“Gottfried.”
She nodded.
“On August 7, 1965, my father forced me to go out to his cabin. Henrik was away. My father was drinking, and he tried to force himself on me. But he couldn’t get it up and he flew into a drunken rage. He was always…rough and violent towards me when we were alone, but this time he crossed the line.
He urinated on me.
Then he started telling me what he was going to do to me. That night he told me about the women he had killed. He was bragging about it. He quoted from the Bible. This went on for an hour. I didn’t understand half of what he was saying, but I realised that he was totally, absolutely sick.”
She took a gulp of her beer.
“Sometime around midnight he had a fit. He was totally insane. We were up in the sleeping loft. He put a T-shirt around my neck and pulled it as tight as he could. I blacked out. I don’t have the slightest doubt that he really was trying to kill me, and for the first time that night he managed to complete the rape.”
Harriet looked at Blomkvist. Her eyes entreated him to understand.
“But he was so drunk that somehow I managed to get away. I jumped down from the loft and fled. I was naked and I ran without thinking, and ended up on the jetty by the water. He came staggering after me.”
Blomkvist suddenly wished that she would not tell him anything more.
“I was strong enough to shove an old drunk into the water. I used an oar to hold him under until he wasn’t struggling any more. It didn’t take long.”
When she stopped, the silence was deafening.
“And when I looked up, there stood Martin. He looked terrified, but at the same time he was grinning. I don’t know how long he was outside the cabin, spying on us. From that moment I was at his mercy. He came up to me, grabbed me by the hair, and led me back to the cabin—to Gottfried’s bed. He tied me up and raped me while our father was still floating in the water. And I couldn’t even offer any resistance.”
Blomkvist closed his eyes. He was terribly ashamed and wished that he had left Harriet Vanger in peace. But her voice had taken on a new force.
“From that day on, I was in his power. I did what he told me to do. I felt paralysed, and the only thing that saved my sanity was that Isabella—or maybe it was Uncle Henrik—decided that Martin needed a change of scenery after his father’s tragic death, so she sent him to Uppsala. Of course this was because she knew what he was doing to me, and it was her way of solving the problem. You can bet that Martin was disappointed. During the next year he was home only for the Christmas holiday. I managed to keep away from him. I went with Henrik on a trip to Copenhagen between Christmas and New Year’s. And during the summer holiday, Anita was there. I confided in her, and she stayed with me the whole time, making sure that he didn’t come near me.”
“Until you saw him on Järnvägsgatan.”
“I was told that he wouldn’t be coming to the family gathering, that he was staying in Uppsala. But obviously he changed his mind, and suddenly there he was on the other side of the street, staring at me. He smiled at me. It felt like a hideous dream. I had murdered my father, and I realised that I would never be free of my brother. Up until then, I had thought about killing myself. I chose instead to flee.” She gave Blomkvist what was almost a look of relief. “It feels fantastic to tell the truth. So now you know.”
CHAPTER
27
Saturday, July 26–Monday, July 28
Blomkvist picked up Salander by her front door on Lundagatan at 10:00 and drove her to the Norra crematorium. He stayed at her side during the ceremony. For a long time they were the only mourners along with the pastor, but when the funeral began Armansky slipped in. He nodded curtly to Blomkvist and stood behind Salander, gently putting a hand on her shoulder. She nodded without looking at him, as if she knew who was standing there. Then she ignored them both.
Salander had told him nothing about her mother, but the pastor had apparently spoken to someone at the nursing home where she died, and Blomkvist understood that the cause of death was a cerebral haemorrhage. Salander did not say a word during the ceremony. The pastor lost her train of thought twice when she turned directly to her. Salander looked her straight in the eye without expression. When it was over she turned on her heel and left without saying thank you or goodbye. Blomkvist and Armansky took a deep breath and looked at each other.
“She’s feeling really bad,” Armansky said.
“I know that,” Blomkvist said. “It was good of you to come.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
Armansky fixed Blomkvist with his gaze.
“If you two are driving back north, keep an eye on her.”
He promised to do that. They said goodbye, and to the pastor, at the church door. Salander was already in the car, waiting.
She had to go back with him to Hedestad to get her motorcycle and the equipment she had borrowed from Milton Security. Not until they had passed Uppsala did she break her silence and ask how the trip to Australia had gone. Blomkvist had landed at Arlanda late the night before and had slept only a few hours. During the drive he told her Harriet Vanger’s story. Salander sat in silence for half an hour before she opened her mouth.
“Bitch,” she said.
“Who?”
“Harriet Fucking Vanger. If she had done something in 1966, Martin Vanger couldn’t have kept killing and raping for thirty-seven years.”
“Harriet knew about her father murdering women, but she had no idea that Martin had anything to do with it. She fled from a brother who raped her and then threatened to reveal that she had drowned her father if she didn’t do what he said.”
“Bullshit.”
After that they sat in silence all the way to Hedestad. Blomkvist was late for his appointment and dropped her at the turnoff to Hedeby Island; he asked if she would please be there when he came back.
“Are you thinking of staying overnight?” she said.
“I think so.”
“Do you want me to be here?”
He climbed out of the car and went around and put his arms around her. She pushed him away, almost violently. Blomkvist took a step back.
“Lisbeth, you’re my friend.”
“Do you want me to stay here so you’ll have somebody to fuck tonight?”
Blomkvist gave her a long look. Then he turned and got into the car and started the engine. He wound down the window. Her hostility was palpable.
“I want to be your friend,” he said. “If you want otherwise, then you don’t need to be here when I get home.”
Henrik Vanger was sitting up, dressed, when Dirch Frode let him into the hospital room.
“They’re thinking of letting me out for Martin’s funeral tomorrow.”
“How much has Dirch told you?”
Henrik looked down at the floor.
“He told me about what Martin and Gottfried got up to. This is far, far worse than I could have imagined.”
“I know what happened to Harriet.”
“Tell me: how did she die?”
“She didn’t die. She’s still alive. And if you like, she really wants to see you.”
Both men stared at him as if their world had just been turned upside down.
“It took a while to convince her to come, but she’s alive, she’s doing fine, and she’s here in Hedestad. She arrived this morning and can be here in an hour. If you want to see her, that is.”
Blomkvist had to tell the story from beginning to end. A couple of times Henrik interrupted with a question or asked him to repeat something. Frode said not a word.
When the story was done, Henrik sat in silence. Blomkvist had been afraid that it would be too much for the old man, but Henrik showed no sign of emotion, except that his voice might have been a bit thicker when he broke his silence
“Poor, poor Harriet. If only she had come to me.”
Blomkvist glanced at the clock. It was five minutes to four.
“Do you want to see her? She’s still afraid that you won’t want to after you found out what she did.”
“What about the flowers?” Henrik said.
“I asked her that on the plane coming home. There was one person in the family, apart from Anita, whom she loved, and that was you. She, of course, was the one who sent the flowers. She said that she hoped you would understand that she was alive and that she was doing fine, without having to make an appearance. But since her only channel of information was Anita, who moved abroad as soon as she finished her studies and never visited Hedestad, Harriet’s awareness about what went on here was limited. She never knew how terribly you suffered or that you thought it was her murderer taunting you.”
“I assume it was Anita who posted the flowers.”
“She worked for an airline and flew all over the world. She posted them from wherever she happened to be.”
“But how did you know Anita was the one who helped her?”
“She was the one in Harriet’s window.”
“But she could have been mixed up in…she could have been the murderer instead. How did you find out that Harriet was alive?”
Blomkvist gave Henrik a long look. Then he smiled for the first time since he had returned to Hedestad.
“Anita was involved in Harriet’s disappearance, but she couldn’t have killed her.”
“How could you be sure of that?”
“Because this isn’t some damned locked-room mystery novel. If Anita had murdered Harriet, you would have found the body years ago. So the only logical thing was that she helped Harriet escape and hide. Do you want to see her?”
“Of course I want to see her.”
Blomkvist found Harriet by the lift in the lobby. At first he did not recognise her. Since they had parted at Arlanda Airport the night before she had dyed her hair brown again. She was dressed in black trousers, a white blouse, and an elegant grey jacket. She looked radiant, and Blomkvist bent down to give her an encouraging hug.
Henrik got up from his chair when Mikael opened the door. She took a deep breath.
“Hi, Henrik,” she said.
The old man scrutinised her from top to toe. Then Harriet went over and kissed him. Blomkvist nodded to Frode and closed the door.
Salander was not in the cottage when Blomkvist returned to Hedeby Island. The video equipment and her motorcycle were gone, as well as the bag with her extra clothes and her sponge bag. The cottage felt empty. It suddenly seemed alien and unreal. He looked at the stacks of paper in the office, which he would have to pack up in boxes and carry back to Henrik’s house. But he could not face starting the process. He drove to Konsum and bought bread, milk, cheese, and something for supper. When he returned he put on water for coffee, sat in the garden, and read the evening papers without thinking of anything else.
At 5:30 a taxi drove across the bridge. After three minutes it went back the way it came. Blomkvist caught a glimpse of Isabella Vanger in the back seat.
Around 7:00 he had dozed off in the garden chair when Frode woke him up.
“How’s it going with Henrik and Harriet?” he said.
“This unhappy cloud has its silver lining,” Frode said with a restrained smile. “Isabella, would you believe, came rushing into Henrik’s hospital room. She’d obviously seen that you’d come back and was completely beside herself. She screamed at him that there had to be an end to this outrageous fuss about her Harriet, adding that
you
were the one who drove her son to his death with your snooping.”
“Well, she’s right, in a way.”
“She commanded Henrik to dismiss you forthwith and run you off the property for good. And would he, once and for all, stop searching for ghosts.”
“Wow!”
“She didn’t even glance at the woman sitting beside the bed talking to Henrik. She must have thought it was one of the staff. I will never forget the moment when Harriet stood up and said, ‘Hello, Mamma.’”
“What happened?”
“We had to call a doctor to check Isabella’s vital signs. Right now she’s refusing to believe that it’s Harriet. You are accused of dragging in an impostor.”
Frode was on his way to visit Cecilia and Alexander to give them the news that Harriet had risen from the dead. He hurried away, leaving Blomkvist to his solitary musings.
Salander stopped and filled her tank at a petrol station north of Uppsala. She had been riding doggedly, staring straight ahead. She paid quickly and got back on her bike. She started it up and rode to the exit, where she stopped, undecided.
She was still in a terrible mood. She was furious when she left Hedeby, but her rage had slowly dissolved during the ride. She could not make up her mind why she was so angry with Blomkvist, or even if he was the one she was angry with.
She thought of Martin Vanger and Harriet Fucking Vanger and Dirch Fucking Frode and the whole damned Vanger clan sitting in Hedestad reigning over their little empire and plotting against each other. They had needed her help. Normally they wouldn’t even have said hello to her in the street, let alone entrust her with their repellent secrets.
Fucking riff-raff.
She took a deep breath and thought about her mother, whom she had consigned to ashes that very morning. She would never be able to mend things. Her mother’s death meant that the wound would never heal, since she would never now get an answer to the questions she had wanted to ask.
She thought about Armansky standing behind her at the crematorium. She should have said something to him. At least given him some sign that she knew he was there. But if she did that, he would have taken it as a pretext for trying to structure her life. If she gave him her little finger he’d take her whole arm. And he would never understand.
She thought about the lawyer, Bjurman, who was still her guardian and who, at least for the time being, had been neutralised and was doing as he was told.
She felt an implacable hatred and clenched her teeth.
And she thought about Mikael Blomkvist and wondered what he would say when he found out that she was a ward of the court and that her entire life was a fucking rats’ nest.
It came to her that she really was not angry with him. He was just the person on whom she had vented her anger when what she had wanted most of all was to murder somebody, several people. Being angry with
him
was pointless.