Stieg Larsson: The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets’ Nest

“She turned up at a house on the outskirts of Seglora.”

“She what?”

“She knocked –”

“You mean she’s alive?”

“I’m sorry, I’m not expressing myself clearly enough. The Kaspersson woman kicked on the door of a house at 3.10 this morning, scaring the hell out of a couple and their kids, who were all asleep. She was barefoot and suffering from severe hypothermia. Her hands were tied behind her back. She’s at the hospital in Borås, reunited with her husband.”

“Amazing. I think we all assumed she was dead.”

“Sometimes you can be surprised. But here’s the bad news: Assistant County Police Chief Spångberg has been here since 5.00 this morning. She’s made it plain that she wants you up and over to Borås to interview the woman.”

It was Saturday morning and Blomkvist assumed that the Millennium offices would be empty. He called Malm as the train was coming into Stockholm and asked him what had prompted the tone of his text message.

“Have you had breakfast?” Malm said.

“On the train.”

“O.K. Come over to my place and I’ll make you something more substantial.”

“What’s this about?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here.”

Blomkvist took the tunnelbana to Medborgarplatsen and walked to Allhelgonagatan. Malm’s boyfriend, Arnold Magnusson, opened the door to him. No matter how hard Blomkvist tried, he could never rid himself of the feeling that he was looking at an advertisement for something. Magnusson was often onstage at the Dramaten, and was one of Sweden’s most popular actors. It was always a shock to meet him in person. Blomkvist was not ordinarily impressed by celebrity, but Magnusson had such a distinctive appearance and was so familiar from his T.V. and film roles, in particular for playing the irascible but honest Inspector Frisk in a wildly popular T.V. series that aired in ninety-minute episodes. Blomkvist always expected him to behave just like Gunnar Frisk.

“Hello, Micke,” Magnusson said.

“Hello,” Blomkvist said.

“In the kitchen.”

Malm was serving up freshly made waffles with cloudberry jam and coffee. Blomkvist’s appetite was revived even before he sat down. Malm wanted to know what had happened in Gosseberga. Blomkvist gave him a succinct account. He was into his third waffle before he remembered to ask what was going on.

“We had a little problem at Millennium while you were away Blomkvisting in Göteborg.”

Blomkvist looked at Malm intently.

“What was that?”

“Oh, nothing serious. Erika has taken the job of editor-in-chief at Svenska Morgon-Posten . She finished at Millennium yesterday.”

It was several seconds before he could absorb the whole impact of the news. He sat there stunned, but did not doubt the truth of it.

“Why didn’t she tell anyone before?” he said at last.

“Because she wanted to tell you first, and you’ve been running around being unreachable for several weeks now, and because she probably thought you had your hands full with the Salander story. She obviously wanted to tell you first, so she couldn’t tell the rest of us, and time kept slipping by… And then she found herself with an unbearably guilty conscience and was feeling terrible. And not one of us had noticed a thing.”

Blomkvist shut his eyes. “Goddamnit,” he said.

“I know. Now it turns out that you’re the last one in the office to find out. I wanted to have the chance to tell you myself so that you’d understand what happened and not think anyone was doing anything behind your back.”

“No, I don’t think that. But, Jesus… it’s wonderful that she got the job, if she wants to work at S.M.P… , but what the hell are we going to do?”

“Malin’s going to be acting editor-in-chief starting with the next issue.”

“Eriksson?”

“Unless you want to be editor-in-chief…”

“Good God, no.”

“That’s what I thought. So Malin’s going to be editor-in-chief.”

“Have you appointed an assistant editor?”

“Henry. It’s four years he’s been with us. Hardly an apprentice any longer.”

“Do I have a say in this?”

“No,” Malm said.

Blomkvist gave a dry laugh. “Right. We’ll let it stand the way you’ve decided. Malin is tough, but she’s unsure of herself. Henry shoots from the hip a little too often. We’ll have to keep an eye on both of them.”

“Yes, we will.”

Blomkvist sat in silence, cradling his coffee. It would be damned empty without Berger, and he wasn’t sure how things would turn out at the magazine.

“I have to call Erika and –”

“No, better not.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s sleeping at the office. Go and wake her up or something.”

Blomkvist found Berger sound asleep on the sofa-bed in her office. She had been up until all hours emptying her desk and bookshelves of all personal belongings and sorting papers that she wanted to keep. She had filled five packing crates. He looked at her for a while from the doorway before he went in and sat down on the edge of the sofa and woke her.

“Why in heaven’s name don’t you go over to my place and sleep if you have to sleep on the job,” he said.

“Hi, Mikael,” she said.

“Christer told me.”

She started to say something, but he bent down and kissed her on the cheek.

“Are you livid?”

“Insanely,” he said.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t turn it down. But it feels wrong, to leave all of you in the lurch in such a bad situation.”

“I’m hardly the person to criticize you for abandoning ship. I left you in the lurch in a situation that was much worse than this.”

“The two have nothing to do with each other. You took a break. I’m leaving for good and I didn’t tell anybody. I’m so sorry.”

Blomkvist gave her a wan smile.

“When it’s time, it’s time.” Then he added in English, “A woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do and all that crap.”

Berger smiled. Those were the words she had said to him when he moved to Hedeby. He reached out his hand and mussed her hair affectionately.

“I can understand why you’d want to quit this madhouse… but to be the head of Sweden’s most turgid old-boy newspaper… that’s going to take some time to sink in.”

“There are quite a few girls working there nowadays.”

“Rubbish. Check the masthead. It’s status quo all the way. You must be a raving masochist. Shall we go and have some coffee?”

Berger sat up. “I have to know what happened in Göteborg.”

“I’m writing the story now,” Blomkvist said. “And there’s going to be war when we publish it. We’ll put it out in at the same time as the trial. I hope you’re not thinking of taking the story with you to S.M.P . The fact is I need you to write something on the Zalachenko story before you leave here.”

“Micke… I…”

“Your very last editorial. Write it whenever you like. It almost certainly won’t be published before the trial, whenever that might be.”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. What do you think it should be about?”

“Morality,” Blomkvist said. “And the story of why one of our colleagues was murdered because the government didn’t do its job fifteen years ago.”

Berger knew exactly what kind of editorial he wanted. She had been at the helm when Svensson was murdered, after all. She suddenly felt in a much better mood.

“O.K.,” she said. “My last editorial.”

By 1.00 on Saturday afternoon, Prosecutor Fransson in Södertälje had finished her deliberations. The burial ground in the woods in Nykvarn was a wretched mess, and the Violent Crimes Division had racked up a vast amount of overtime since Wednesday, when Paolo Roberto had fought his boxing match with Niedermann in the warehouse there. They were dealing with at least three murders with the bodies found buried on the property, along with the kidnapping and assault of Salander’s friend Miriam Wu, and on top of it all, arson.