Stieg Larsson: The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets’ Nest

“Good evening, Herr Zalachenko,” Modig said. She introduced herself and her colleague.

“My name is Karl Axel Bodin,” Zalachenko said laboriously through clenched teeth. His voice was steady.

“I know exactly who you are. I’ve read your file from Säpo.”

This, of course, was not true.

“That was a long time ago,” Zalachenko said. “I’m Karl Axel Bodin now.”

“How are you doing? Are you able to have a conversation?”

“I want to report a serious crime. I have been the victim of attempted murder by my daughter.”

“We know. That matter will be taken up at the appropriate time,” Erlander said. “But we have more urgent issues to talk about.”

“What could be more urgent than attempted murder?”

“Right now we need information from you about three murders in Stockholm, at least three murders in Nykvarn, and a kidnapping.”

“I don’t know anything about that. Who was murdered?”

“Herr Bodin, we have good reason to believe that your associate, 35-year-old Ronald Niedermann, is guilty of these crimes,” Erlander said. “Last night he also murdered a police officer from Trollhättan.”

Modig was surprised that Erlander had acquiesced to Zalachenko’s wish to be called Bodin. Zalachenko turned his head a little so that he could see Erlander. His voice softened slightly.

“That is… unfortunate to hear. I know nothing about Niedermann’s affairs. I have not killed any policeman. I was the victim of attempted murder myself last night.”

“There’s a manhunt under way for Ronald Niedermann even as we speak. Do you have any idea where he might hide?”

“I am not aware of the circles he moves in. I…” Zalachenko hesitated a few seconds. His voice took on a confidential tone. “I must admit… just between us… that sometimes I worry about Niedermann.”

Erlander bent towards him.

“What do you mean?”

“I have discovered that he can be a violent person… I am actually afraid of him.”

“You mean you felt threatened by Niedermann?” Erlander said.

“Precisely. I’m old and handicapped. I cannot defend myself.”

“Could you explain your relationship to Niedermann?”

“I’m disabled.” Zalachenko gestured towards his feet. “This is the second time my daughter has tried to kill me. I hired Niedermann as an assistant a number of years ago. I thought he could protect me… but he has actually taken over my life. He comes and goes as he pleases… I have nothing more to say about it.”

“What does he help you with?” Modig broke in. “Doing things that you can’t do yourself?”

Zalachenko gave Modig a long look with his only visible eye.

“I understand that your daughter threw a Molotov cocktail into your car in the early ’90s,” Modig said. “Can you explain what prompted her to do that?”

“You would have to ask my daughter. She is mentally ill.” His tone was again hostile.

“You mean that you can’t think of any reason why Lisbeth Salander attacked you in 1991?”

“My daughter is mentally ill. There is substantial documentation.”

Modig cocked her head to one side. Zalachenko’s answers were much more aggressive and hostile when she asked the questions. She saw that Erlander had noticed the same thing. O.K… Good cop, bad cop . Modig raised her voice.

“You don’t think that her actions could have anything to do with the fact that you had beaten her mother so badly that she suffered permanent brain damage?”

Zalachenko turned his head towards Modig.

“That is all bullshit. Her mother was a whore. It was probably one of her punters who beat her up. I just happened to be passing by.”

Modig raised her eyebrows. “So you’re completely innocent?”

“Of course I am.”

“Zalachenko… let me repeat that to see if I’ve understood you correctly. You say that you never beat your girlfriend, Agneta Sofia Salander, Lisbeth’s mother, despite the fact that the whole business is the subject of a long report, stamped top secret, written at the time by your handler at Säpo, Gunnar Björck.”

“I was never convicted of anything. I have never been charged. I cannot help it if some idiot in the Security Police fantasizes in his reports. If I had been a suspect, they would have at the very least questioned me.”

Modig made no answer. Zalachenko seemed to be grinning beneath his bandages.

“So I wish to press charges against my daughter. For trying to kill me.”

Modig sighed. “I’m beginning to understand why she felt an uncontrollable urge to slam an axe into your head.”

Erlander cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Herr Bodin… We should get back to any information you might have about Ronald Niedermann’s activities.”

Modig made a call to Inspector Bublanski from the corridor outside Zalachenko’s hospital room.

“Nothing,” she said.

“ Nothing ?” Bublanski said.

“He’s lodging a complaint with the police against Salander – for G.B.H. and attempted murder. He says that he had nothing to do with the murders in Stockholm.”

“And how does he explain the fact that Salander was buried in a trench on his property in Gosseberga?”

“He says he had a cold and was asleep most of the day. If Salander was shot in Gosseberga, it must have been something that Niedermann decided to do.”

“O.K. So what do we have?”

“She was shot with a Browning.22 calibre. Which is why she’s still alive. We found the weapon. Zalachenko admits that it’s his.”

“I see. In other words, he knows we’re going to find his prints on the gun.”

“Exactly. But he says that the last time he saw the gun, it was in his desk drawer.”

“Which means that the excellent Herr Niedermann took the weapon while Zalachenko was asleep and shot Salander. This is one cold bastard. Do we have any evidence to the contrary?”

Modig thought for a few seconds before she replied. “He’s well versed in Swedish law and police procedure. He doesn’t admit to a thing, and he has Niedermann as a scapegoat. I don’t have any idea what we can prove. I asked Erlander to send his clothes to forensics and have them examined for traces of gunpowder, but he’s bound to say that he was doing target practice two days ago.”

Salander was aware of the smell of almonds and ethanol. It felt as if she had alcohol in her mouth and she tried to swallow, but her tongue felt numb and paralysed. She tried to open her eyes, but she could not. In the distance she heard a voice that seemed to be talking to her, but she could not understand the words. Then she heard the voice quite clearly.

“I think she’s coming round.”

She felt someone touch her forehead and tried to brush away the intrusive hand. At the same moment she felt intense pain in her left shoulder. She forced herself to relax.

“Can you hear me, Lisbeth?”

Go away .

“Can you open your eyes?”

Who was this bloody idiot harping on at her?

Finally she did open her eyes. At first she just saw strange lights until a figure appeared in the centre of her field of vision. She tried to focus her gaze, but the figure kept slipping away. She felt as if she had a stupendous hangover and the bed seemed to keep tilting backwards.

“Pnkllrs,” she said.

“Say that again?”

“’diot,” she said.

“That sounds good. Can you open your eyes again?”

She opened her eyes to narrow slits. She saw the face of a complete stranger and memorized every detail. A blond man with intense blue eyes and a tilted, angular face about a foot from hers.

“Hello. My name is Anders Jonasson. I’m a doctor. You’re in a hospital. You were injured and you’re waking up after an operation. Can you tell me your name?”