Friday, 8.iv Modig and Holmberg arrived at G?teborg Central Station just after 8.00 a.m. Bublanski had called to give them new instructions. They could forget about finding a car to take them to Gosseberga. They were to take a taxi to police headquarters on Ernst Fontells Plats, the seat of the County Criminal Police in Western G?taland. They waited for almost an hour before Inspector Erlander arrived from Gosseberga with Blomkvist. Blomkvist said hello to Modig, having met her before, and shook hands with Holmberg, whom he did not know. One of Erlander’s colleagues joined them with an update on the hunt for Niedermann. It was a brief report. “We have a team working under the auspices of the County Criminal Police. An A.P.B. has gone out, of course. The missing patrol car was found in Alings?s early this morning. The trail ends there for the moment. We have to suppose that he switched vehicles, but we’ve had no report of a car being stolen thereabouts.” “Media?” Modig asked, with an apologetic glance at Blomkvist. “It’s a police killing and the press is out in force. We’ll be holding a press conference at 10.00.” “Does anyone have any information on Lisbeth Salander’s condition?” Blomkvist said. He felt strangely uninterested in everything to do with the hunt for Niedermann. “She was operated on during the night. They removed a bullet from her head. She hasn’t regained consciousness yet.” “Is there any prognosis?” “As I understand it, we won’t know anything until she wakes up. But the surgeon says he has high hopes that she’ll survive, barring unforeseen complications.” “And Zalachenko?” “Who?” Erlander’s colleague said. He had not yet been brought up to date with all the details. “Karl Axel Bodin.” “I see … yes, he was operated on last night too. He had a very deep gash across his face and another just below one kneecap. He’s in bad shape, but the injuries aren’t life-threatening.” Blomkvist absorbed this news. “You look tired,” Modig said. “You got that right. I’m into my third day with hardly any sleep.” “Believe it or not, he actually slept in the car coming down from Nossebro,” Erlander said. “Could you manage to tell us the whole story from the beginning?” Holmberg said. “It feels to us as though the score between the private investigators and the police investigators is about 3–0.” Blomkvist gave him a wan smile. “That’s a line I’d like to hear from Officer Bubble.” They made their way to the police canteen to have breakfast. Blomkvist spent half an hour explaining step by step how he had pieced together the story of Zalachenko. When he had finished, the detectives sat in silence. “There are a few holes in your account,” Holmberg said at last. “That’s possible,” Blomkvist said. “You didn’t say, for example, how you came to be in possession of the Top Secret S?po report on Zalachenko.” “I found it yesterday at Lisbeth Salander’s apartment when I finally worked out where she was. She probably found it in Bjurman’s summer cabin.” “So you’ve discovered Salander’s hideout?” Modig said. Blomkvist nodded. “And?” “You’ll have to find out for yourselves where it is. Salander put a lot of effort into establishing a secret address for herself, and I have no intention of revealing its whereabouts.” Modig and Holmberg exchanged an anxious look. “Mikael … this is a murder investigation,” Modig said. “You still haven’t got it, have you? Lisbeth Salander is in fact innocent and the police have violated her and destroyed her reputation in ways that beggar belief. ‘Lesbian Satanist gang’ … where the hell do you get this stuff? Not to mention her being sought in connection with three murders she had nothing to do with. If she wants to tell you where she lives, then I’m sure she will.” “But there’s another gap I don’t really understand,” Holmberg said. “How does Bjurman come into the story in the first place? You say he was the one who started the whole thing by contacting Zalachenko and asking him to kill Salander. Why would he do that?” “I reckon he hired Zalachenko to get rid of Salander. The plan was for her to end up in that warehouse in Nykvarn.” “He was her guardian. What motive would he have had to get rid of her?” “It’s complicated.” “I can do complicated.” “He had a hell of a good motive. He had done something that Salander knew about. She was a threat to his entire future and well-being.” “What had he done?” “I think it would be best if you gave Salander a chance to explain the story herself.” He looked Holmberg steadily in the eye. “Let me guess,” Modig said. “Bjurman subjected his ward to some sort of sexual assault …” Blomkvist shrugged and said nothing. “You don’t know about the tattoo Bjurman had on his abdomen?” “What tattoo?” Blomkvist was taken aback. “An amateurish tattoo across his belly with a message that said: I am a sadistic pig, a pervert and a rapist. We’ve been wondering what that was about.” Blomkvist burst out laughing. “What’s so funny?” “I’ve always wondered what she did to get her revenge. But listen … I don’t want to discuss this for the same reason I’ve already given. She’s the real victim here. She’s the one who has to decide what she is willing to tell you. Sorry.” He looked almost apologetic. “Rapes should always be reported to the police,” Modig said. “I’m with you on that. But this rape took place two years ago, and Lisbeth still hasn’t talked to the police about it. Which means that she doesn’t intend to. It doesn’t matter how much I disagree with her about the matter; it’s her decision. Anyway …” “Yes?” “She had no good reason to trust the police. The last time she tried explaining what a pig Zalachenko was, she was locked up in a mental hospital.” * Richard Ekstr?m, the leader of the preliminary investigation, had butterflies in his stomach as he asked his team leader Inspector Bublanski to take a seat opposite him. Ekstr?m straightened his glasses and stroked his well-groomed goatee. He felt that the situation was chaotic and ominous. For several weeks they had been hunting Lisbeth Salander. He himself had proclaimed her far and wide to be mentally imbalanced, a dangerous psychopath. He had leaked information that would have backed him up in an upcoming trial. Everything had looked so good. There had been no doubt in his mind that Salander was guilty of three murders. The trial should have been a straightforward matter, a pure media circus with himself at centre stage. Then everything had gone haywire, and he found himself with a completely different murderer and a chaos that seemed to have no end in sight. That bitch Salander. “Well, this is a fine mess we’ve landed in,” he said. “What have you come up with this morning?” “A nationwide A.P.B. has been sent out on this Ronald Niedermann, but there’s no sign of him. At present he’s being sought only for the murder of Officer Gunnar Ingemarsson, but I anticipate we’ll have grounds for charging him with the three murders here in Stockholm. Maybe you should call a press conference.” Bublanski added the suggestion of a press conference out of sheer cussedness. Ekstr?m hated press conferences. “I think we’ll hold off on the press conference for the time being,” he snapped. Bublanski had to stop himself from smiling. “In the first instance, this is a matter for the G?teborg police,” Ekstr?m said. “Well, we do have Modig and Holmberg on the scene in G?teborg, and we’ve begun to co-operate—” “We’ll hold off on the press conference until we know more,” Ekstr?m repeated in a brittle tone. “What I want to know is: how certain are you that Niedermann really is involved in the murders in Stockholm?” “My gut feeling? I’m 100 per cent convinced. On the other hand, the case isn’t exactly rock solid. We have no witnesses to the murders, and there is no satisfactory forensic evidence. Lundin and Nieminen of the Svavelsj? M.C. are refusing to say anything – they’re claiming they’ve never heard of Niedermann. But he’s going to go to prison for the murder of Officer Ingemarsson.” “Precisely,” said Ekstr?m. “The killing of the police officer is the main thing right now. But tell me this: is there anything at all to even suggest that Salander might be involved in some way in the murders? Could she and Niedermann have somehow committed the murders together?” “I very much doubt it, and if I were you I wouldn’t voice that theory in public.” “So how is she involved?” “This is an intricate story, as Mikael Blomkvist claimed from the very beginning. It revolves around this Zala … Alexander Zalachenko.” Ekstr?m flinched at the mention of the name Blomkvist. “Go on,” he said. “Zala is a Russian hit man – apparently without a grain of conscience – who defected in the ’70s, and Lisbeth Salander was unlucky enough to have him as her father. He was sponsored or supported by a faction within S?po that tidied up after any crimes he committed. A police officer attached to S?po also saw to it that Salander was locked up in a children’s psychiatric clinic. She was twelve and had threatened to blow Zalachenko’s identity, his alias, his whole cover.” “This is a bit difficult to digest. It’s hardly a story we can make public. If I understand the matter correctly, all this stuff about Zalachenko is highly classified.” “Nevertheless, it’s the truth. I have documentation.” “Could I see it?” Bublanski pushed across the desk a folder containing a police report dated 1991. Ekstr?m surreptitiously scanned the stamp, which indicated that the document was Top Secret, and the registration number, which he at once identified as belonging to the Security Police. He leafed rapidly through the hundred or so pages, reading paragraphs here and there. Eventually he put the folder aside. “We have to try to tone this down, so that the situation doesn’t get completely out of our control. So Salander was locked up in an asylum because she tried to kill her father … this Zalachenko. And now she has attacked him with an axe. By any interpretation that would be attempted murder. And she has to be charged with shooting Magge Lundin in Stallarholmen.” “You can arrest whoever you want, but I would tread carefully if I were you.” “There’s going to be an almighty scandal if S?po’s involvement gets leaked.” Bublanski shrugged. His job was to investigate crimes, not to clean up after scandals. “This bastard from S?po, this Gunnar Bj?rck. What do you know about his role?” “He’s one of the major players. He’s on sick leave for a slipped disc and lives in Sm?dalar? at present.” “O.K…. we’ll keep the lid on S?po’s involvement for the time being. The focus right now is to be on the murder of a police officer.” “It’s going to be hard to keep this under wraps.” “What do you mean?” “I sent Andersson to bring in Bj?rck for a formal interrogation. That should be happening …” – Bublanski looked at his watch – “… yes, about now.” “You what?” “I was rather hoping to have the pleasure of driving out to Sm?dalar? myself, but the events surrounding last night’s killing took precedence.” “I didn’t give anyone permission to arrest Bj?rck.” “That’s true. But it’s not an arrest. I’m just bringing him in for questioning.” “Whichever, I don’t like it.” Bublanski leaned forward, almost as if to confide in the other man. “Richard … this is how it is. Salander has been subjected to a number of infringements of her rights, starting when she was a child. I do not mean for this to continue on my watch. You have the option to remove me as leader of the investigation … but if you did that I would be forced to write a harsh memo about the matter.” Ekstr?m looked as if he had just swallowed something very sour. Gunnar Bj?rck, on sick leave from his job as assistant chief of the Immigration Division of the Security Police, opened the door of his summer house in Sm?dalar? and looked up at a powerfully built, blond man with a crewcut who wore a black leather jacket. “I’m looking for Gunnar Bj?rck.” “That’s me.” “Curt Andersson, County Criminal Police.” The man held up his I.D. “Yes?” “You are requested to accompany me to Kungsholmen to assist the police in their investigations into the case involving Lisbeth Salander.” “Uh … there must be some sort of misunderstanding.” “There’s no misunderstanding,” Andersson said. “You don’t understand. I’m a police officer myself. Save yourself making a big mistake: check it out with your superior officers.” “My superior is the one who wants to talk to you.” “I have to make a call and—” “You can make your call from Kungsholmen.” Bj?rck felt suddenly resigned. It’s happened. I’m going to be arrested. That goddamn fucking Blomkvist. And fucking Salander. “Am I being arrested?” he said. “Not for the moment. But we can arrange for that if you like.” “No … no, of course I’ll come with you. Naturally I’d want to assist my colleagues in the police force.” “Alright, then,” Andersson said, walking into the hallway to keep a close eye on Bj?rck as he turned off the coffee machine and picked up his coat. In the late morning it dawned on Blomkvist that his rental car was still at the Gosseberga farm, but he was so exhausted that he did not have the strength or the means to get out there to fetch it, much less drive safely for any distance. Erlander kindly arranged for a crime scene tech to take the car back on his way home. “Think of it as compensation for the way you were treated last night.” Blomkvist thanked him and took a taxi to City Hotel on Lorensbergsgatan. He booked in for the night for 800 kronor and went straight to his room and undressed. He sat naked on the bed and took Salander’s Palm Tungsten T3 from the inside pocket of his jacket, weighing it in his hand. He was still amazed that it had not been confiscated when Paulsson frisked him, but Paulsson presumably thought it was Blomkvist’s own, and he had never been formally taken into custody and searched. He thought for a moment and then slipped it into a compartment of his laptop case where he had also put Salander’s D.V.D. marked “Bjurman,” which Paulsson had also missed. He knew that technically he was withholding evidence, but these were the things that Salander would no doubt prefer not to have fall into the wrong hands. He turned on his mobile and saw that the battery was low, so he plugged in the charger. He made a call to his sister, Advokat Giannini. “Hi, Annika.” “What did you have to do with the policeman’s murder last night?” she asked him at once. He told her succinctly what had happened. “O.K., so Salander is in intensive care.” “Correct, and we won’t know the extent or severity of her injuries until she regains consciousness, but now she’s really going to need a lawyer.” Giannini thought for a moment. “Do you think she’d want me for her lawyer?” “Probably she wouldn’t want any lawyer at all. She isn’t the type to ask anyone for help.” “Mikael … I’ve said this before, it sounds like she might need a criminal lawyer. Let me look at the documentation you have.” “Talk to Erika and ask her for a copy.” As soon as Blomkvist disconnected, he called Berger himself. She did not answer her mobile, so he tried her number at the Millennium offices. Henry Cortez answered. “Erika’s out somewhere,” he said. Blomkvist briefly explained what had happened and asked Cortez to pass the information to Millennium’s editor-in-chief. “Will do. What do you want us to do?” Cortez said. “Nothing today,” Blomkvist said. “I have to get some sleep. I’ll be back in Stockholm tomorrow if nothing else comes up. Millennium will have an opportunity to present its version of the story in the next issue, but that’s almost a month away.” He flipped his mobile shut and crawled into bed. He was asleep within thirty seconds. Assistant County Police Chief Carina Sp?ngberg tapped her pen against her glass of water and asked for quiet. Nine people were seated around the conference table in her office at police headquarters. Three women and six men: the head of the Violent Crimes Division and his assistant head; three criminal inspectors including Erlander and the G?teborg police press officers; preliminary investigation leader Agneta Jervas from the prosecutor’s office, and lastly Inspectors Modig and Holmberg from the Stockholm police. They were included as a sign of goodwill and to demonstrate that G?teborg wished to co-operate with their colleagues from the capital. Possibly also to show them how a real police investigation should be run. Sp?ngberg, who was frequently the lone woman in a male landscape, had a reputation for not wasting time on formalities or mere courtesies. She explained that the county police chief was at the Europol conference in Madrid, that he had broken off his trip as soon as he knew that one of his police officers had been murdered, but that he was not expected back before late that night. Then she turned directly to the head of the Violent Crimes Division, Anders Pehrzon, and asked him to brief the assembled company. “It’s been about ten hours since our colleague was murdered on Nossebrov?gen. We know the name of the killer, Ronald Niedermann, but we still don’t have a picture of him.” “In Stockholm we have a photograph of him that’s about twenty years old. Paolo Roberto got it through a boxing club in Germany, but it’s almost unusable,” Holmberg said. “Alright. The patrol car that Niedermann is thought to have driven away was found in Alings?s this morning, as you all know. It was parked on a side street 350 metres from the railway station. We haven’t had a report yet of any car thefts in the area this morning.” “What’s the status of the search?” “We’re keeping an eye on all trains arriving in Stockholm and Malm?. There is a nationwide A.P.B. out and we’ve alerted the police in Norway and Denmark. Right now we have about thirty officers working directly on the investigation, and of course the whole force is keeping their eyes peeled.” “No leads?” “No, nothing yet. But someone with Niedermann’s distinctive appearance is not going to go unnoticed for long.” “Does anyone know about Torstensson’s condition?” asked one of the inspectors from Violent Crime. “He’s at Sahlgrenska. His injuries seem to be similar to those of a car crash victim – it’s hardly credible that anyone could do such damage with his bare hands: a broken leg, ribs crushed, cervical vertebrae injured, plus there’s a risk that he may be paralysed.” They all took stock of their colleague’s plight for a few moments until Sp?ngberg turned to Erlander. “Marcus … tell us what really happened at Gosseberga.” “Thomas Paulsson happened at Gosseberga.” A ripple of groans greeted this response. “Can’t someone give that man early retirement? He’s a walking catastrophe.” “I know all about Paulsson,” Sp?ngberg interrupted. “But I haven’t heard any complaints about him in the last … well, not for the past two years. In what way has he become harder to handle?” “The police chief up there is an old friend of Paulsson’s, and he’s probably been trying to protect him. With all good intentions, of course, and I don’t mean to criticize him. But last night Paulsson’s behaviour was so bizarre that several of his people mentioned it to me.” “In what way bizarre?” Erlander glanced at Modig and Holmberg. He was embarrassed to be discussing flaws in their organization in front of the visitors from Stockholm. “As far as I’m concerned, the strangest thing was that he detailed one of the techs to make an inventory of everything in the woodshed – where we found the Zalachenko guy?” “An inventory of what in the woodshed?” Sp?ngberg wanted to know. “Yes … well … he said he needed to know exactly how many pieces of wood were in there. So that the report would be accurate.” There was a charged silence around the conference table before Erlander went on. “And this morning it came out that Paulsson has been taking at least two different antidepressants. He should have been on sick leave, but no-one knew about his condition.” “What condition?” Sp?ngberg said sharply. “Well, obviously I don’t know what’s wrong with him – patient’s confidentiality and all that – but the drugs he’s taking are strong ataractics on the one hand, and stimulants. He was high as a kite all night.” “Good God,” said Sp?ngberg emphatically. She looked like the thundercloud that had swept over G?teborg that morning. “I want Paulsson in here for a chat. Right now.” “He collapsed this morning and was admitted to the hospital suffering from exhaustion. It was just our bad luck that he happened to be on rotation.” “May I ask … Paulsson, did he arrest Mikael Blomkvist last night?” “He wrote a report citing offensive behaviour, aggressive resistance to police officers, and illegal possession of a weapon. That’s what he put in the report.” “What does Blomkvist say?” “He concedes that he was insulting, but he claims it was in self-defence. He says that the resistance consisted of a forceful verbal attempt to prevent Torstensson and Ingemarsson from going to pick up Niedermann alone, without back-up.” “Witnesses?” “Well, there is Torstensson. I don’t believe Paulsson’s claim of aggressive resistance for a minute. It’s a typical pre-emptive retaliation to undermine potential complaints from Blomkvist.” “But Blomkvist managed to overpower Niedermann all by himself, did he not?” Prosecutor Jervas said. “By holding a gun to him.” “So Blomkvist had a gun. Then there was some basis for his arrest after all. Where did he get the weapon?” “Blomkvist won’t discuss it without his lawyer being there. And Paulsson arrested Blomkvist when he was trying to hand in the weapon to the police.” “Could I make a small, informal suggestion?” Modig said cautiously. Everyone turned to her. “I have met Mikael Blomkvist on several occasions in the course of this investigation. I have found him quite likeable, even though he is a journalist. I suppose you’re the one who has to make the decision about charging him …” She looked at Jervas, who nodded. “All this stuff about insults and aggressive resistance is just nonsense. I assume you will ignore it.” “Probably. Illegal weapons are more serious.” “I would urge you to wait and see. Blomkvist has put the pieces of this puzzle together all by himself; he’s way ahead of us on the police force. It will be to our advantage to stay on good terms with him and ensure his co-operation, rather than unleash him to condemn the entire police force in his magazine and elsewhere in the media.” After a few seconds, Erlander cleared his throat. If Modig dared to stick her neck out, he could do the same. “I agree with Sonja. I too think Blomkvist is a man we could work with. I’ve apologized to him for the way he was treated last night. He seems ready to let bygones be bygones. Besides, he has integrity. He somehow tracked down where Salander was living but he won’t give us the address. He’s not afraid to get into a public scrap with the police … and he’s most certainly in a position where his voice will carry just as much weight in the media as any report from Paulsson.” “But he refuses to give the police any information about Salander.” “He says that we’ll have to ask her ourselves, if that time ever comes. He says he absolutely won’t discuss a person who is not only innocent but who also has had her rights so severely violated.” “What kind of weapon is it?” Jervas said. “It’s a Colt 1911 Government. Serial number unknown. Forensics have it, and we don’t know yet whether it is connected to any known crime in Sweden. If it is, that will put the matter in a rather different light.” Sp?ngberg raised her pen. “Agneta … it’s up to you to decide whether you want to initiate a preliminary investigation against Blomkvist. But I advise that you wait for the report from forensics. So let’s move on. This character Zalachenko … what can our colleagues from Stockholm tell us about him?” “The truth is,” Modig said, “that until yesterday afternoon we had never heard of either Zalachenko or Niedermann.” “I thought you were busy looking for a lesbian Satanist gang in Stockholm. Was I wrong?” one of the G?teborg policemen said. His colleagues all frowned. Holmberg was studying his fingernails. Modig had to take the question. “Within these four walls, I can tell you that we have our equivalent of Inspector Paulsson, and all that stuff about a lesbian Satanist gang is probably a smokescreen originating mainly from him.” Modig and Holmberg then described in detail the investigation as it had developed. When they had finished there was a long silence around the table. “If all this about Gunnar Bj?rck is true and it comes out, S?po’s ears are going to be burning,” the assistant chief of the Violent Crimes Division concluded. Jervas raised her hand. “It sounds to me as though your suspicions are for the most part based on assumptions and circumstantial evidence. As a prosecutor I would be uneasy about the lack of unassailable evidence.” “We’re aware of that,” Holmberg said. “We think we know what happened in broad outline, but there are questions that still have to be answered.” “I gather you’re still busy with excavations in Nykvarn,” Sp?ngberg said. “How many killings do you reckon this case involves?” Holmberg rubbed his eyes wearily. “We started with two, then three murders in Stockholm. Those are the ones that prompted the hunt for Salander: the deaths of Advokat Bjurman, the journalist Dag Svensson, and Mia Johansson, an academic. In the area around the warehouse in Nykvarn we have so far found three graves, well, three bodies. We’ve identified a known dealer and petty thief who was found dismembered in one trench. We found a woman’s body in a second trench – she’s still unidentified. And we haven’t dug up the third yet. It appears to be older than the others. Furthermore, Blomkvist has made a connection to the murder several months ago of a prostitute in S?dert?lje.” “So, with Gunnar Ingemarsson dead in Gosseberga, we’re talking about at least eight murders. That’s a horrendous statistic. Do we suspect this Niedermann of all of them? If so, he has to be treated as a madman, a mass murderer.” Modig and Holmberg exchanged glances. It was now a matter of how far they wanted to align themselves with such assertions. Finally Modig spoke up. “Even though crucial evidence is lacking, my superior, Inspector Bublanski, and I are tending towards the belief that Blomkvist is correct in claiming that the first three murders were committed by Niedermann. That would require us to believe that Salander is innocent. With respect to the graves in Nykvarn, Niedermann is linked to the site through the kidnapping of Salander’s friend Miriam Wu. There is a strong likelihood that she too would have been his victim. But the warehouse is owned by a relative of the president of Svavelsj? Motorcycle Club, and until we’re able to identify the remains, we won’t be able to draw any conclusions.” “That petty thief you identified …” “Kenneth Gustafsson, forty-four, dealer, and delinquent in his youth. Offhand I would guess it’s to do with an internal shake-up of some sort. Svavelsj? M.C. is mixed up in several kinds of criminal activity, including the distribution of methamphetamine. Nykvarn may be a cemetery in the woods for people who crossed them, but …” “Yes?” “This young prostitute who was murdered in S?dert?lje … her name is Irina Petrova. The autopsy revealed that she died as a result of a staggeringly vicious assault. She looked as if she had been beaten to death. But the actual cause of her injuries could not be established. Blomkvist made a pretty acute observation. Petrova had injuries that could very well have been inflicted by a man’s bare hands …” “Niedermann?” “It’s a reasonable assumption. But there’s no proof yet.” “So how do we proceed?” Sp?ngberg wondered. “I have to confer with Bublanski,” Modig said. “But a logical step would be to interrogate Zalachenko. We’re interested in hearing what he has to say about the murders in Stockholm, and for you it’s a matter of finding out what was Niedermann’s role in Zalachenko’s business. He might even be able to point you in the direction of Niedermann.” One of the detectives from G?teborg said: “What have we found at the farm in Gosseberga?” “We found four revolvers. A Sig Sauer that had been dismantled and was being oiled on the kitchen table. A Polish P-83 Wanad on the floor next to the bench in the kitchen. A Colt 1911 Government – that’s the pistol that Blomkvist tried to hand in to Paulsson. And finally a .22 calibre Browning, which is pretty much a toy gun alongside the others. We rather think that it was the weapon used to shoot Salander, given that she’s still alive with a slug in her brain.” “Anything else?” “We found and confiscated a bag containing about 200,000 kronor. It was in an upstairs room used by Niedermann.” “How do you know it was his room?” “Well, he does wear a size XXL. Zalachenko is at most a medium.” “Do you have anything on Zalachenko or Bodin in your records?” Holmberg said. Erlander shook his head. “Of course it depends on how we interpret the confiscated weapons. Apart from the more sophisticated weaponry and an unusually sophisticated T. V. surveillance of the farm, we found nothing to distinguish it from any other farmhouse. The house itself is spartan, no frills.” Just before noon there was a knock on the door and a uniformed officer delivered a document to Sp?ngberg. “We’ve received a call,” she said, “about a missing person in Alings?s. A dental nurse by the name of Anita Kaspersson left her home by car at 7.30 this morning. She took her child to day care and should have arrived at her place of work by 8.00. But she never did. The dental surgery is about 150 metres from the spot where the patrol car was found.” Erlander and Modig both looked at their wristwatches. “Then he has a four-hour head start. What kind of car is it?” “A dark-blue 1991 Renault. Here’s the registration number.” “Send out an A.P.B. on the vehicle at once. He could be in Oslo by now, or Malm?, or maybe even Stockholm.” They brought the conference to a close by deciding that Modig and Erlander would together interrogate Zalachenko. Cortez frowned and followed Berger with his gaze as she cut across the hall from her office to the kitchenette. She returned moments later with a cup of coffee, went back into her office and closed the door. Cortez could not put his finger on what was wrong. Millennium was the kind of small office where co-workers were close. He had worked part-time at the magazine for four years, and during that time the team had weathered some phenomenal storms, especially during the period when Blomkvist was serving a three-month sentence for libel and the magazine almost went under. Then their colleague Dag Svensson was murdered, and his girlfriend too. Through all these storms Berger had been the rock that nothing seemed capable of shifting. He was not surprised that she had called to wake him early that morning and put him and Lottie Karim to work. The Salander affair had cracked wide open, and Blomkvist had got himself somehow involved in the killing of a policeman in G?teborg. So far, everything was under control. Karim had parked herself at police headquarters and was doing her best to get some solid information out of someone. Cortez had spent the morning making calls, piecing together what had happened overnight. Blomkvist was not answering his telephone, but from a number of sources Cortez had a fairly clear picture of the events of the night before. Berger, on the other hand, had been distracted all morning. It was rare for her to close the door to her office. That usually happened only when she had a visitor or was working intently on some problem. This morning she had not had a single visitor, and she was not – so far as he could judge – working. On several occasions when he had knocked on the door to relay some news, he had found her sitting in the chair by the window. She seemed lost in thought, as listlessly she watched the stream of people walking down below on G?tgatan. She had paid scant attention to his reports. Something was wrong. The doorbell interrupted his ruminations. He went to open it and found the lawyer Annika Giannini. Cortez had met Blomkvist’s sister a few times, but he did not know her well. “Hello, Annika,” he said. “Mikael isn’t here today.” “I know. I want to talk to Erika.” Berger barely looked up from her position by the window, but she quickly pulled herself together when she saw who it was. “Hello,” she said. “Mikael isn’t here today.” Giannini smiled. “I know. I’m here for Bj?rck’s S?po report. Micke asked me to take a look at it in case it turns out that I represent Salander.” Berger nodded. She got up, took a folder from her desk and handed it to Giannini. Giannini hesitated a moment, wondering whether to leave the office. Then she made up her mind and, uninvited, sat down opposite Berger. “O.K…. what’s going on with you?” “I’m about to resign from Millennium, and I haven’t been able to tell Mikael. He’s been so tied up in this Salander mess that there hasn’t been the right opportunity, and I can’t tell the others before I tell him. Right now I just feel like shit.” Giannini bit her lower lip. “So you’re telling me instead. Why are you leaving?” “I’m going to be editor-in-chief of Svenska Morgon-Posten.” “Jesus. Well, in that case, congratulations seem to be in order rather than any weeping or gnashing of teeth.” “Annika … this isn’t the way I had planned to end my time at Millennium. In the middle of bloody chaos. But the offer came like a bolt from the blue, and I can’t say no. I mean … it’s the chance of a lifetime. But I got the offer just before Dag and Mia were shot, and there’s been such turmoil here that I buried it. And now I have the world’s worst guilty conscience.” “I understand. But now you’re afraid of telling Micke.” “It’s an utter disaster. I haven’t told anybody. I thought I wouldn’t be starting at S.M.P. until after the summer, and that there would still be time to tell everyone. But now they want me to start asap.” She fell silent and stared at Annika. She looked on the verge of tears. “This is, in point of fact, my last week at Millennium. Next week I’ll be on a trip, and then … I need about a fortnight off to recharge my batteries. I start at S.M.P. on the first of May.” “Well, what would have happened if you’d been run over by a bus? Then they would have been without an editor-in-chief with only a moment’s notice.” Erika looked up. “But I haven’t been run over by a bus. I’ve been deliberately keeping quiet about my decision for weeks now.” “I can see this is a difficult situation, but I’ve got a feeling that Micke and Christer Malm and the others will be able to work things out. I think you ought to tell them right away.” “Alright, but your damned brother is in G?teborg today. He’s asleep and has turned off his mobile.” “I know. There aren’t many people who are as stubborn as Mikael about not being available when you need him. But Erika, this isn’t about you and Micke. I know that you’ve worked together for twenty years or so and you’ve had your ups and downs, but you have to think about Christer and the others on the staff too.” “I’ve been keeping it under wraps all this time – Mikael’s going to—” “Micke’s going to go through the roof, of course he is. But if he can’t handle the fact that you screwed up one time in twenty years, then he isn’t worth the time you’ve put in for him.” Berger sighed. “Pull yourself together,” Giannini told her. “Call Christer in, and the rest of the staff. Right now.” Malm sat motionless for a few seconds. Berger had gathered her colleagues into Millennium’s small conference room with only a few minutes’ notice, just as he was about to leave early. He glanced at Cortez and Karim. They were as astonished as he was. Malin Eriksson, the assistant editor, had not known anything either, nor had Monika Nilsson, the reporter, or the advertising manager Magnusson. Blomkvist was the only one absent from the meeting. He was in G?teborg being his usual Blomkvist self. Good God. Mikael doesn’t know anything about it either, thought Malm. How on earth is he going to react? Then he realized that Berger had stopped talking, and it was as silent as the grave in the conference room. He shook his head, stood up, and spontaneously gave Berger a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “Congrats, Ricky,” he said. “Editor-in-chief of S.M.P. That’s not a bad step up from this sorry little rag.” Cortez came to life and began to clap. Berger held up her hands. “Stop,” she said. “I don’t deserve any applause today.” She looked around at her colleagues in the cramped editorial office. “Listen … I’m terribly sorry that it had to be this way. I wanted to tell you so many weeks ago, but the news sort of got drowned out by all the turmoil surrounding Dag and Mia. Mikael and Malin have been working like demons, and … it just didn’t ever seem like the right time or place. And that’s how we’ve arrived at this point today.” Eriksson realized with terrible clarity how understaffed the paper was, and how empty it was going to seem without Berger. No matter what happened, or whatever problem arose, Berger had been a boss she could always rely on. Well … no wonder the biggest morning daily had recruited her. But what was going to happen now? Erika had always been a crucial part of Millennium. “There are a few things we have to get straight. I’m perfectly aware that this is going to create difficulties in the office. I didn’t want it to, but that’s the way things are. First of all: I won’t abandon Millennium. I’m going to stay on as a partner and will attend board meetings. I won’t, of course, have any influence in editorial matters.” Malm nodded thoughtfully. “Secondly, I officially leave on the last day of April. But today is my last day of work. Next week I’ll be travelling, as you know. It’s been planned for a long time. And I’ve decided not to come back here to put in any days during the transition period.” She paused for a moment. “The next issue of the magazine is ready in the computer. There are a few minor things that need fixing. It will be my final issue. A new editor-in-chief will have to take over. I’m clearing my desk tonight.” There was absolute silence in the room. “The selection of a new editor-in-chief will have to be discussed and made by the board. It’s something that you all on the staff will have to talk through.” “Mikael,” Malm said. “No. Never Mikael. He’s surely the worst possible editor-in-chief you could pick. He’s perfect as publisher and damned good at editing articles and tying up loose ends in work that is going to be published. He’s the fixer. The editor-in-chief has to be the one who takes the initiative. Mikael also has a tendency to bury himself in his own stories and be totally off the radar for weeks at a time. He’s at his best when things heat up, but he’s incredibly bad at routine work. You all know that.” Malm muttered his assent and then said: “Millennium functioned because you and Mikael were a good balance for each other.” “That’s not the only reason. You remember when Mikael was up in Hedestad sulking for almost a whole bloody year. Millennium functioned without him precisely the way the magazine is going to have to function without me now.” “O.K. What’s your plan?” “My choice would be for you, Christer, to take over as editor-inchief.” “Not on your life.” Malm threw up his hands. “But since I knew that’s what you would say, I have another solution. Malin. You can start as acting editor-in-chief as from today.” “Me?” Eriksson said. She sounded shocked. “Yes, you. You’ve been damned good as assistant editor.” “But I—” “Give it a try. I’ll be out of my office tonight. You can move in on Monday morning. The May issue is done – we’ve already worked hard on it. June is a double issue, and then you have a month off. If it doesn’t work, the board will have to find somebody else for August. Henry … you’ll have to go full-time and take Malin’s place as assistant editor. Then we’ll need to hire a new employee. But that will be up to all of you, and to the board.” She studied the group thoughtfully. “One more thing. I’ll be starting at another publication. For all practical purposes, S.M.P. and Millennium are not competitors, but nevertheless I don’t want to know any more than I already do about the content of the next two issues. All such matters should be discussed with Malin, effective immediately.” “What should we do about this Salander story?” Cortez said. “Discuss it with Mikael. I know something about Salander, but I’m putting what I know in mothballs. I won’t take it to S.M.P.” Berger suddenly felt an enormous wave of relief. “That’s about it,” she said, and she ended the meeting by getting up and going back to her office without another word. Millennium’s staff sat in silence. It was not until an hour later that Eriksson knocked on Berger’s door. “Hello there.” “Yes?” said Berger. “The staff would like to have a word.” “What is it?” “Out here.” Berger got up and went to the door. They had set a table with cake and Friday afternoon coffee. “We think we should have a party and give you a real send-off in due course,” Malm said. “But for now, coffee and cake will have to do.” Berger smiled, for the first time in a long time.