“Impressive,” he said, pointing at the photograph.
She made no comment, just asked him to take a seat on the sofa and settled into an armchair opposite him, her legs crossed and her back straight. In some absurd way it felt as if a reluctant queen were granting an audience to one of her subjects.
“Good of you to see me,” he said.
“Don’t mention it.”
She eyed him suspiciously, and he felt like asking why she disliked him so much.
“I’m not researching a piece on you, if that’s any comfort,” he said.
“You can write what you like about me.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
He gave a smile. She did not return it.
“In fact I’m on holiday,” he continued.
“Aren’t you lucky.”
He felt an inexplicable urge to needle her.
“I’m curious to hear about that beggar. What did he say to you? He was found dead a few days ago with my telephone number in his pocket.”
“OK…”
You could at least react to the fact that the guy is dead, he thought.
“He may have had something he wanted to tell me, so I’m curious to find out what he said to you.”
“Not much. All he did was shout and wave some sort of stick and frighten the life out of me.”
“What was he shouting?”
“The usual rubbish.”
“What do you call ‘the usual rubbish’?”
“That Johannes Forsell is a dodgy character generally.”
“He shouted that?”
“Well, it was something to do with Forsell, but my main concern was to get away. He was pulling at my arm and was violent and unpleasant, so you’ll forgive me for not staying and listening patiently to his conspiracy theories.”
“I understand. I really do,” he said, and he could not help feeling disappointed.
He was fed up with all the garbage being spouted about the Minister of Defence. It was one of the trolls’ favourite topics and the story grew more extravagant by the day. It seemed only a matter of time before they had Forsell running a pizzeria for paedophiles, and that was no doubt partly due to his uncompromising attitude towards right-wing extremists and xenophobes and his stated misgivings about Russia’s increasingly aggressive policies, but also because of his personality. He was well educated and rich, a marathon runner and a cross-Channel swimmer who could sometimes come across as supercilious. Certainly he’d been known to put people’s backs up.
But Blomkvist liked him. Every now and then they would run into each other in Sandhamn and exchange pleasantries. Out of a sense of duty he had followed up the rumours that Forsell had made huge sums from the stock market crash, and might even have been one of the contributing factors. He had not found a shred of evidence to support the claims. Forsell’s assets were managed on a discretionary basis and there had been no transactions either before or during the collapse. What is more, the market falls had most decidedly not strengthened his position. But as of now he was the most hated man in the government. His principal achievement was to have got increased funding for Must, the Swedish Military Intelligence and Security Service, and MSB, the Swedish Civil Contingencies Agency, so it was hardly surprising under the circumstances.
“I can’t stand all the lies that are being churned out,” she said.
“I don’t much like them either,” he said.
“Then we can agree on one thing, at least.”
“I accept that it’s not easy to talk to a guy who’s shouting and waving a stick,” he said.
“That’s generous of you.”
“But sometimes it’s worth listening even though it doesn’t seem to make sense. There might still be a grain of truth there.”
“And now you’re telling me how to do my job?”
Her tone was infuriating.
“Do you know something?” he said. “It can drive you mad when no-one believes you, or listens to you.”
“Are you serious?”
“To be ignored year after year? Oh yes, that can destroy you.”
“The man became homeless and psychotic because people like me wouldn’t listen to him?” she said.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It sounded like it.”
“In that case, I apologize.”
“Thank you.”
“You haven’t had an easy time of it yourself, from what I’ve heard,” he tried.
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Nothing, I guess.”
“Well, then. Thank you for coming by,” she said.
“Christ,” he muttered. “What’s the matter with you?”
“What’s the matter with me?” she repeated and got to her feet. For a few seconds they glared at each other.
He had the ridiculous feeling that they were duelling, or that they were two boxers in a ring, and without quite understanding how it happened they were suddenly very close to each other. He felt her breath and saw her eyes glow and her chest heave. When she inclined her head to one side he kissed her, and for a moment he thought he had done something unforgivably stupid. But she kissed him back, and for a few seconds they looked at each other in astonishment, as if neither could grasp what had happened.
Then she put a hand around his neck and pulled him to her, and within moments it got completely out of hand. They found themselves on the sofa and on the floor, and in the middle of all the madness Blomkvist realized that he had wanted her ever since he first saw her picture online.
CHAPTER 9
August 24
Fredrika Nyman was sitting in the laboratory at the Forensic Board thinking about her daughters, and wondering what had gone wrong.
“I don’t get it,” she said to her colleague Mattias Holmström.
“What don’t you get?”
“How I can be so angry at Josefin and Amanda. It’s as if I’m about to explode.”
“What is it that’s making you so angry?”
“They’re so arrogant. They don’t even say hello.”
“Jesus, Fredrika, they’re teenagers. It’s normal. Don’t you remember how you were at that age?”