Stieg Larsson - The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets’ Nest

The incident in Stallarholmen was connected with the discoveries at Nykvarn, and was actually located within the Strängnäs police district in Södermanland county. Carl-Magnus Lundin of the Svavelsjö Motorcycle Club was a key player in the whole thing, but he was in hospital in Södertälje with one foot in a cast and his jaw wired shut. Accordingly, all of these crimes came under county police jurisdiction, which meant that Stockholm would have the last word.

On Friday the court hearing was held. Lundin was formally charged in connection with Nykvarn. It had eventually been established that the warehouse was owned by the Medimport Company, which in turn was owned by one Anneli Karlsson, a 52-year-old cousin of Lundin who lived in Puerto Banús, Spain. She had no criminal record.

Fransson closed the folder that held all the preliminary investigation papers. These were still in the early stages and there would need to be another hundred pages of detailed work before they were ready to go to trial. But right now she had to make decisions on several matters. She looked up at her police colleagues.

“We have enough evidence to charge Lundin with participating in the kidnapping of Miriam Wu. Paolo Roberto has identified him as the man who drove the van. I’m also going to charge him with probable involvement in arson. We’ll hold back on charging him with the murders of the three individuals we dug up on the property, at least until each of them has been identified.”

The officers nodded. That was what they had been expecting.

“What’ll we do about Sonny Nieminen?”

Fransson leafed through to the section on Nieminen in the papers on her desk.

“This is a man with an impressive criminal history. Robbery, possession of illegal weapons, assault, G.B.H., manslaughter and drug crime. He was arrested with Lundin at Stallarholmen. I’m convinced that he’s involved, but we don’t have the evidence to persuade a court.”

“He says he’s never been to the Nykvarn warehouse and that he just happened to be out with Lundin on a motorcycle ride,” said the detective responsible for Stallarholmen on behalf of the Södertälje police. “He claims he had no idea what Lundin was up to in Stallarholmen.”

Fransson wondered whether she could somehow arrange to hand the entire business over to Prosecutor Ekström in Stockholm.

“Nieminen refuses to say anything about what happened,” the detective went on, “but he vehemently denies being involved in any crime.”

“You’d think he and Lundin were themselves the victims of a crime in Stallarholmen,” Fransson said, drumming her fingertips in annoyance. “Lisbeth Salander,” she added, her voice scored with scepticism. “We’re talking about a girl who looks as if she’s barely entered puberty and who’s only one metre fifty tall. She doesn’t look as though she has the tonnage to take on either Nieminen or Lundin, let alone both of them.”

“Unless she was armed. A pistol would compensate for her physique.”

“But that doesn’t quite fit with our reconstruction of what happened.”

“No. She used Mace and kicked Lundin in the balls and face with such aggression that she crushed one of his testicles and then broke his jaw. The shot in Lundin’s foot must have happened after she kicked him. But I can’t swallow the scenario that says she was the one who was armed.”

“The lab has identified the weapon used on Lundin. It’s a Polish P-83 Wanad using Makarova ammo. It was found in Gosseberga outside Göteborg and it has Salander’s prints on it. We can pretty much assume that she took the pistol with her to Gosseberga.”

“Sure. But the serial number shows that the pistol was stolen four years ago in the robbery of a gun shop in Örebro. The thieves were eventually caught, but they had ditched the gun. It was a local thug with a drug problem who hung out around Svavelsjö M.C. I’d much rather place the pistol with either Lundin or Nieminen.”

“It could be as simple as Lundin carrying the pistol and Salander disarming him. Then a shot was fired accidentally that hit him in the foot. I mean, it can’t have been her intention to kill him, since he’s still alive.”

“Or else she shot him in the foot out of sheer sadism. Who’s to know? But how did she deal with Nieminen? He has no visible injuries.”

“He does have one, or rather two, small burn marks on his chest.”

“What sort of burns?”

“I’m guessing a taser.”

“So Salander was supposedly armed with a taser, a Mace canister and a pistol. How much would all that stuff weigh? No, I’m quite sure that either Lundin or Nieminen was carrying the gun, and she took it from them. We’re not going to be sure how Lundin came to get himself shot until one or other of the parties involved starts talking.”

“Alright.”

“As things now stand, Lundin has been charged for the reasons I mentioned earlier. But we don’t have a damned thing on Nieminen. I’m thinking of turning him loose this afternoon.”

Nieminen was in a vile mood when he left the cells at Södertälje police station. His mouth was dry so his first stop was a corner shop where he bought a Pepsi. He guzzled it down on the spot. He bought a pack of Lucky Strike and a tin of Göteborg’s Rapé snuff. He flipped open his mobile and checked the battery, then dialled the number of Hans-Åke Waltari, thirty-three years old and number three in Svavelsjö M.C.’s hierarchy. It rang four times before Waltari picked up.

“Nieminen. I’m out.”

“Congrats.”

“Where are you?”

“Nyköping.”

“What the fuck are you doing in Nyköping?”

“We decided to lay low when you and Magge were busted – until we knew the lay of the land.”

“So now you know the lay of the land. Where is everybody?”

Waltari told him where the other five members of Svavelsjö M.C. were located. The news neither pleased Nieminen nor made him any calmer.

“So who the fuck is minding the store while all of you hide away like a bunch of girls?”

“That’s not fair. You and Magge take off on some fucking job we know nothing about, and all of a sudden you’re mixed up in a shootout with that slut the law are after, Magge gets shot and you’re busted. Then they start digging up bodies at our warehouse in Nykvarn.”

“So?”

“So? So we were starting to wonder if maybe you and Magge were hiding something from the rest of us.”

“And what the fuck would that be? We’re the ones who took the job for the sake of the club.”

“Well, no-one ever told me that the warehouse was doubling up as a woodland cemetery. Who were those dead bodies?”

Nieminen had a vicious retort on the tip of his tongue, but he stopped himself. Waltari may be an idiot, but this was no time to start an argument. The important thing right now was to consolidate their forces. After stonewalling his way through five police interrogations, it was not a good idea to start boasting that he actually knew something on a mobile less than two hundred metres from a police station.

“Forget the bodies,” he said. “I don’t know anything about that. But Magge is in deep shit. He’s going to be in the slammer for a while, and while he’s gone, I’m running the club.”

“O.K. What happens now?” Waltari said.

“Who’s keeping an eye on the property?”

“Benny stayed at the clubhouse to hold the fort. They searched the place the day you were arrested. They didn’t find anything.”

“Benny Karlsson?” Nieminen yelled. “Benny K.’s hardly dry behind the ears.”

“Take it easy. He’s with that blond fucker you and Magge always hang out with.”

Sonny froze. He glanced around and walked away from the door of the corner shop.