The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet's Nest (5 page)

As soon as Blomkvist hung up, 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 Erika.

“I will. 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 Spångberg 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; the Göteborg police public information officer; preliminary investigation leader Agneta Jervas from the prosecutor’s office; and Inspectors Modig and Holmberg from the Stockholm police. They were included as a sign of goodwill and to demonstrate that Göteborg wished to cooperate with their colleagues from the capital. Possibly also to show them how a real police investigation should be run.

Spångberg, 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 cut short his trip as soon as he learned 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 Nossebrovägen.
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.

“All right. The patrol car that Niedermann is thought to have driven away was found in Alingsås this morning, as you all know. It was parked on a side street a quarter of a mile 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 Malmö. There is a nationwide APB 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 the wounded officer’s condition?” asked one of the inspectors from Violent Crimes.

“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: leg broken, 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 Spångberg 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,” Spångberg interjected. “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?” Spångberg wanted to know.

“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?” Spångberg said sharply.

“Well, obviously I don’t know what’s wrong with him—patient confidentiality and all that—but he’s taking both strong tranquilizers and stimulants. He was high as a kite all night.”

“Good God,” said Spångberg emphatically. She looked like the thundercloud that had swept over Göteborg 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.”

“Did he arrest Mikael Blomkvist last night?”

“He wrote a report citing disorderly conduct, resisting arrest, 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 two officers from going to pick up Niedermann alone, without backup.”

“Witnesses?”

“Well, there is the surviving officer. I don’t believe Paulsson’s claim of resisting arrest. 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 on 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 resisting arrest 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 cooperation, 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 has 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.”

Spångberg 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 Göteborg detectives 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 Björck is true and it comes out, Säpo’s ears are going to be burning,” the assistant head 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 general, but there are questions that still have to be answered.”

“I gather you’re still busy with excavations in Nykvarn,” Spångberg 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 Södertälje.”

“So, with the policeman 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 Svavelsjö 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 . . .”

“Forty-four, a dealer, and delinquent in his youth. Offhand I would guess the murder has to do with an internal shake-up of some sort. Svavelsjö MC 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 Södertälje . . . 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. She 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?” Spångberg 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 Göteborg 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 high-tech video surveillance system at the farm, we found nothing to distinguish it from any other farmhouse. The house itself is spartan, no frills.”