“Is he better?” Blomkvist asked.
“The worst is over, thank God. But we don’t yet know if he’s suffered any brain damage. It’s too early to tell.”
He asked her to take a seat in the chair next to him.
“They say that you too had a close shave,” she said.
“That’s a bit of an exaggeration.”
“But still…do you realize what you’ve done—for us? Do you get that? It’s immense.”
“Thanks,” he said. “I’m touched.”
“Is there anything we can do for you?” she said.
Tell me everything you know about Nima Rita, he thought. Out with the truth.
“See to it that your husband gets better and finds himself a more restful job,” he said.
“It’s been a dreadful time.”
“I understand.”
“You know…”
She looked confused, and was nervously rubbing her hand against her left arm.
“Yes?”
“I’ve just been reading about Johannes online, and all of a sudden people are being nice again, not all of them, of course, but many. It’s almost unreal. It’s brought home to me the nightmare we’ve been living through.”
Blomkvist leaned forward and took her hand.
“I was the one who called Dagens Nyheter and told them it was a suicide attempt, even though I don’t know for certain what happened, exactly. Was that a bad thing to do?” she asked.
“You had your reasons, I suppose.”
“I wanted them to understand how far it had gone.”
“Fair enough.”
“The men from Must told me something very odd,” she said, looking distraught.
“What did they tell you?” he said, trying to sound calm.
“That you had found out about Nima Rita’s death here in Stockholm.”
“Yes, it’s really odd. Did the two of you know him?”
“I’m not sure I dare say anything. They keep badgering me all the time to keep quiet about it.”
“They’re on at me too,” he said, and added, “But do we have to be so obedient?”
She gave a sorrowful smile.
“Maybe not.”
“Well then, did you know him?”
“We did for a while at Base Camp. We liked him a lot, and I think he liked us. ‘Sahib, Sahib,’ he said all the time about Johannes, ‘very good person.’ He had a lovely wife.”
“Luna.”
“Luna,” she repeated. “She spoiled us all, she was constantly on the go. We helped them to build a house in Pangboche afterwards.”
“Good for you.”
“I’m not so sure. We all felt guilty about what happened to him.”
“Do you have any idea how he could have disappeared from Kathmandu, presumed dead, and then turn up in Stockholm three years later and die again?”
“It makes me sick to the stomach.” She looked at him, misery in her eyes.
“Tell me,” he said.
“You should have seen those little boys in Khumbu. They worshipped him. He saved lives, and he paid a terrible price.”
“I suppose that was the end of his climbing career.”
“His name was dragged through the mud.”
“But not by everybody, surely?” Blomkvist said.
“By a lot of people.”
“Who are we talking about?”
“The ones who were close to Klara Engelman.”
“Her husband, for example?”
“Of course, him as well.”
He could hear the change of tone in her voice.
“That’s a strange way of putting it.”
“Well, maybe. But you understand…the story is more complicated than most people realize, and many lawyers have been involved. A year or two ago, an American publisher had to withdraw a book about it.”
“That was down to Engelman’s lawyers, I bet.”
“Right. Engelman is a real estate tycoon, ostensibly an entrepreneur, but at heart he’s a gangster, a mafioso, at least that’s my opinion. And I know he wasn’t that happy about his wife towards the end.”
“How come?”
“Because she fell in love with our guide, Viktor Grankin, and wanted to leave Stan. She said she was going to get a divorce and tell the press what a narcissistic pig he had been. That’s the stuff Engelman managed to suppress, even though you can probably still find bits and pieces on the internet gossip sites.”
“Got it,” he said.
“It was all very acrimonious.”
“Did Nima Rita know?”
“They kept it very quiet, but I’m sure he did. He was looking after her.”
“And did he also keep quiet about it?”
“I think so. At least while his mind was still reasonably sound. But after his wife died, he apparently became more and more confused. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if he went around and blabbed about that, and other things too.”
Blomkvist looked into Rebecka Forsell’s eyes, and at her tall body huddled up in the chair. Somewhat reluctantly he said:
“In his last days he was talking about your husband too.”
* * *
—
Rebecka could feel her anger rising, but she was careful not to show it, and she knew she was being unfair. Blomkvist had a job to do. He had saved her husband’s life. But his words brought to mind her worst suspicions, that Johannes was keeping from her something to do with Everest and Nima Rita. In her heart she had never believed it was the hate campaign which had broken him.
Johannes was a fighter, a warrior, an overoptimistic fool who stormed on ahead, however lousy the odds. The only times she had seen him beaten were now, out on Sandön, and after his Everest ascent. She had already worked out for herself that there must be a connection. And this must be what had made her so angry, not Blomkvist. He was just the messenger.
“I don’t understand that,” she said.
“Not at all?”
She was silent. Then she said, “You ought to have a word with Svante,” and immediately regretted it.