The Girl Who Played with Fire

Page 60

He tried to find Faste, but he was not in the building and did not answer his mobile. After the stormy meeting, Faste had vanished.
Bublanski then went to see Ekstrom to try to defuse the problem with Modig. He set out all his reasons for thinking the decision to take her off the case was foolhardy. Ekstrom would not listen, and Bublanski decided to file a complaint after the weekend. It was an idiotic situation.
Just after 3:00 he stepped into the corridor and saw Hedstrom coming out of Modig's office, where he was still supposed to be combing through Svensson's hard drive. Bublanski thought it was now a meaningless exercise, since no real detective was looking over his shoulder to check what he might have missed. He decided that Hedstrom should be with Andersson for the rest of the week.
Before he had a chance to say anything, Hedstrom disappeared into the toilet at the far end of the corridor. Bublanski went over to Modig's empty office to wait for him to return.
Then his eye fell on Hedstrom's mobile, which lay forgotten on the shelf behind his desk.
Bublanski glanced at the door to the toilet, still closed. On pure impulse he stepped into the office, stuffed Hedstrom's mobile into his pocket, walked rapidly back to his own office, and closed the door. He clicked up the list of calls.
At 9:57, five minutes after the morning meeting was over, Hedstrom had called a number with an 070 area code. Bublanski lifted the receiver of his desk telephone and dialled the number. Tony Scala answered.
He hung up and stared at Hedstrom's mobile. Then he got up with an expression like a thundercloud. He had taken two steps towards the door when his telephone rang. He went back to pick it up and shouted his name into the receiver.
"It's Jerker. I'm back at the warehouse outside Nykvarn."
"What did you find?"
"The fire is out. We've been busy the last two hours. The Sodertalje police brought a corpse-sniffing dog to check the area in case there was someone in the wreckage."
"Was there?"
"There was not. But we took a break so the dog could rest his nose for a while. The handler says it's necessary since the smells at an arson site are really strong."
"Get to the point, Jerker. I'm a bit pressed here."
"Well, he took a walk and let the dog loose away from the site of the fire. The dog signalled a spot about seventy-five yards into the woods behind the warehouse. We started digging. Ten minutes ago we found a human leg with a shoe. It seems to be a man's shoe. It was buried fairly shallow."
"Oh shit. Jerker, you've got to -"
"I've already taken command of the site and put a stop to the digging. I want to get forensics out here and proper techs before we proceed."
"Very well done."
"But that's not all. Five minutes ago the dog marked another spot some eighty yards from the first."
Salander had made coffee on Bjurman's stove and eaten another apple. She spent two hours reading through Bjurman's notes on her, page by page. She was actually impressed. He had put quite a lot of effort into the task and systematized the information. He had found material about her that she didn't even know existed.
She read Palmgren's journal with mixed feelings. It took up two black notebooks. He had started keeping a diary about her when she was fifteen. She had just run away from her third set of foster parents, an elderly couple in Sigtuna; he was a sociologist and she was an author of children's books. Salander had stayed with them for twelve days and could tell that they were tremendously proud of making a social contribution by taking her in, and that they expected her constantly to express gratitude. She had finally had enough when her foster mother, boasting to a neighbour, started expounding about how important it was that someone took care of young people who had obvious problems. I'm not a fucking social project, she wanted to scream. On the twelfth day she stole 100 kronor from their food money and took the bus to Upplands-Vasby and the shuttle train to Stockholm Central. The police found her six weeks later in the house of a sixty-seven-year-old man in Haninge.
He had been an OK guy. He provided her with food and a place to live. She did not have to do much in return. He wanted to look at her when she was naked. He never touched her. She knew he would be considered a pedophile, but she had never felt the least threat from him. She thought him an introverted and socially handicapped person. She even came to experience a feeling of kinship when she thought about him. They were both outsiders.
Someone had finally spotted her and called the police. A social worker did her best to persuade her to report the man for sexual assault. She had obstinately refused to say that anything untoward had occurred, and in any case she was fifteen and legal. Fuck you. Then Palmgren had intervened and signed for her. He started a diary in what appeared to be a frustrated attempt to allay and resolve his own doubts. The first entries were written in December 1993:
L. increasingly appears to be the most unmanageable young person I've ever had to deal with. The question is whether I'm doing the right thing when I oppose her return to St.Stefan's. She has now run away from three foster families in three months and obviously risks coming to some harm during her excursions. I have to decide soon whether I should give up the assignment and request that she be put under the care of real experts. I don't know what's right and what's wrong. Today I had a serious talk with her.
Salander remembered every word of that serious talk. It was the day before Christmas Eve. Palmgren had taken her to his place and installed her in his spare room. He made spaghetti with meat sauce for supper and then put her on the living-room sofa and sat in an armchair across from her. She remembered wondering if Palmgren too wanted to see her naked. Instead he spoke to her as if she were a grown-up.
In fact it had been a two-hour monologue. She had hardly uttered a word. He had spelled out the realities, which were in effect that now she had to decide between going back to St.Stefan's and living with a foster family. He would do what he could to find a family acceptable to her, and he insisted that she go with his choice. He had decided that she should spend the Christmas holidays with him so she would have time to think about her future. It was up to her, but on the day after Christmas he wanted a clear answer and a promise from her that if she had problems she would turn to him instead of running away. Then he had sent her to bed and apparently sat down to write the first lines in his diary.
The threat of being transported back to St.Stefan's frightened her more than Holger Palmgren could know. She spent an unhappy Christmas suspiciously watching every move he made. The next day he still had not attempted to paw her, nor did he show any sign of wanting to sneak a look at her in the bath. On the contrary, he got really angry when she tried to provoke him by marching naked from his spare room to the bathroom. He had slammed the bathroom door hard. Later she had made him the promises he demanded. She had kept her word. Well, more or less.
In his journal Palmgren commented methodically on every meeting he had with her. Sometimes it was three lines, sometimes he filled several pages with his thoughts. Every so often she was surprised. Palmgren had been more insightful than she had imagined, and occasionally commented on incidents when she had tried to fool him but he had seen through her.
Then she opened the police report from 1991.
And the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. She felt as if the ground had started to shake.
She read the medical report written by a Dr. Jesper H. Loderman, in which Dr. Peter Teleborian figured prominently. Loderman had been the prosecutor's trump card when he tried to get her institutionalized at the hearing when she was eighteen.
Then she found an envelope containing correspondence between Teleborian and some policeman called Gunnar Bjorck. The letters were all dated 1991, just after "All The Evil" happened.
Nothing was said straight out in the correspondence, but suddenly a trapdoor opened beneath Salander. It took her several minutes to grasp the implications. Bjorck referred to some conversation they must have had. His wording was irreproachable, but between the lines he was saying that it would be all right with him if Salander were locked up in an asylum for the rest of her life.
It is important for the child to get some distance from the context. I cannot evaluate her psychological condition or what sort of care she needs, but the longer she can be kept institutionalized, the less risk there is that she would unintentionally create problems regarding the current matter.
Regarding the current matter. Salander rolled the phrase around in her mind for a while.
Teleborian was responsible for her care at St.Stefan's. It had been no accident. The tone of the correspondence led her to understand that these letters were never intended to see the light of day.
Teleborian had known Bjorck.
Salander bit her lower lip as she pondered. She had never done any research on Teleborian, but he had started out in forensic medicine, and even the Security Police occasionally needed to consult a forensic medical expert or psychiatrist for their investigations. If she started digging, she would surely find a connection. At some point during his career, Teleborian and Bjorck's paths had crossed. When Bjorck needed someone who could bury Salander, he had turned to Teleborian.
That was how it had happened. What previously looked like chance now took on a whole new dimension.
She sat still for a long time staring into space. Nobody was innocent. There were only varying degrees of responsibility. And somebody was responsible for Salander. She would definitely have to pay a visit to Smådalaro. She assumed that no-one in the shipwreck that was the state justice system would have any desire to discuss the subject with her, and in the absence of anyone else, a talk with Gunnar Bjorck would have to do.
She looked forward to that talk.
She did not need to take all the folders with her. As she read them they became forever imprinted on her photographic memory. She took along Palmgren's notebooks, Bjorck's police report from 1991, the medical report from 1996 when she was declared incompetent, and the correspondence between Teleborian and Bjorck. That was enough to fill her backpack.
She closed the door, but before she had time to lock it she heard the sound of motorcycles behind her. She looked around. It was too late to try to hide, and she didn't have the slightest chance of outrunning two bikers on Harley-Davidsons. She stepped down warily from the porch and met them in the driveway.
Bublanski marched furiously down the corridor and saw that Hedstrom had not yet returned to Modig's office. But the toilet was vacant. He continued down the corridor and found him holding a plastic cup from the coffee vending machine, talking to Andersson and Bohman.
Bublanski turned unseen at the doorway and walked up one flight to Ekstrom's office. He shoved the door open without knocking, interrupting Ekstrom in the middle of a phone conversation.
"Come with me," he said.
"I beg your pardon?" Ekstrom said.
"Put the telephone down and come with me."
Bublanski's expression was such that Ekstrom did as he was told. In this situation it was easy to understand why Bublanski had been given the nickname Officer Bubble. His face looked like a bright red antiaircraft balloon. They went downstairs. Bublanski marched up to Hedstrom, took a firm grip on his hair, and turned him to Ekstrom.
"Hey, what the hell are you doing? Are you crazy?"
"Bublanski!" Ekstrom shouted, startled.
Hedstrom looked nervous. Bohman's mouth dropped open.
"Is this yours?" Bublanski asked, holding out the Sony Ericsson mobile.
"Let me go!"
"IS THIS YOUR MOBILE?"
"Yeah, damn it. Let me go."
"Not yet. You're under arrest."
"I'm what?"
"You're under arrest for breach of secrecy and for interfering with a police investigation. Or else give us a reasonable explanation for why, according to your list of calls, you called a journalist who answers to the name of Tony Scala at 9:57 this morning, right after the meeting and just before Scala went public with the very information we had decided to keep secret."
After getting instructions to go to Stallarholmen and set a fire, Lundin had wandered over to the clubhouse in the abandoned printing factory on the outskirts of Svavelsjo and taken Nieminen with him. It was perfect weather to roll out the hogs for the first time since winter. He had been given detailed directions and had studied a map. They put on their leathers and covered the distance from Svavelsjo to Stallarholmen in no time.
Lundin did not believe his eyes when he saw Lisbeth Salander in the driveway in front of Bjurman's summer cabin. It was a bonus that would blow the giant's fucking mind. He was sure it was her, although she looked different. Was that a wig? She was just standing there, waiting for them.
They rode up and parked six feet away on each side of her. When they switched off their motors it was utterly silent in the woods. Lundin didn't quite know what to say. At last he managed to speak.
"Well, how about that? We've been looking for you for a while, Salander. Sonny, meet Froken Salander."
He smiled. Salander regarded Lundin with expressionless eyes. She noticed that he still had a bright red, newly healed welt on his cheek and jaw where she had cut him with her keys. She raised her eyes and looked at the treetops behind him. Then she lowered them again. Her eyes were disconcertingly coal black.
"I've had a fucking miserable week and I'm in a fucking bad mood," she said. "You know what the worst thing is? Every time I turn around there's some fucking pile of shit with a beer belly in my way acting tough. Now I'd like to leave. So move your ass."
Lundin's mouth was hanging open. He thought he had heard wrong. Then he started laughing involuntarily. The situation was ridiculous. There stood a skinny girl who could fit into his breast pocket getting cheeky with two fully grown men with leather vests that showed they belonged to Svavelsjo MC, which meant they were the most dangerous of bikers and would soon be members of Hell's Angels. They could tear her apart and stuff her in their saddlebags.