The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest (78 page)

Palmgren was exhausted after his day in court, the first in many years. He needed to go back to the Ersta rehabilitation home and go to bed. He was driven there by a uniformed guard from Milton Security. As he was leaving, he put a hand on Salander’s shoulder. They looked at each other, saying nothing. After a moment she nodded.

Giannini called Blomkvist at 7:00 to tell him that Salander had been acquitted of all charges, but that she was going to have to stay at police headquarters for what might be another couple of hours for her interview.

The news came as the entire staff of
Millennium
was gathered at the office. The phones had been ringing incessantly since the first copies of the magazine had been distributed by messenger at lunchtime to other newsrooms across the city. In the early evening, TV4 had broadcast its first special programme on Zalachenko and the Section. The media was having a field day.

Blomkvist walked into the main office, stuck his fingers in his mouth, and gave a loud whistle.

“Great news. Salander has been acquitted on all counts.”

Spontaneous applause broke out. Then everyone went back to talking on their phones as if nothing had happened.

Blomkvist looked up at the television that had been turned on in the editorial office. The news on TV4 was just starting. The trailer was a brief clip of the film showing Sandberg planting cocaine in his apartment on Bellmansgatan.

Then the anchorman came on the screen.

Blomkvist turned off the sound when
She
came on and he saw himself sitting in a studio armchair. He already knew what he had said. He looked over at the desk where Svensson had sat. All his research documents on the sex-trafficking industry were gone, and the desk was once more home to stacks of newspapers and piles of unsorted paper that nobody had time to deal with.

For Blomkvist, it was at that desk that the Zalachenko affair had begun. He wished that Svensson had been able to see the conclusion of it. A pile of copies of his just-published book was on the table next to Blomkvist’s own about the Section.

You would have loved this moment, Dag
.

He heard the phone in his office ringing, but he could not face picking it up. He pulled the door shut and went into Berger’s office and sank into a comfortable chair by the window. Berger was on the phone. He looked around. She had been back a month but had not yet had a chance to put up the paintings and photographs she had taken away when she left in April. The bookshelves were still bare.

“How does it feel?” she said when she hung up.

“I think I’m happy,” he said.

She laughed. “The
Section
is going to be a sensation. Every newsroom is
going crazy for it. Do you feel like appearing on
Aktuellt
at 9:00 for an interview?”

“I think not.”

“I suspected as much.”

“We’re going to be talking about this for several months. There’s no rush.”

She nodded.

“What are you doing later this evening?” Berger said.

“I don’t know.” He bit his lip. “Erika, I . . .”

“Figuerola,” Berger said with a smile.

He nodded.

“So it’s serious?”

“I don’t know.”

“She’s in love with you.”

“I think I’m in love with her too,” he said.

“I promise I’ll keep my distance until, you know . . . well, maybe,” she said.

At 8:00 Armansky and Linder appeared at
Millennium
’s offices. They thought the occasion called for champagne, so they had brought over a crate from the liquor store. Berger hugged Linder and introduced her to everyone. Armansky took a seat in Blomkvist’s office.

They drank their champagne. Neither of them said anything for quite a while. It was Armansky who broke the silence.

“You know what, Blomkvist? The first time we met, on that job in Hedestad, I didn’t much care for you.”

“You don’t say.”

“You came over to sign a contract when you hired Lisbeth as a researcher.”

“I remember.”

“I think I was jealous of you. You’d known her only a couple of hours, yet she was laughing with you. For some years I’d tried to be Lisbeth’s friend, but I have never once made her smile.”

“Well, I haven’t really been that successful either.”

They sat in silence once again.

“Great that all this is over,” Armansky said.

“Amen to that,” Blomkvist said, and they raised their glasses in salute.

•    •    •

Inspectors Bublanski and Modig conducted the formal interview with Salander. They had both been at home with their families after a particularly taxing day but were immediately summoned to return to police headquarters.

Salander was accompanied by Giannini. She gave precise responses to all the questions that Bublanski and Modig asked, and Giannini had little occasion to comment or intervene.

Salander lied consistently on two points. In her description of what had happened in Stallarholmen, she stubbornly maintained that it was Nieminen who had accidentally shot “Magge” Lundin in the foot at the instant that she nailed him with the Taser. Where had she gotten the Taser? She had confiscated it from Lundin, she explained.

Bublanski and Modig were both sceptical, but there was no evidence and no witnesses to contradict her story. Nieminen was no doubt in a position to protest, but he refused to say anything about the incident; in fact he had no notion of what had happened in the seconds after he was stunned with the Taser.

As far as Salander’s journey to Gosseberga was concerned, she claimed that her only objective had been to convince her father to turn himself in to the police.

Salander looked completely guileless; it was impossible to say whether she was telling the truth or not. Giannini had no reason to arrive at an opinion on the matter.

The only person who knew for certain that Salander had gone to Gosseberga with the intention of terminating any relationship she had with her father once and for all was Blomkvist. But he had been sent out of the courtroom shortly after the proceedings were resumed. No-one knew that he and Salander had carried on long conversations online by night while she was confined to Sahlgrenska.

The media missed her release from custody altogether. If the time of it had been known, a huge contingent would have descended on police headquarters. But many of the reporters were exhausted after the chaos and excitement that had ensued when
Millennium
reached the news-stands and certain members of the Security Police were arrested by other Security Police officers.

The host of
She
on TV4 was the only journalist who knew what the story was all about. Her hour-long broadcast became a classic, and some months later she won the award for Best TV News Story of the Year.

Modig got Salander away from police headquarters by simply taking her and Giannini down to the garage and driving them to Giannini’s office on Kungholm’s Kyrkoplan. There they switched to Giannini’s car. When Modig had driven away, Giannini headed for Södermalm. As they passed the Parliament building she broke the silence.

“Where to?” she said.

Salander thought for a few seconds.

“You can drop me somewhere on Lundagatan.”

“Miriam isn’t there.”

Salander looked at her.

“She went to France soon after she got out of the hospital. She’s staying with her parents if you want to get ahold of her.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You never asked. She said she needed some space. This morning Mikael gave me these and said you’d probably like to have them back.”

She handed her a set of keys. Salander took it and said: “Thanks. Could you drop me somewhere on Folkungagatan instead?”

“You don’t even want to tell me where you live?”

“Later. Right now I want to be left in peace.”

“OK.”

Giannini had switched on her mobile when they left police headquarters. It started beeping as they were passing Slussen. She looked at the display.

“It’s Mikael. He’s called every ten minutes for the past couple of hours.”

“I don’t want to talk to him.”

“Tell me . . . Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Yes.”

“What did Mikael do to you that you hate him so much? I mean, if it weren’t for him, you’d probably be back on a secure ward tonight.”

“I don’t hate Mikael. He hasn’t done anything to me. I just don’t want to see him right now.”

Giannini glanced across at her client. “I don’t mean to pry, but you fell for him, didn’t you?”

Salander looked out the window and did not answer.

“My brother is completely irresponsible when it comes to relationships. He screws his way through life and doesn’t seem to grasp how much it can hurt those women who think of him as more than a casual affair.”

Salander met her gaze. “I don’t want to discuss Mikael with you.”

“Right,” Giannini said. She pulled over just before the junction with Erstagatan. “Is this OK?”

“Yes.”

They sat in silence for a moment. Salander made no move to open the door. Then Giannini turned off the engine.

“What happens now?” Salander said at last.

“What happens now is that as of today you are no longer under guardianship. You can live your life however you want. Even though we won in the district court, there’s still a ton of red tape to get through. There will be reports on accountability within the guardianship agency and the question of compensation and things like that. And the criminal investigation will continue.”

“I don’t want any compensation. I want to be left in peace.”

“I understand. But what you want won’t play much of a role here. This process is beyond your control. I suggest you get yourself a lawyer to represent you.”

“Don’t you want to go on being my lawyer?”

Giannini rubbed her eyes. After all the stress of the day she felt utterly drained. She wanted to go home and have a shower. She wanted her husband to massage her back.

“I don’t know. You don’t trust me. And I don’t trust you. I have no desire to be drawn into a long process during which I encounter nothing but frustrating silence when I make a suggestion or want to discuss something.”

Salander said nothing for a long moment. “I . . . I’m not good at relationships. But I do trust you.”

It sounded almost like an apology.

“That may be. And it needn’t be my problem if you’re bad at relationships. But it does become my problem if I have to represent you.”

Silence.

“Would you want me to go on being your lawyer?”

Salander nodded. Giannini sighed.

“I live at Fiskargatan 9. Above Mosebacke Torg. Could you drive me there?”

Giannini looked at her client and then started the engine. She let Salander direct her to the address. They stopped short of the building.

“OK,” Giannini said. “We’ll give it a try. Here are my conditions. I agree to represent you. When I call you I want you to answer. When I need to know what you want me to do, I want clear answers. If I call you and tell you that you have to talk to a policeman or a prosecutor or do anything else that has to do with the criminal investigation, then I have already decided that it’s necessary. You will have to turn up at the appointed place, on time, and not make a fuss about it. Can you live with that?”

“I can.”

“And if you start acting up, I stop being your lawyer. Understood?”

Salander nodded.

“One more thing. I don’t want to get involved in a big drama between you and my brother. If you have a problem with him, you’ll have to work it out. But, for the record, he’s not your enemy.”

“I know. I’ll deal with it. But I need some time.”

“What do you plan to do now?”

“I don’t know. You can reach me via email. I promise to reply as soon as I can, but I might not be checking it every day.”

“You won’t become a slave just because you have a lawyer. OK, that’s enough for the time being. Out you get. I’m dead tired and I want to go home and sleep.”

Salander opened the door and got out. She paused as she was about to close the car door. She looked as though she wanted to say something but could not find the words. For a moment she appeared almost vulnerable.

“That’s all right, Lisbeth,” Giannini said. “Go and get some sleep. And stay out of trouble for a while.”

Salander stood at the curb and watched Giannini drive away until her tail lights disappeared around the corner.

“Thanks,” she said at last.

Salander found her Palm Tungsten T3 on the hall table. Next to it were her car keys and the shoulder bag she had lost when Lundin attacked her outside the door to her apartment building on Lundagatan. She also found both opened and unopened mail that had been collected from her P.O. box on Hornsgatan.
Mikael Blomkvist
.

She took a slow tour through the furnished part of her apartment. She found traces of him everywhere. He had slept in her bed and worked at her desk. He had used her printer, and in the wastepaper basket she found drafts of the manuscript of
The Section
, along with discarded notes.

He had bought a quart of milk, bread, cheese, caviar, and a jumbo pack of Billy’s Pan Pizza and put them in the fridge.

On the kitchen table she found a small white envelope with her name on it. It was a note from him. The message was brief. His mobile number. That was all.

She knew that the ball was in her court. He was not going to get in touch with her. He had finished the story, given back the keys to her apartment, and he would not call her. If she wanted something, then she could call him.
Pig-headed bastard
.

She put on a pot of coffee, made four open sandwiches, and went to sit in her window seat to look out towards Djurgården. She lit a cigarette and brooded.