Stieg Larsson - The Girl who played with Fire

“YES!” Blomkvist cried when he hung up the phone. He punched the air with his fist. Eriksson and Cortez exchanged puzzled glances.

Paolo Roberto landed at Arlanda at 11:30 on Thursday morning. He had slept during much of the flight from New York, and for once did not have any jet lag.

He had spent a month in the United States talking boxing, watching exhibition fights, and looking for ideas for a production he was planning to sell to Strix Television. Sadly, he admitted to himself, he had left his own professional career on the shelf, partly because of gentle persuasion from his family, but also because he was simply feeling his age. It wasn’t so much about keeping in shape, which he did with strenuous workouts at least once a week. He was still a name in the boxing world, and he expected to be working in the sport in some capacity for the rest of his life.

He collected his suitcase from the baggage carousel. At Customs he was stopped and about to be pulled aside when one of the Customs officers recognized him.

“Hello, Paolo. All you’ve got in your case is gloves, I presume?”

He was crossing the arrivals hall to the escalator down to the Arlanda Express when he stopped short, stunned by Salander’s face on the headlines of the evening newspapers. He wondered if he was suffering from jet lag after all. Then he read the headline again.

HUNT FOR

LISBETH SALANDER

He looked at the other headline.

EXTRA!

PSYCHOPATH SOUGHT

FOR TRIPLE KILLING

He bought both the evening papers and the morning ones too and then went over to a cafeteria. He read the articles with growing astonishment.

When Blomkvist came home to Bellmansgatan at 11:00 on Thursday night he was tired and depressed. He had planned to make it an early night to catch up on his sleep, but he couldn’t resist the temptation to switch on his iBook and check his email. Nothing of great interest there, but he opened the folder. His pulse quickened when he discovered a new document entitled [MB2]. He double-clicked.

Prosecutor E. is leaking information to the media. Ask him why he didn’t leak the old police report.

Blomkvist pondered the message, baffled. What old police report? Why did she have to write every message like a riddle? He created a new document that he called [Cryptic].

Hi, Sally. I’m tired as hell and I’ve been on the go nonstop since the murders. I don’t feel like playing guessing games. Maybe you don’t give a damn, but I want to know who killed my friends. M.

He waited at his desk. The reply [Cryptic 2] came a minute later.

What would you do if it was me?

He replied with [Cryptic 3].

Lisbeth, if it’s true that you’ve really gone over the edge, then maybe you can ask Peter Teleborian to help you. But I don’t believe you murdered Dag and Mia. I hope and pray that I’m right.

Dag and Mia were going to publish their exposés of the sex trade. My theory is that could have been the reason for the murders. But I have nothing to go on.

I don’t know what went wrong between us, but you and I discussed friendship once. I said that friendship is built on two things – respect and trust. Even if you don’t like me, you can still depend on me and trust me. I’ve never shared your secrets with anyone. Not even what happened to Wennerström’s billions. Trust me. I’m not your enemy. M.

Blomkvist had almost given up hope when, nearly fifty minutes later, the file [Cryptic 4] materialized.

I’ll think about it.

Blomkvist sighed with relief. He felt a little ray of hope. The reply meant exactly what it said. She was going to think about it. It was the first time since, without a word of explanation, she had vanished from his life that she had held out the prospect of communicating with him at all. He wrote [Cryptic 5].

OK, I’ll wait. But please don’t take too long.

Inspector Faste got the call when he was on Långholmsgatan near Västerbron on his way to work on Friday morning. The police did not have the resources to put the apartment on Lundagatan under twenty-four-hour surveillance, so they had arranged for a neighbour, a retired policeman, to keep an eye on it.

“The Chinese girl just came in,” the neighbour said.

Faste could hardly have been in a more convenient place. He made an illegal turn past the bus shelter on to Heleneborgsgatan just before Västerbron and drove down Högalidsgatan to Lundagatan. He was there less than two minutes after he got the call and jogged across the street and through to the back building.

Miriam Wu was still standing at the door of her apartment staring at the drilled-out lock and the police tape across the door when she heard footsteps on the stairs behind her. She turned and saw a powerfully built man looking intently at her. She felt he was hostile and dropped her bag on the floor and prepared to resort to Thai boxing if necessary. “Are you Miriam Wu?” he said. To her surprise he held up a police ID. “Yes,” she said. “What’s going on here?”

“Where have you been staying the past week?”

“I’ve been away. What happened? Was there a break-in?”

“I’m going to have to ask you to come with me to Kungsholmen,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder.

Bublanski and Mo dig watched as Miriam Wu was escorted by Faste into the interview room. She was plainly angry.

“Please have a seat. My name is Criminal Inspector Jan Bublanski, and this is my colleague Inspector Sonja Modig. I’m sorry we’ve had to bring you in like this, but we have a number of questions we need answered.”

“OK. But why? That guy isn’t very talkative.” She jerked a thumb at Faste.

“We’ve been looking for you for some time. Can you tell us where you’ve been?”

“Yes, I can. But I don’t feel like it, and as far as I’m concerned it’s none of your business.”

Bublanski raised his eyebrows.

“I come home to find my door broken open and police tape across it, and a guy pumped up on steroids drags me down here. Can I get an explanation?”

“Don’t you like men?” Faste said.

Miriam Wu turned and stared at him, astonished. Bublanski gave him a furious look.

“You haven’t read any newspapers in the past week? Have you been out of the country?”

“No, I haven’t read any papers. I’ve been in Paris visiting my parents. For two weeks. I just came from Central Station.”

“You took the train?”

“I don’t like flying.”

“And you didn’t see any news headlines or Swedish papers today?”

“I got off the night train and took the tunnelbana home.”

Bublanski thought for a moment. There hadn’t been anything about Salander in the headlines this morning. He stood up and left the room. When he returned he was carrying Aftonbladet ’ s Easter edition with Salander’s photograph on the front page. Miriam Wu almost flipped.

Blomkvist followed the directions that Björck had given him to the cabin in Smådalarö. As he parked he saw that the “cabin” was a modern one-family home which looked to be habitable all year round. It had a view of the sea towards the Jungfrufjärden inlet. He walked up the gravel path and rang the bell. Björck was clearly recognizable from the passport photograph that Svensson had in his file.

“Good morning,” Blomkvist said.

“Good, you found the place.”

“Thanks to your directions.”

“Come in. We can sit in the kitchen.”

Björck appeared to be in good health, but he had a slight limp.

“I’m on sick leave,” he said.

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

“I’m waiting to have surgery on a slipped disk. Would you like coffee?”

“No thanks,” Blomkvist said and sat at the kitchen table and opened his briefcase. He took out a folder. Björck sat down facing him.