Stieg Larsson - The Girl who played with Fire

She did not bother to go to his office. She had been there only a few weeks earlier, around the time of her previous visit to his apartment, and she knew that for the past two years he had hardly used it.

Salander returned to Bjurman’s apartment and sat on his living-room sofa to think. After a few minutes she got up and went back to the key drawer in the kitchen. She studied the keys one by one. One set belonged to front-door and dead-bolt locks, but another key was rusty and old-fashioned. She frowned. Then she raised her eyes to a shelf above the kitchen counter, where Bjurman had put about twenty seed packets, seeds for an herb garden.

He has a summer cabin. Or an allotment somewhere. That’s what I missed.

It took her three minutes to locate a receipt, six years old, in Bjurman’s account book showing that he had paid for work on his driveway, and it took another minute to find an insurance policy for a property near Stallarholmen outside Mariefred.

At 5:00 in the morning she stopped at the twenty-four-hour 7-Eleven at the top of Hantverkargatan up by Fridhemsplan. She bought an armful of Billy’s Pan Pizzas, some milk, bread, cheese, and other staples. She also bought a morning paper with a headline that fascinated her.

Wanted woman fled country?

This particular paper did not, for some reason, name her. She was referred to instead as the “26-year-old woman.” The article stated that a source within the police claimed that she might have escaped abroad and could now be in Berlin. The police had apparently received a tip that she had been seen in Kreuzberg at an “anarcho-feminist club” described as a hangout for young people associated with everything from terrorism to antiglobalization and Satanism.

She took the number 4 bus back to Södermalm, where she got off at Rosenlundsgatan and walked home to Mosebacke. She made coffee and had a sandwich before she went to bed.

She slept until late in the afternoon. When she woke she took stock and decided that it was high time she changed the sheets. She spent the evening cleaning her apartment. She took out the trash and collected newspapers in two plastic bags and put them in a closet in the stairwell. She washed a load of underwear and T-shirts and then a load of jeans. She filled the dishwasher and turned it on. Then she vacuumed and mopped the floor.

It was 9:00 p.m. and she was drenched with sweat. She turned on the faucet in the tub and poured in plenty of bubble bath. She lay back and closed her eyes and brooded. When she woke up, it was midnight and the water was cold. She got out, dried off, and went back to bed. She fell asleep almost immediately.

On Sunday morning Salander was filled with rage when she booted up her PowerBook and read all the stupid things that had been written about Miriam Wu. She felt miserable and guilty. Wu’s only crime was that she was Salander’s… acquaintance? Friend? Lover?

She didn’t quite know which word would describe her relationship with Mimmi, but she realized that whichever one she chose, it was probably over. She would have to cross one more name off her already short list of acquaintances. After all the shit written in the press, she could not imagine that her friend would want to have anything to do with that psychotic Salander woman ever again.

It made her furious.

She committed to memory the name of Tony Scala, the journalist who had started it all. She also resolved one day to confront a nasty columnist pictured in a checked jacket whose article had made repeated jocular references to Mimmi as an “S&M dyke.”

The number of people Salander was going to have to deal with was growing. But first she had to find Zala.

What would happen when she found him she didn’t know.

Blomkvist was woken by the telephone at 7:30 on Sunday morning. He stretched out his hand and answered it sleepily.

“Good morning,” Berger said.

“Mmm,” said Mikael.

“Are you alone?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Then I suggest you take a shower and put on some coffee. You’ll have a visitor in fifteen minutes.”

“I will?”

“Paolo Roberto.”

“The boxer? The king of kings?”

“He called me and we talked for half an hour.”

“How come?”

“How come he called me? Well, we know each other well enough to say hello. I did an interview with him when he was in Hildebrand’s film, and we’ve run into each other a few times over the years.”

“I didn’t know that. But my question was why is he visiting me?”

“Because… well, I think it’s better if he explains that himself.”

Blomkvist had only just showered and put on his pants when the doorbell rang. He opened the door and asked the boxer to take a seat at the table while he found a clean shirt and made two double espressos, which he served with a teaspoon of milk. Paolo Roberto inspected the coffee, impressed.

“You wanted to talk to me?” Blomkvist said.

“It was Erika Berger’s suggestion.”

“I see. Talk away.”

“I know Lisbeth Salander.”

Blomkvist raised his eyebrows. “You do?”

“I was a little surprised when Erika told me that you knew her too.”

“I think perhaps it would be better if you started at the beginning.”

“OK. Here’s the deal. I came home the day before yesterday after a month in New York and found Lisbeth’s face on every fucking newspaper in town. The papers are writing a load of fucking crap about her. And not one of those fuckers seems to have a good word to say.”

“You got three fucks into that outburst.”

Paolo Roberto laughed. “Sorry. But I’m really pissed off. In fact, I called Erika because I needed to talk and didn’t really know who else to call. Since that journalist in Enskede worked for Millennium and since I happen to know Erika, I called her.”

“So?”

“Even if Salander went completely off her rocker and did everything the police are claiming she did, she has to be given a sporting chance. We do happen to have the rule of law in this country, and nobody should be condemned without their day in court.”

“I believe that too.”

“That’s what I understood from Erika. When I called her I thought that you guys at Millennium were after her scalp too, considering that the Svensson guy was writing for you. But Erika said you thought she was innocent.”

“I know Lisbeth. I can’t see her as a deranged killer.”

Paolo Roberto laughed out loud. “She’s one fucking freaky chick… but she’s one of the good ones. I like her.”

“How do you know her?”

“I’ve boxed with Salander since she was seventeen.”

Blomkvist closed his eyes for ten seconds before he opened them and looked at the boxing champ. Salander was, as always, full of surprises.

“Of course. Lisbeth Salander boxes with Paolo Roberto. You’re in the same division.”

“I’m not joking.”

“I believe you. She told me once that she used to spar with the boys at some boxing club.”

“Let me tell you how it happened. Ten years ago I took a job as a trainer for juniors who wanted to start boxing down at the Zinken club. I was already established, and the club’s junior leader thought I’d be a big draw, so I’d come in afternoons and spar with the guys. As it turned out, I stayed the whole summer and part of the autumn too. They ran a campaign and put up posters and all that, trying to lure the local kids. And it did attract a lot of fifteen- and sixteen-year-olds and some a few years older too. Quite a few immigrant kids. Boxing is a great alternative to running around town and raising hell. Ask me. I know.”

“I believe you.”

“Then one day in the middle of summer this skinny girl turns up out of nowhere. You know how she looks, right? She came into the club and said she wanted to learn to box.”