The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest (4 page)

“She was operated on during the night. They removed a bullet from her head. She hasn’t regained consciousness yet.”

“Is there any prognosis?”

“As I understand it, we won’t know anything until she wakes up. But the surgeon says he has high hopes that she’ll survive, barring unforeseen complications.”

“And Zalachenko?”

“Who?” Erlander’s colleague said. He had not yet been brought up to date with all the details.

“Karl Axel Bodin.”

“I see . . . yes, he was operated on last night too. He had a very deep gash across his face, and another just below one kneecap. He’s in bad shape, but the injuries aren’t life-threatening.”

Blomkvist absorbed this news.

“You look tired,” Modig said.

“You got that right. I’m into my third day with hardly any sleep.”

“Believe it or not, he actually slept in the car coming down from Nossebro,” Erlander said.

“Could you manage to tell us the whole story from the beginning?” Holmberg said. “It feels to us as though the score between the private investigators and the police investigators is about three to nothing.”

Blomkvist gave him a wan smile. “That’s a line I’d like to hear from Officer Bubble.”

They made their way to the police cafeteria to have breakfast. Blomkvist spent half an hour explaining step by step how he had pieced together the story of Zalachenko. When he had finished, the detectives sat in silence.

“There are a few holes in your account,” Holmberg said at last.

“That’s possible,” Blomkvist said.

“You didn’t say, for example, how you came to be in possession of the top secret Säpo report on Zalachenko.”

“I found it yesterday at Lisbeth Salander’s apartment when I finally worked out where she was. She probably found it in Bjurman’s summer cabin.”

“So you’ve discovered Salander’s hideout?” Modig said.

Blomkvist nodded.

“And?”

“You’ll have to find out for yourselves where it is. Salander put a lot of effort into establishing a secret address for herself, and I have no intention of revealing its whereabouts.”

Modig and Holmberg exchanged an anxious look.

“Mikael . . . this is a murder investigation,” Modig said.

“You still don’t get it, do you? Lisbeth Salander is in fact innocent and the police have destroyed her reputation in unprecedented ways. ‘Lesbian Satanist gang’ . . . Where the hell do you get this stuff? Not to mention her being sought in connection with three murders she had nothing to do with. If she wants to tell you where she lives, then I’m sure she will.”

“But there’s another gap I don’t really understand,” Holmberg said.
“How does Bjurman come into the story in the first place? You say he was the one who started the whole thing by contacting Zalachenko and asking him to kill Salander. Why would he do that?”

“My guess is that he hired Zalachenko to get rid of Salander. The plan was for her to end up in that warehouse in Nykvarn.”

“He was her guardian. What motive would he have had to get rid of her?”

“It’s complicated.”

“I can do complicated.”

“He had a hell of a good motive. He had done something that Salander knew about. She was a threat to his entire future and well-being.”

“What had he done?”

“I think it would be best if you gave Salander a chance to explain the story herself.” He looked Holmberg steadily in the eye.

“Let me guess,” Modig said. “Bjurman subjected his ward to some sort of sexual assault.”

Blomkvist shrugged and said nothing.

“You don’t know about the tattoo Bjurman had on his abdomen?”

“What tattoo?” Blomkvist was taken aback.

“An amateurish tattoo across his belly with a message that said: ‘I am a sadistic pig, a pervert, and a rapist.’ We’ve been wondering what that was about.”

Blomkvist burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’ve always wondered what she did to get her revenge. But listen, I don’t want to discuss this for the same reason I’ve already given. She’s the real victim here. She’s the one who has to decide what she is willing to tell you. Sorry.”

He looked almost apologetic.

“Rapes should always be reported to the police,” Modig said.

“I’m with you on that. But this rape took place two years ago, and Lisbeth still hasn’t talked to the police about it. Which means that she doesn’t intend to. It doesn’t matter how much I disagree with her about the matter; it’s her decision. Anyway . . .”

“Yes?”

“She had no good reason to trust the police. The last time she tried explaining what a pig Zalachenko was, she was locked up in a mental hospital.”

•    •    •

Richard Ekström, the leader of the preliminary investigation, had butterflies in his stomach as he asked his team leader, Inspector Bublanski, to take a seat across from him. Ekström straightened his glasses and stroked his well-groomed goatee. He felt that the situation was chaotic and ominous. For several weeks they had been hunting Lisbeth Salander. He himself had proclaimed her far and wide to be mentally imbalanced, a dangerous psychopath. He had leaked information that would have backed him up in an upcoming trial. Everything had looked so good.

There had been no doubt in his mind that Salander was guilty of three murders. The trial should have been a straightforward matter, a pure media circus with himself at centre stage. Then everything had gone haywire, and he found himself with a completely different murderer and a chaos that seemed to have no end in sight.
That bitch Salander
.

“Well, this is a fine mess we’ve landed in,” he said. “What have you come up with this morning?”

“A nationwide APB has been sent out on this Ronald Niedermann, but there’s no sign of him. At present he’s being sought only for the murder of a police officer, but I anticipate we’ll have grounds for charging him with the three murders here in Stockholm. Maybe you should call a press conference.”

Bublanski added the suggestion of a press conference out of sheer spite. Ekström hated press conferences.

“I think we’ll hold off on the press conference for the time being,” he snapped.

Bublanski had to stop himself from smiling.

“In the first place, this is a matter for the Göteborg police,” Ekström said.

“Well, we do have Modig and Holmberg on the scene in Göteborg, and we’ve begun to cooperate—”

“We’ll hold off on the press conference until we know more,” Ekström repeated in a brittle tone. “What I want to know is: how certain are you that Niedermann really is involved in the murders in Stockholm?”

“My gut feeling? I’m 100 percent convinced. On the other hand, the case isn’t exactly rock solid. We have no witnesses to the murders, and there is no satisfactory forensic evidence. Magge Lundin and Sonny Nieminen of the Svavelsjö MC are refusing to say anything—they’re claiming they’ve never heard of Niedermann. But he’s going to go to prison for the murder of a policeman.”

“Precisely,” said Ekström. “The killing of the officer is the main thing right now. But tell me this: is there anything at all to even suggest that
Salander might be involved in some way in the murders? Could she and Niedermann have committed the murders together?”

“I very much doubt it, and if I were you I wouldn’t voice that theory in public.”

“So how is she involved?”

“This is an intricate story, as Mikael Blomkvist claimed from the very beginning. It revolves around this Zala . . . Alexander Zalachenko.”

Ekström flinched at the mention of the name Blomkvist.

“Go on,” he said.

“Zala is a Russian hit man—apparently without a grain of conscience—who defected in the seventies, and Lisbeth Salander was unlucky enough to have him as her father. He was sponsored or supported by a faction within Säpo that tidied up after any crimes he committed. A police officer attached to Säpo also saw to it that Salander was locked up in a children’s psychiatric clinic. She was twelve and had threatened to blow Zalachenko’s identity, his alias, his whole cover.”

“This is a bit difficult to digest. It’s hardly a story we can make public. If I understand the matter correctly, all this stuff about Zalachenko is highly classified.”

“Nevertheless, it’s the truth. I have documentation.”

“May I see it?”

Bublanski pushed across the desk a folder containing a police report dated 1991. Ekström surreptitiously scanned the stamp, which indicated that the document was top secret, and the registration number, which he at once identified as belonging to the Security Police. He leafed rapidly through the hundred or so pages, reading paragraphs here and there. Eventually he put the folder aside.

“We have to try to tone this down, so that the situation doesn’t get completely out of our control. So Salander was locked up in an asylum because she tried to kill her father, this Zalachenko. And now she has attacked him with an axe. By any interpretation that would be attempted murder. And she has to be charged with shooting Magge Lundin in Stallarholmen.”

“You can arrest whomever you want, but I would tread carefully if I were you.”

“There’s going to be an enormous scandal if Säpo’s involvement gets leaked.”

Bublanski shrugged. His job was to investigate crimes, not to clean up after scandals.

“This bastard from Säpo, this Gunnar Björck. What do you know about his role?”

“He’s one of the major players. He’s on sick leave for a slipped disk and lives in Smådalarö at present.”

“OK . . . we’ll keep the lid on Säpo’s involvement for the time being. The focus right now is to be on the murder of a police officer.”

“It’s going to be hard to keep this under wraps.”

“What do you mean?”

“I sent Andersson to bring in Björck for a formal interrogation. That should be happening”—Bublanski looked at his watch—“yes, about now.”

“You
what?”

“I was rather hoping to have the pleasure of driving out to Smådalarö myself, but the events surrounding last night’s killing took precedence.”

“I didn’t give anyone permission to arrest Björck.”

“That’s true. But it’s not an arrest. I’m just bringing him in for questioning.”

“Whichever, I don’t like it.”

Bublanski leaned forward, almost as if to confide in the other man.

“Richard, this is how it is. Salander has been subjected to a number of infringements of her rights, starting when she was a child. I do not mean for this to continue on my watch. You have the option to remove me as leader of the investigation . . . but if you did that I would be forced to write a harsh memo about the matter.”

Ekström looked as if he had just swallowed something very sour.

Gunnar Björck, on sick leave from his job as assistant chief of the immigration division of the Security Police, opened the door of his summer house in Smådalarö and looked up at a powerfully built blond man with a crew cut who wore a black leather jacket.

“I’m looking for Gunnar Björck.”

“That’s me.”

“Curt Andersson, County Criminal Police.” The man held up his ID.

“Yes?”

“You are requested to accompany me to Kungsholmen to assist the police in their investigations into the case involving Lisbeth Salander.”

“Uh . . . there must be some sort of misunderstanding.”

“There’s no misunderstanding,” Andersson said.

“You don’t understand. I’m a police officer myself. Save yourself making a big mistake: check it out with your superior officers.”

“My superior is the one who wants to talk to you.”

“I have to make a call and—”

“You can make your call from Kungsholmen.”

Björck felt suddenly resigned.
It’s happened. I’m going to be arrested. That goddamn fucking Blomkvist. And fucking Salander
.

“Am I being arrested?” he said.

“Not at the moment. But we can arrange for that if you like.”

“No . . . no, of course I’ll come with you. Naturally I’d want to assist my colleagues in the police force.”

“All right, then,” Andersson said, walking into the hallway to keep a close eye on Björck as he turned off the coffee machine and picked up his coat.

In the late morning it dawned on Blomkvist that his rental car was still at the Gosseberga farm, but he was so exhausted that he did not have the strength or the means to get out there to fetch it, much less drive safely for any distance. Erlander kindly arranged for a crime scene tech to take the car back on his way home.

“Think of it as compensation for the way you were treated last night.”

Blomkvist thanked him and took a taxi to City Hotel on Lorensbergsgatan. He booked in for the night for 800 kronor and went straight to his room and undressed. He sat naked on the bed and took Salander’s Palm Tungsten T3 from the inside pocket of his jacket, weighing it in his hand. He was still amazed that it had not been confiscated when Paulsson frisked him, but Paulsson presumably thought it was Blomkvist’s own, and he had never been formally taken into custody and searched. He thought for a moment and then slipped it into a compartment of his laptop case, where he had also put Salander’s DVD marked “Bjurman,” which Paulsson had also missed. He knew that technically he was withholding evidence, but these were the things that Salander would no doubt prefer not to have fall into the wrong hands.

He turned on his mobile and saw that the battery was low, so he plugged in the charger. He made a call to his sister, Advokat Giannini.

“Hi, Annika.”

“What did you have to do with the policeman’s murder last night?” she asked him at once.

He told her succinctly what had happened.

“So Salander is in intensive care.”

“Correct, and we won’t know the extent or severity of her injuries until she regains consciousness, but now she’s really going to need a lawyer.”

Giannini thought for a moment. “Do you think she’d want me for her lawyer?”

“Probably she wouldn’t want any lawyer at all. She isn’t the type to ask anyone for help.”

“Mikael . . . I’ve said this before: it sounds like she might need a criminal lawyer. Let me look at the documentation you have.”

“Talk to Erika and ask her for a copy.”