Morell broadened his inquiry. Could the digits mean, for example, car number plates, which in the sixties contained the two-letter county registration code and five digits? Another dead end.
The inspector then concentrated on the names. He obtained a list of everyone in Hedestad named Mari, Magda, or Sara or who had the initials R.L. or R.J. He had a list of 307 people. Among these, 29 actually had some connection to Harriet. For instance, a boy from her class was named Roland Jacobsson—R.J. They scarcely knew each other and had had no contact since Harriet started preparatory school. And there was no link to the telephone number.
The mystery of the numbers in the date book remained unsolved.
Her fourth encounter with Advokat Bjurman was not one of their scheduled meetings. She was forced to make contact with him.
In the second week of February Salander’s laptop fell victim to an accident that was so uncalled for that she felt an urgent desire to kill someone. She had ridden her bike to a meeting at Milton Security and parked it behind a pillar in the garage. As she set her rucksack on the ground to put on the bike lock, a dark red Saab began reversing out. She had her back turned but heard the cracking sound from her rucksack. The driver didn’t notice a thing and, unwitting, drove off up the exit ramp.
The rucksack contained her white Apple iBook 600 with a 25-gig hard drive and 420 megs of RAM, manufactured in January 2002 and equipped with a 14-inch screen. At the time she bought it, it was Apple’s state-of-the-art laptop. Salander’s computers were upgraded with the very latest and sometimes most expensive configurations—computer equipment was the only extravagant entry on her list of expenses.
When she opened the rucksack, she could see that the lid of her computer was cracked. She plugged in the power adapter and tried to boot up the computer; not even a death rattle. She took it over to Timmy’s MacJesus Shop on Brännkyrkagatan, hoping that at least something on the hard drive could be saved. After fiddling with it for a short time, Timmy shook his head.
“Sorry. No hope,” he said. “You’ll have to arrange a nice funeral.”
The loss of her computer was depressing but not disastrous. Salander had had an excellent relationship with it during the year she had owned it. She had backed up all her documents, and she had an older desktop Mac G3 at home, as well as a five-year-old Toshiba PC laptop that she could use. But she needed a fast, modern machine.
Unsurprisingly she set her sights on the best available alternative: the new Apple PowerBook G4/1.0 GHz in an aluminium case with a PowerPC 7451 processor with an AltiVec Velocity Engine, 960 MB RAM and a 60 GB hard drive. It had BlueTooth and built-in CD and DVD burners.
Best of all, it had the first 17-inch screen in the laptop world with NVIDIA graphics and a resolution of 1440 x 900 pixels, which shook the PC advocates and outranked everything else on the market.
In terms of hardware, it was the Rolls-Royce of portable computers, but what really triggered Salander’s need to have it was the simple feature that the keyboard was equipped with backlighting, so that she could see the letters even if it was pitch dark. So simple. Why had no-one thought of that before?
It was love at first sight.
It cost 38,000 kronor, plus tax.
That
was the problem.
Come what may, she put in her order at MacJesus. She bought all her computer accessories there, so they gave her a reasonable discount. She tallied up her expenses. The insurance on her ruined computer would cover a good part of the price, but with the warranty and the higher price of her new acquisition, she was still 18,000 kronor short. She had 10,000 kronor hidden in a coffee tin at home but that was all. She sent evil thoughts to Herr Bjurman, but then she bit the bullet and called her guardian to explain that she needed money for an unexpected expense. Bjurman’s secretary said that he had no time to see her that day. Salander replied that it would take the man twenty seconds to write out a cheque for 10,000 kronor. She was told to be at his office at 7:30 that evening.
Blomkvist might have no experience of evaluating criminal investigations, but he reckoned that Inspector Morell had been exceptionally conscientious. When Blomkvist had finished with the police investigation, Morell still kept turning up as a player in Vanger’s own notes. They had become friends, and Blomkvist wondered whether Morell had been as obsessed as the captain of industry became.
It was unlikely, in his view, that Morell had missed anything. The solution to the mystery was not going to be found in the police records. Every imaginable question had been asked, and all leads followed up, even some that seemed absurdly far-fetched. He had not read every word of the report, but the further into the investigation he got, the more obscure the subsequent leads and tips became. He was not going to find anything that his professional predecessor and his experienced team had missed, and he was undecided what approach he should adopt to the problem. Eventually it came to him that the only reasonably practical route for him to take was to try to find out the psychological motives of the individuals involved.
The first question had to do with Harriet herself. Who was she?
From his kitchen window Blomkvist had noticed a light go on upstairs in Cecilia Vanger’s house at a little after 5:00 in the afternoon. He knocked on her door at 7:30, just as the news broadcast was starting on TV. She opened the door dressed in her bathrobe, her hair wet under a yellow towel. Blomkvist apologised at once for disturbing her and made to retreat, but she waved him into the living room. She turned on the coffeemaker and vanished upstairs for a few minutes. When she came back down, she had put on jeans and a check flannel shirt.
“I was starting to think you were never going to call.”
“I should have rung first, but I saw your light was on and came over on impulse.”
“I’ve seen the lights on all night at your place. And you’re often out walking after midnight. You’re a night owl?”
Blomkvist shrugged. “It’s turned out that way.” He looked at several textbooks stacked on the edge of the kitchen table. “Do you still teach?”
“No, as headmistress I don’t have time. But I used to teach history, religion, and social studies. And I have a few years left.”
“Left?”
She smiled. “I’m fifty-six. I’ll be retiring soon.”
“You don’t look a day over fifty, more like in your forties.”
“Very flattering. How old are you?”
“Well, over forty,” Blomkvist said with a smile.
“And you were just twenty the other day. How fast it all goes. Life, that is.”
Cecilia Vanger served the coffee and asked if he was hungry. He said that he had already eaten, which was partly true. He did not bother with cooking and ate only sandwiches. But he was not hungry.
“Then why did you come over? Is it time to ask me those questions?”
“To be honest…I didn’t come over to ask questions. I think I just wanted to say hello.”
She smiled. “You’re sentenced to prison, you move to Hedeby, clamber through all the material of Henrik’s favourite hobby, you don’t sleep at night and take long nighttime walks when it’s freezing cold…Have I left anything out?”
“My life is going to the dogs.”
“Who was that woman visiting you over the weekend?”
“Erika…She’s the editor in chief of
Millennium
.”
“Your girlfriend?”
“Not exactly. She’s married. I’m more a friend and occasional lover.”
Cecilia Vanger hooted with laughter.
“What’s so funny?”
“The way you said that. Occasional lover. I like the expression.”
Blomkvist took a liking to Cecilia Vanger.
“I could use an occasional lover myself,” she said.
She kicked off her slippers and propped one foot on his knee. Blomkvist automatically put his hand on her foot and stroked the ankle. He hesitated for a second—he could sense he was getting into unexpected waters. But tentatively he started massaging the sole of her foot with his thumb.
“I’m married too,” she said.
“I know. No-one gets divorced in the Vanger clan.”
“I haven’t seen my husband in getting on for twenty years.”
“What happened?”
“That’s none of your business. I haven’t had sex in…hmmm, it must be three years now.”
“That surprises me.”
“Why? It’s a matter of supply and demand. I have no interest in a boyfriend or a married man or someone living with me. I do best on my own. Who should I have sex with? One of the teachers at school? I don’t think so. One of the students? A delicious story for the gossiping old ladies. And they keep a close watch on people called Vanger. And here on Hedeby Island there are only relatives and people already married.”
She leaned forward and kissed him on the neck.
“Do I shock you?”
“No. But I don’t know whether this is a good idea. I work for your uncle.”
“And I’m the last one who’s going to tell. But to be honest, Henrik probably wouldn’t have anything against it.”
She sat astride him and kissed him on the mouth. Her hair was still wet and fragrant with shampoo. He fumbled with the buttons on her flannel shirt and pulled it down around her shoulders. She had no bra. She pressed against him when he kissed her breasts.
Bjurman came round the desk to show her the statement of her bank account—which she knew down to the last öre, although it was no longer at her disposal. He stood behind her. Suddenly he was massaging the back of her neck, and he let one hand slide from her left shoulder across her breasts. He put his hand over her right breast and left it there. When she did not seem to object, he squeezed her breast. Salander did not move. She could feel his breath on her neck as she studied the letter opener on his desk; she could reach it with her free hand.
But she did nothing. If there was one lesson Holger Palmgren had taught her over the years, it was that impulsive actions led to trouble, and trouble could have unpleasant consequences. She never did anything without first weighing the consequences.
The initial sexual assault—which in legal terms would be defined as sexual molestation and the exploitation of an individual in a position of dependence, and could in theory get Bjurman up to two years in prison—lasted only a few seconds. But it was enough to irrevocably cross a boundary. For Salander it was a display of strength by an enemy force—an indication that aside from their carefully defined legal relationship, she was at the mercy of his discretion and defenceless. When their eyes met a few seconds later, his lips were slightly parted and she could read the lust on his face. Salander’s own face betrayed no emotions at all.
Bjurman moved back to his side of the desk and sat on his comfortable leather chair.
“I can’t hand out money to you whenever you like,” he said. “Why do you need such an expensive computer? There are plenty of cheaper models that you can use for playing computer games.”
“I want to have control of my own money like before.”
Bjurman gave her a pitying look.
“We’ll have to see how things go. First you need to learn to be more sociable and get along with people.”
Bjurman’s smile might have been more subdued if he could have read her thoughts behind the expressionless eyes.
“I think you and I are going to be good friends,” he said. “We have to be able to trust each other.”
When she did not reply he said: “You’re a grown woman now, Lisbeth.”
She nodded.
“Come here,” he said and held out his hand.
Salander fixed her gaze on the letter opener for several seconds before she stood up and went over to him.
Consequences
. He took her hand and pressed it to his crotch. She could feel his genitals through the dark gabardine trousers.
“If you’re nice to me, I’ll be nice to you.”
He put his other hand around her neck and pulled her down to her knees with her face in front of his crotch.
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” he said as he lowered his zip. He smelled as if he had just washed himself with soap and water.
Salander turned her face away and tried to get up, but he held her in a tight grip. In terms of physical strength, she was no match for him; she weighed 90 pounds to his 210. He held her head with both hands and turned her face so their eyes met.
“If you’re nice to me, I’ll be nice to you,” he repeated. “If you make trouble, I can put you away in an institution for the rest of your life. Would you like that?”
She said nothing.
“Would you like that?” he said again.
She shook her head.
He waited until she lowered her eyes, in what he regarded as submission. Then he pulled her closer. Salander opened her lips and took him in her mouth. He kept his grip on her neck and pulled her fiercely towards him. She felt like gagging the whole ten minutes he took to bump and grind; when finally he came, he was holding her so tight she could hardly breathe.
He showed her the bathroom in his office. Salander was shaking all over as she wiped her face and tried to rub off the spots on her sweater. She chewed some of his toothpaste to get rid of the taste. When she went back to his office, he was sitting impassively behind his desk, studying some papers.
“Sit down, Lisbeth,” he told her without looking up. She sat down. Finally he looked at her and smiled.
“You’re grown-up now, aren’t you, Lisbeth?”
She nodded.
“Then you also need to be able to play grown-up games,” he said. He used a tone of voice as if he were speaking to a child. She did not reply. A small frown appeared on his brow.
“I don’t think it would be a good idea for you to tell anyone about our games. Think about it—who would believe you? There are documents stating that you’re non compos mentis. It would be your word against mine. Whose word do you think would carry more weight?”
He sighed when still she did not speak. He was annoyed at the way she just sat there in silence, looking at him—but he controlled himself.
“We’re going to be good friends, you and I,” he said. “I think you were smart to come and see me today. You can always come to me.”