The Girl Who Played with Fire (65 page)

“But Zalachenko didn’t touch Lisbeth?”

“No. She caught up with him just as he was getting into his car. He rolled down the window, possibly to say something. Lisbeth was ready. She threw a milk carton she had filled with gasoline into the car. Then she threw in a burning match.”

“Good God.”

“She tried to kill her father twice. This time there were consequences. A man sitting in a car on Lundagatan burning like a beacon could hardly go unnoticed.”

“But he survived.”

“He suffered horribly. One of his feet had to be amputated. His face and other parts of his body suffered serious burns. And Lisbeth ended up at St. Stefan’s Psychiatric Clinic for Children.”

Despite the fact that she already knew every word by heart, Salander once again read through the material about herself that she had found in Bjurman’s files. She sat in the window seat and opened the cigarette case Miriam Wu had given her. She lit a cigarette and looked out towards Djurgården. She had discovered some things about her life that she had never known before.

In fact so much fell into place that she turned quite cold. Above all she was interested in the report filed by Björck in March 1991. She wasn’t certain which one of the many grown-ups who had talked to her was Björck, but she thought she knew. He had introduced himself with another name. Sven Jansson. She remembered every feature of his face, every word he said, and every gesture he made on the three occasions she had encountered him.

The whole thing was a disaster.

Zalachenko had burned like fury inside the car. He had managed to push open the door and roll out onto the pavement, but his leg got caught inside by the seat belt. People had come rushing up to smother the flames. A fire engine arrived and put out the fire. An ambulance arrived and Lisbeth had tried to get the medics to ignore Zalachenko and come and see to her mother. They had shoved her aside. The police arrived, and there were witnesses who pointed to her. She tried to explain what had happened, but it felt as if nobody was listening to her, and suddenly she was sitting in the backseat of a police car and it took minutes and minutes and minutes and finally almost an hour before the police went into the apartment and found her mother.

Agneta Sofia Salander was unconscious. She had brain damage. The first in a long series of small cerebral haemorrhages had been triggered by the beating. She would never recover.

Salander now understood why nobody had read the police report, why Palmgren had failed in his attempt to have it released, and why even today Prosecutor Ekström, who was leading the search for her, did not have access to it. It had not been written by the regular police. It had been put together by some creep in the Security Police. It had rubber stamps on it saying that the report was classified as top secret according to the law of national security.

Zalachenko had worked for Säpo.

It was no report. It was a cover-up. Zalachenko was more important than Agneta Salander. He could not be identified or exposed. Zalachenko did not exist.

It was not Zalachenko who was the problem—it was Lisbeth Salander, the crazy kid who threatened to crack one of the country’s most crucial secrets wide open
.

A secret that she had not known anything about. She brooded. Zalachenko had met her mother very soon after he had arrived in Sweden. He had introduced himself using his real name. Perhaps at that time he had not yet been given a cover name or a Swedish identity, or he was not using it for her. She only knew his real name. But he had been given a new name by the Swedish government. That explained why Lisbeth had never found his name in any public records in all these years.

She got the point. If Zalachenko were accused of aggravated assault, Agneta Salander’s lawyer would start looking into his past.
Where do you work, Herr Zalachenko? What’s your real name? Where do you come from?

If Salander ended up with social services maybe somebody would start digging around. She was too young to be charged, but if the gasoline-bomb attack were investigated in too much detail, the same thing would happen. She could imagine the headlines in the papers. The investigation would have to be conducted by a trusted person. And then stamped top secret and buried so deep that nobody would find it. And Salander would have to be buried so deep that nobody would find her either.

Gunnar Björck
.

St. Stefan’s
.

Peter Teleborian
.

The explanation was driving her wild.

Dear Government… I’m going to have a serious talk with you if I ever find anyone to talk to
.

She wondered fleetingly what the minister of health and social welfare would think about getting a Molotov cocktail tossed through the front doors of his department. But in the absence of anyone else who could be held responsible, Teleborian was a good substitute. She made a mental note to deal with him in earnest as soon as she had tidied up the rest of this mess.

But she still didn’t understand the whole picture. Zalachenko had suddenly sprung to life again after all these years. He was in danger of being exposed by Svensson.
Two shots. Svensson and Johansson
. A gun with her fingerprints on it…

Zalachenko or whoever he sent to carry out the executions could not have known that she had found the revolver in the box in Bjurman’s desk drawer and handled it. It had been pure chance, but for her it had already been clear from the start that there had to be a connection between Bjurman and Zala.

Yet the story still did not add up. She mulled it over, trying out the pieces of the puzzle one by one.

There was only one reasonable answer.

Bjurman.

Bjurman had done his investigation into her life. He had discovered the connection. He had turned to Zalachenko.

She had the video of Bjurman raping her. That was her sword over his neck. Perhaps he dreamed that Zalachenko would force her into giving it up.

She hopped down from the window seat, opened her desk drawer, and took out the DVD with
BJURMAN
written on it in marker pen. She had not even put it in a plastic sleeve. She had not looked at it since she had given Bjurman his very own screening two years ago. She weighed it in her hand and put it back in the drawer.

Bjurman was a fool. If he’d only kept his distance she would have released him as soon as he’d managed to get her declaration of incompetence rescinded. He would have been transformed forever into Zalachenko’s lapdog, and that would have been a fair punishment.

Zalachenko’s network. Some of the tentacles went all the way to Svavelsjö MC.

The blond giant
.

He was her key.

She had to find him and force him to tell her where Zalachenko was.

She lit another cigarette and looked out at the citadel next to Skeppsholmen. She looked across to the roller coaster at Gröna Lund. She
was talking to herself. And in a voice she had heard once in a film, she said:

Daaaaddyyyyy, I’m coming to get yoooou
.

At 7:30 she turned on the TV to catch up on the latest developments in the hunt for Lisbeth Salander. She was stunned by what she saw.

Bublanski finally got hold of Faste on his mobile just after 8:00 in the evening. No pleasantries were exchanged. He did not ask what Faste had been up to, but coolly gave him his instructions.

Faste had had more than he could bear of the circus at headquarters that morning and had done something he had never done before on duty. He went out on the town. He turned off his mobile and sat in the bar at Central Station and drank two beers while he boiled with rage.

Then he went home, took a shower, and went to bed.

He needed to catch up on his sleep.

He woke up in time for
Rapport
and his eyes almost popped out of his head when he heard the top stories. Bodies dug up in Nykvarn. Salander had shot a leader of Svavelsjö MC. Police hunt through the southern suburbs. The net was tightening.

He turned on his mobile.

Almost immediately that fucker Bublanski called. He said that the investigation was now redirecting its focus to identifying an alternative killer, and that Faste was to relieve Holmberg at the crime scene in Nykvarn. During the wrapping up of the Salander investigation Faste was supposed to be collecting cigarette butts in the woods. Other people would be hunting Salander.

What the hell did Svavelsjö MC have to do with all this?

Suppose there
was
something to the reasoning of that fucking dyke Modig.

It wasn’t possible.

It had to be Salander.

He wanted to be the one who caught her. He wanted to catch her so badly that it almost made his hands hurt as he held his mobile.

Palmgren calmly watched Blomkvist pace back and forth in front of the window in the small room. It was getting on towards 7:30 in the evening, and they had been talking nonstop for almost an hour. At last Palmgren tapped on the tabletop to get Blomkvist’s attention.

“Sit down before you wear out your shoes,” he said.

Blomkvist sat down.

“All these secrets,” Palmgren said. “I never understood the connection until you explained Zalachenko’s background. All I’ve seen are the assessments of Lisbeth claiming that she’s mentally disturbed.”

“Peter Teleborian.”

“He must have some sort of deal with Björck. They have to have been working together somehow.”

Blomkvist nodded pensively. Whatever happened, Teleborian was going to be the object of journalistic scrutiny.

“Lisbeth said that I should stay away from him. That he was evil.”

Palmgren looked at him sharply. “When did she say that?”

Blomkvist said nothing for some moments. Then he smiled and looked at Palmgren.

“More secrets, damn it. I’ve been in touch with her while she’s been in hiding. By computer. Only short, cryptic messages on her part, but she has always led me in the right direction.”

Palmgren sighed. “And of course you didn’t tell the police.”

“No. Not exactly.”

“Then you haven’t told me either. She’s quite good with computers.”

You have no idea how good
.

“I have a great belief in her ability to land on her feet. She may be hard up, but she’s a survivor.”

Not that hard up. She stole almost three billion kronor. She’s not going to starve. She has a bag full of gold, just like Pippi Longstocking
.

“What I don’t quite understand,” Blomkvist said, “is why you didn’t take up her case in all those years.”

Palmgren sighed again. He felt infinitely sad.

“I failed her,” he said. “When I became her trustee she was only one in a series of difficult young people with problems. I’ve dealt with dozens of others. I was given the assignment by Stefan Brådhensjö when he was minister of welfare. By then she was already at St. Stefan’s, and I didn’t even see her that first year. I talked to Teleborian a couple of times and he explained that she was psychotic and that she was getting the best possible care. I believed him—and why not? But I also talked to Jonas Beringer, who was senior clinician at that time. I don’t think he had anything to do with her case. He made an assessment at my request, and we agreed to try and get her back into society again by way of a foster family. That was when she was fifteen.”

“And you backed her up over the years.”

“Not enough. I took her side after the episode in the tunnelbana. By then I had gotten to know her and I liked her a lot. She was feisty. I stopped them from putting her back in an institution. The price of that was that she was declared incompetent and I became her guardian.”

“Presumably Björck wasn’t running around telling the court what to decide. It would have attracted attention. He wanted her locked up, and he counted on painting a bleak picture of her through psychiatric assessments from Teleborian and others, assuming that the court would come to the logical conclusion. But instead they followed your recommendation.”

“I’ve never thought that she ought to be under guardianship. But to be honest, I didn’t do much to get the ruling reversed. I should have acted sooner and more forcefully. But I was quite enchanted by Lisbeth and … I always put it off. I had too many irons in the fire. And then I got sick.”

“I don’t think you should blame yourself. No-one else looked after her interests better over the years.”

“The problem was always that I didn’t know enough. Lisbeth was my client, but she never uttered a word about Zalachenko. When she got out of St. Stefan’s it was years before she manifested the slightest trust in me. It was only after the hearing that I sensed she was very slowly starting to communicate with me beyond the necessary formalities.”

“How did she happen to start telling you about Zalachenko?”

“I suppose that in spite of everything she had begun to trust me. Besides, on a number of occasions I’d raised the subject of having the incompetency declaration rescinded. Apparently, she thought it over and then one day she called and wanted to meet. And she told me the whole story about Zalachenko and how she viewed what had happened. You’ll probably appreciate that it was a lot for me to take in. But I started digging around in the story straightaway. I couldn’t find a Zalachenko in any database in all of Sweden. I did sometimes wonder whether she might be imagining the whole thing.”

“After you had your stroke, Bjurman became her guardian. That couldn’t have been an accident.”

“No. I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to prove it, but I’ve been thinking that if we tried hard enough we would find … whoever it is that took over after Björck and is in charge of the cleanup of the Zalachenko affair.”

“I don’t wonder at Lisbeth’s absolute refusal to talk to psychiatrists or the authorities,” Blomkvist said. “Every time she did, it only made matters worse. She tried to explain what had happened and no-one listened.
She, a child all by herself, tried to save her mother’s life and defend her against a psychopath. In the end she did the only thing she felt she could do. And instead of saying ‘well done’ and ‘good girl,’ they locked her up in an asylum.”