I know what happened to Harriet.”

“Tell me: how did she die?”

“She didn’t die. She’s still alive. And if you like, she really wants to see you.”

Both men stared at him as if their world had just been turned upside down.

“It took a while to convince her to come, but she’s alive, she’s doing fine, and she’s here in Hedestad.

She arrived this morning and can be here in an hour. If you want to see her, that is.”

Blomkvist had to tell the story from beginning to end. A couple of times Henrik interrupted with a question or asked him to repeat something. Frode said not a word.

When the story was done, Henrik sat in silence. Blomkvist had been afraid that it would be too much

for the old man, but Henrik showed no sign of emotion, except that his voice might have been a bit thicker when he broke his silence

“Poor, poor Harriet. If only she had come to me.”

Blomkvist glanced at the clock. It was five minutes to four.

“Do you want to see her? She’s still afraid that you won’t want to after you found out what she did.”

“What about the flowers?” Henrik said.

“I asked her that on the plane coming home. There was one person in the family, apart from Anita, whom she loved, and that was you. She, of course, was the one who sent the flowers. She said that she

hoped you would understand that she was alive and that she was doing fine, without having to make an

appearance. But since her only channel of information was Anita, who moved abroad as soon as she finished her studies and never visited Hedestad, Harriet’s awareness about what went on here was limited. She never knew how terribly you suffered or that you thought it was her murderer taunting you.”

“I assume it was Anita who posted the flowers.”

“She worked for an airline and flew all over the world. She posted them from wherever she happened

to be.”

“But how did you know Anita was the one who helped her?”

“She was the one in Harriet’s window.”

“But she could have been mixed up in … she could have been the murderer instead. How did you find

out that Harriet was alive?”

Blomkvist gave Henrik a long look. Then he smiled for the first time since he had returned to Hedestad.

“Anita was involved in Harriet’s disappearance, but she couldn’t have killed her.”

“How could you be sure of that?”

“Because this isn’t some damned locked-room mystery novel. If Anita had murdered Harriet, you would have found the body years ago. So the only logical thing was that she helped Harriet escape and

hide. Do you want to see her?”

“Of course I want to see her.”

Blomkvist found Harriet by the lift in the lobby. At first he did not recognise her. Since they had parted at Arlanda Airport the night before she had dyed her hair brown again. She was dressed in black trousers, a

white blouse, and an elegant grey jacket. She looked radiant, and Blomkvist bent down to give her an encouraging hug.

Henrik got up from his chair when Mikael opened the door. She took a deep breath.

“Hi, Henrik,” she said.

The old man scrutinised her from top to toe. Then Harriet went over and kissed him. Blomkvist nodded

to Frode and closed the door.

Salander was not in the cottage when Blomkvist returned to Hedeby Island. The video equipment and her

motorcycle were gone, as well as the bag with her extra clothes and her sponge bag. The cottage felt empty. It suddenly seemed alien and unreal. He looked at the stacks of paper in the office, which he would have to pack up in boxes and carry back to Henrik’s house. But he could not face starting the process. He

drove to Konsum and bought bread, milk, cheese, and something for supper. When he returned he put on

water for coffee, sat in the garden, and read the evening papers without thinking of anything else.

At 5:30 a taxi drove across the bridge. After three minutes it went back the way it came. Blomkvist caught a glimpse of Isabella Vanger in the back seat.

Around 7:00 he had dozed off in the garden chair when Frode woke him up.

“How’s it going with Henrik and Harriet?” he said.

“This unhappy cloud has its silver lining,” Frode said with a restrained smile. “Isabella, would you believe, came rushing into Henrik’s hospital room. She’d obviously seen that you’d come back and was

completely beside herself. She screamed at him that there had to be an end to this outrageous fuss about

her Harriet, adding that you were the one who drove her son to his death with your snooping.”

“Well, she’s right, in a way.”

“She commanded Henrik to dismiss you forthwith and run you off the property for good. And would he,

once and for all, stop searching for ghosts.”

“Wow!”

“She didn’t even glance at the woman sitting beside the bed talking to Henrik. She must have thought it

was one of the staff. I will never forget the moment when Harriet stood up and said, ‘Hello, Mamma.’ ”

“What happened?”

“We had to call a doctor to check Isabella’s vital signs. Right now she’s refusing to believe that it’s Harriet. You are accused of dragging in an impostor.”

Frode was on his way to visit Cecilia and Alexander to give them the news that Harriet had risen from

the dead. He hurried away, leaving Blomkvist to his solitary musings.

Salander stopped and filled her tank at a petrol station north of Uppsala. She had been riding doggedly,

staring straight ahead. She paid quickly and got back on her bike. She started it up and rode to the exit, where she stopped, undecided.

She was still in a terrible mood. She was furious when she left Hedeby, but her rage had slowly dissolved during the ride. She could not make up her mind why she was so angry with Blomkvist, or even

if he was the one she was angry with.

She thought of Martin Vanger and Harriet Fucking Vanger and Dirch Fucking Frode and the whole damned Vanger clan sitting in Hedestad reigning over their little empire and plotting against each other.

They had needed her help. Normally they wouldn’t even have said hello to her in the street, let alone entrust her with their repellent secrets.

Fucking riff-raff.

She took a deep breath and thought about her mother, whom she had consigned to ashes that very morning. She would never be able to mend things. Her mother’s death meant that the wound would never

heal, since she would never now get an answer to the questions she had wanted to ask.

She thought about Armansky standing behind her at the crematorium. She should have said something to

him. At least given him some sign that she knew he was there. But if she did that, he would have taken it

as a pretext for trying to structure her life. If she gave him her little finger he’d take her whole arm. And he would never understand.

She thought about the lawyer, Bjurman, who was still her guardian and who, at least for the time being,

had been neutralised and was doing as he was told.

She felt an implacable hatred and clenched her teeth.

And she thought about Mikael Blomkvist and wondered what he would say when he found out that she

was a ward of the court and that her entire life was a fucking rats’ nest.

It came to her that she really was not angry with him. He was just the person on whom she had vented

her anger when what she had wanted most of all was to murder somebody, several people. Being angry

with him was pointless.

She felt strangely ambivalent towards him.

He stuck his nose in other people’s business and poked around in her life and … but … she had also

enjoyed working with him. Even that was an odd feeling—to work with somebody. She wasn’t used to that, but it had been unexpectedly painless. He did not mess with her. He did not try to tell her how to live her life.

She was the one who had seduced him, not vice versa.

And besides, it had been satisfying.

So why did she feel as if she wanted to kick him in the face?

She sighed and unhappily raised her eyes to see an inter-continental roar past on the E4.

Blomkvist was still in the garden at 8:00 when he was roused by the rattle of the motorcycle crossing the

bridge and saw Salander riding towards the cottage. She put her bike on its stand and took off her helmet.

She came up to the garden table and felt the coffeepot, which was empty and cold. Blomkvist stood up,

gazing at her in surprise. She took the coffeepot and went into the kitchen. When she came back out she

had taken off her leathers and sat down in jeans and a T-shirt with the slogan I CAN BE A REGULAR BITCH. JUST TRY ME.

“I thought you’d be in Stockholm by now,” he said.

“I turned round in Uppsala.”

“Quite a ride.”

“I’m sore.”

“Why did you turn around?”

No answer. He waited her out while they drank coffee. After ten minutes she said, reluctantly, “I like

Date: 2015-12-11; view: 694