David Lagercrantz - The Girl in the Spider's Web

“Are you looking for Lasse?” she said.

“I’d like to hear about August’s drawings,” he replied, and at that she felt a stab of panic.

Yet she allowed him in. It was probably careless of her. Lasse had gone off to cure his hangover in some local dive and could be back any time. He would go crazy if he found a journalist in their home. But Blomkvist had not only worried Hanna, he had also made her curious. How on earth did he know about the drawings? She invited him to sit on the grey sofa in the living room while she went to the kitchen to get some tea and biscuits. When she came back with a tray he said:

“I wouldn’t be bothering you if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.”

“You’re not bothering me,” she said.

“You see, I met August last night, and I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him.”

“Oh?”

“I didn’t understand it then,” he said, “but I had the feeling he was trying to tell us something. Now I’m convinced he wanted to draw. He was making these determined movements with his hand over the floor.”

“He’s become obsessed with drawing.”

“So he went on doing that here at home?”

“And how! He started the minute we got here. He was manic, and what he drew was amazing, but his face became flushed and he was breathing heavily, so the psychologist said he had to stop. It was compulsive and destructive, was his opinion.”

“What did he draw?”

“Nothing special really. I’d guess it was inspired by his puzzles. But it was very cleverly done, with shadows and perspective and everything.”

“But what was it?”

“Squares.”

“What kind of squares?”

“Chessboard squares, I think you would call them,” she said. Maybe she was imagining things, but she detected a trace of excitement in Blomkvist’s eyes.

“Only chess squares?” he said. “Nothing more?”

“Mirrors too,” she said. “Chessboard squares reflected in mirrors.”

“Have you been to Frans’ place?” he said, a new sharpness in his voice.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because the design of the floor in the bedroom — where he was killed — looks just like chessboard squares, and they’re reflected in the mirrors of the wardrobe.”

“Oh my God!”

“What’s the matter?”

“Because...”

A wave of shame washed over her.

“Because the last thing I saw before I snatched the drawing away from him was a menacing shadow emerging out of those squares,” she said.

“Do you have the drawing here?”

“No, or rather yes.”

“Yes?”

“I’m afraid I threw it away. But it will still be in the bin.”

Blomkvist had coffee grounds and yoghurt all over his hands as he pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of the rubbish and smoothed it out on the draining board. He brushed it off with the back of his hand and looked at it in the glare of the kitchen lights. The drawing was not finished, not by any means, and it consisted mostly of chessboard squares, just as Hanna had said, seen from above or from the side. Unless you had been in Balder’s bedroom, it would not be obvious that the squares represented a floor, but Blomkvist immediately recognized the mirrors on the wardrobe to the right of the bed. He also recognized the darkness, that special darkness that had met him in the course of the night.

He felt transported back to the moment when he had walked in through the broken window — apart from one small important detail. The room he had entered had been almost dark, whereas the drawing showed a thin source of light falling diagonally from above, extending out over the squares. It gave contours to a shadow which was not distinct or meaningful, but which felt eerie, perhaps for that very reason.

The shadow was stretching out an arm and Blomkvist, who saw the drawing in a very different light to Hanna, had no trouble interpreting what that signified. The figure meant to kill. Above the chessboard squares and the shadow there was a face which had not yet materialized.

“Where is August now?” he said. “Is he sleeping?”

“No. He... I’ve left him with someone else for a while. I couldn’t handle him, to be honest.”

“Where is he?”

“At Oden’s Medical Centre for Children and Adolescents. On Sveavägen.”

“Who knows that he’s there?”

“No-one.”

“Just you and the staff?”

Hanna nodded.

“Then it has to stay that way. Will you excuse me for a moment?”

Blomkvist took out his mobile and called Bublanski. In his mind he had already drafted yet another question for LISBETH STUFF.

Bublanski felt frustrated: the investigation was going nowhere. Neither Balder’s Blackphone nor his laptop had been found, so they had not been able to map his contacts with the outside world, despite having had detailed discussions with the service provider.

For the time being they had little more than smokescreens and clichés to go on, Bublanski thought: a ninja warrior had materialized swiftly and effectively and then vanished into the darkness. In fact the attack had something far too perfect about it, as if it had been carried out by a person free of all the usual human failings and contradictions which as a rule feature in a murder. This was too clean, too clinical, and Bublanski could not help thinking that it had been just another day at the office for the killer. He was pondering this and more besides when Blomkvist rang.

“Oh, it’s you,” Bublanski said. “We were just talking about you. We’d like to have another word with you as soon as possible.”

“Of course, not a problem. But right now I’ve got something much more important to tell you. The witness, August Balder, is a savant,” Blomkvist said.

“A what?”

“A boy who may be severely mentally disabled but nonetheless has a special gift. He draws like a master, with a remarkable mathematical sharpness. Did someone show you the drawings of the traffic light which had been lying on the kitchen table in Saltsjöbaden?”

“Yes, briefly. Are you saying it wasn’t Balder who drew them?”

“It was the boy.”

“They looked like astonishingly mature pieces of work.”

“But they were drawn by August. This morning he sat down and drew the chessboard squares on the floor in his father’s bedroom, and he didn’t stop at that. He sketched a shaft of light and a shadow. My theory is that it’s the killer’s shadow and the light from his headlamp, but of course one couldn’t yet say for certain. The boy was interrupted in his work.”

“Are you pulling my leg?”

“This is hardly the moment.”

“How do you know all this?’

“I’m at the home of the boy’s mother, Hanna Balder, and I’m looking at the drawing. The boy is no longer here. He’s at...” The journalist hesitated. “I don’t want to say more than that over the telephone.”

“You say that the boy was interrupted in the middle of his drawing?”

“His mother stopped him on a psychologist’s advice.”

“How could one do something like that?”

“He probably didn’t realize what the drawings represented, he just saw them as something compulsive. I suggest you send some people over right away. You’ve got your witness.”

“We’ll be there as soon as we can be.”

Bublanski ended the call and went to share Blomkvist’s news with the team, though soon after he wondered whether this had been wise.