Stieg Larsson - The Girl who played with Fire

No, that won’t help. The police will have to do their own formal interviews. A judge. Two lawyers. Several politicians and journalists… and police colleagues. A real merry-go-round. Modig knew that they should have started doing this the day after the murders.

Her eyes lighted on one name on the list. Gunnar Björck.

“There’s no address for this man.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He works for the Security Police. His address is unlisted. Actually he’s on sick leave. Dag was never able to track him down.”

“And have you?” Modig said with a smile.

“Ask Mikael.”

Modig stared at the wall above Svensson’s desk. She was thinking. “May I ask a personal question?”

“Go right ahead.”

“Who do you think murdered your friends and the lawyer?”

Eriksson wished Blomkvist were here to handle these questions. It was uncomfortable to be quizzed by a police officer. It was even more unpleasant not to be able to explain exactly what conclusions Millennium had reached. Then she heard Berger’s voice behind her back.

“Our theory is that the murders were committed to prevent some part of Dag’s exposé from reaching the light of day. But we don’t know who the killer was. Mikael is focusing on someone who goes by the name of Zala.”

Modig turned to look at Millennium’s editor in chief. Berger held out two mugs of coffee. They were decorated with the logos of the civil service union HTF and the Christian Democratic Party, respectively. Berger smiled sweetly and went back to her office.

She came out again three minutes later.

“Inspector Modig, your boss has just called. Your mobile is off. He wants you to call him.”

An APB was sent out to say that Lisbeth Salander had at last surfaced. The bulletin indicated that she was probably riding a Harley-Davidson and contained the warning that she was armed and had shot someone at a summer cabin in the vicinity of Stallarholmen.

The police set up roadblocks on routes into Strängnäs, Mariefred, and Södertälje. Every commuter train between Södertälje and Stockholm was searched that evening. But no-one answering to Salander’s description was found.

At around 7:00 p.m. a police patrol found the Harley-Davidson outside the fairground in Älvsjö, and that shifted the focus of the search from Södertälje to Stockholm. The report from Älvsjö said that part of a leather jacket with the insignia of Svavelsjö MC had also been found. News of the find made Inspector Bublanski push his glasses up on his head and peer glumly at the darkness outside his office on Kungsholmen.

The day’s developments had led to nothing but bafflement. The kidnapping of Salander’s girlfriend, the inexplicable involvement of the boxer Paolo Roberto, the arson near Södertälje, and bodies buried in the woods there. And finally this bizarre business in Stallarholmen.

Bublanski went out to the main office and looked at the map of Stockholm and its environs. He found Stallarholmen, Nykvarn, Svavelsjö, and finally Älvsjö, the four places that for apparently different reasons were of current interest. He moved his gaze to Enskede and sighed. He had the unpleasant feeling that the police investigation was many miles behind the unfolding events. Whatever the Enskede murders had been about, it was much more complicated than they had supposed.

Blomkvist was unaware of the drama at Stallarholmen. He left Smådalarö around 3:00 in the afternoon. He stopped at a gas station and had some coffee as he tried to make sense of what he had discovered.

He was surprised that Björck had given him so many details, but the man had absolutely refused to give him the last piece of the puzzle: Zalachenko’s Swedish identity.

“We had a deal,” Blomkvist said.

“And I’ve fulfilled my part of it. I’ve told you who Zalachenko is. If you want more than that we’ll have to make a new agreement. I’ll need guarantees that my name will be taken out of all your research material. And I’ll need guarantees that you won’t write about me at all in connection with the Zalachenko story.”

Blomkvist was willing to go so far as to treat Björck as an anonymous source in connection with the background story, but he could not guarantee that Björck would not be identified by anyone else – the police, for example.

“I’m not worried about the police,” Björck said.

They agreed in the end to think about everything for a day or so before resuming their conversation.

As Blomkvist sat drinking his coffee, he felt that there was something right in front of his nose that he wasn’t seeing. He was so close that he could sense shapes, but he couldn’t bring the picture into focus. Then it came to him that there was another person who might be able to shed some light on the story. He was quite close to the rehabilitation home in Ersta. He checked his watch. He would go to see Holger Palmgren.

After the meeting Björck was exhausted. His back hurt worse than ever. He took three painkillers and had to stretch out on the sofa in the living room. Thoughts were churning around in his head. After about an hour he got up and boiled some water and took out a Lipton’s tea bag. He sat at the kitchen table and brooded.

Could he trust Blomkvist? He was now at the man’s mercy. But he had held back the crucial information: Zala’s identity and his role in the whole drama.

How the hell had he landed in this mess? All he did was pay some whores. He was a bachelor. That sixteen-year-old bitch hadn’t even pretended that she liked him. He had felt her disgust.

Fucking cunt. If she hadn’t been so young. If she’d been at least twenty it wouldn’t have looked so bad. Blomkvist detested him too, and made no effort to hide it.

Zalachenko.

A pimp. What irony. He had fucked Zalachenko’s whores. But Zalachenko had been smart enough to stay in the background.

Bjurman and Salander.

And Blomkvist.

A way out.

After an hour of worrying he went to his study and found the piece of paper with the telephone number he had retrieved from his office earlier in the week. It wasn’t the only thing he’d kept from Blomkvist. He knew exactly where Zalachenko was, though he hadn’t spoken to him in more than twelve years. Nor had he any desire to do so ever again.

But Zalachenko was a sly devil. He would understand the problem. He would be able to vanish from the face of the earth. Go abroad and retire. The real catastrophe would be if he were actually caught. Then everything would come crashing down.

He hesitated a long time before he dialled the number.

“Hello. It’s Sven Jansson,” he said. A name that he had not used in a very long time. Zalachenko remembered instantly who he was.

Bublanski met Modig for coffee and a bite to eat at Wayne’s on Vasagatan at 8:00 in the evening. She had never seen her boss so downcast before. He told her everything that had happened that day. Finally she reached out and put her hand over his. It was the first time she had ever touched Bublanski, and there was no other reason than companionship. He smiled sadly and patted her hand in an equally friendly way.

“Maybe I should retire,” he said.

She smiled at him indulgently.

“This investigation is falling apart,” he went on. “It’s already in pieces. I informed Ekström of everything that occurred today, and he just said, ‘Do what you think is best.’ He seems incapable of action.”

“I don’t want to bad-mouth a superior, but as far as I’m concerned, Ekström can go jump in the lake.”

Bublanski nodded. “You’re officially back on the case, but don’t expect he’ll come up with an apology. Also, Faste stormed out this morning and has had his mobile switched off all day. If he doesn’t turn up tomorrow I’m going to have to get somebody to look for him.”