“What was so special about that?”
“It was so large and warm that it ought to have been pretty conspicuous in this heat.”
“As you say, I would have remembered it.”
He closed the computer and looked out over Riddarfjärden. Once again he thought it was probably sensible of Salander to have sold her apartment.
“But you don’t, right?”
“No…” he said hesitantly. “You don’t have a picture you could send me?”
“I don’t think that would be ethical.”
“How do you think he died?”
He was not fully focused.
“Well, poisoning finished him off, I would guess, self-inflicted no doubt, first and foremost from alcohol, of course. He reeked of it, but that doesn’t rule out the possibility that he had something else inside him as well. I’ll hear more on that from the forensics lab in a few days. I’ve requested a drug screening which covers more than eight hundred substances. But the broader picture is of slow and steady organ failure, and an enlarged heart.”
Blomkvist sat on the sofa and emptied his beer, and was clearly silent for too long.
“Are you still there?” the medical examiner said.
“Yes, I’m here. I was just thinking…”
“Thinking what?”
He was thinking about Lisbeth.
“That it may be a good thing he had my number,” he said.
“How do you mean?”
“Maybe he felt he had a story to tell, and I’m sure that’ll encourage the police to try harder. Sometimes, when I’m at my best, I can put the wind up them.”
She gave a laugh.
“I’m sure you can.”
“Sometimes I just annoy them.”
Sometimes I annoy myself, he thought.
“Let’s hope it’s the first of those.”
“Yes, let’s.”
He wanted to end the call. He wanted to be left alone with his thoughts. But the medical examiner wanted to talk some more and he did not have the heart to hang up on her.
“I mentioned that he was the sort of man one normally just wants to forget, didn’t I?” she went on.
“You did.”
“But that’s not entirely true, not for me. It feels like…it feels like his body has a story to tell.”
“In what way?”
“He looks as if he’s gone through both ice and fire. As I said, I don’t think I’ve seen anything quite like it.”
“Tough guy.”
“Yes, maybe. He was tattered, and indescribably dirty. He stank. And yet he had a sort of dignity. I think that’s what I’m trying to say. Something which gave him some respect, notwithstanding all the humiliation. He had fought the good fight.”
“Had he been a soldier?”
“I saw no sign of battle scars, nothing of that sort.”
“Or a man from some primitive tribe?”
“Hardly. He’d received dental care and could evidently write. There’s a tattoo of a Buddhist wheel on his left wrist.”
“I understand.”
“You do?”
“I understand that he made you care in some way. I’ll check my voicemail and see if he’s been in touch.”
“Thanks,” she said, and they probably talked a little longer, he wasn’t sure; he was still a little distracted.
When they had hung up, Blomkvist remained sitting, deep in thought. The sounds of cheering and clapping could be heard from the Midnattsloppet on Hornsgatan and he ran his fingers through his hair. It had to be almost three months since he last had it cut. He needed to get a grip on his life. He even needed to have a life, enjoy himself like everyone else and not just work and keep pushing himself to the limits. Maybe also answer his phone and not be so focused on his bloody news stories.
He went into the bathroom, not that that made him feel any better. Clothes were hanging out to dry. There were blobs of toothpaste and shaving foam in the washbasin, and hair in the bathtub. A down jacket, he thought, in the middle of summer? There was something in that, wasn’t there? But he found it hard to focus. Too many thoughts were crowding in, and he wiped the washbasin and the mirror, folded the laundry, and picked up his mobile to check his voicemail.
He had thirty-seven unopened ones. Nobody should have thirty-seven unopened voicemails, for Christ’s sake, and now, with a pained expression, he listened to every one of them. My God, what was it with people? Admittedly there were many who wanted to give him tip-offs, and others who were courteous and respectful. But most were plain angry. You’re lying about immigration, they shouted. Keeping us all in the dark about the Muslims. Protecting the Jews in the financial elite. It was like being sprayed with muck, and he was on the point of ringing off. But he listened on bravely and then finally he heard something which was neither the one nor the other. It was just a moment of confusion.
“Hello…hello,” said a voice in accented English, breathing heavily, and after a short silence it added: “Come in, over.”
It sounded like a call on a walkie-talkie, and was followed by a few more words which Blomkvist could not understand, perhaps in another language? There was desperation and loneliness in the voice. Could it be the beggar? Possible. There was no way of knowing. Blomkvist hung up and went into the kitchen, and considered calling Malin Frode or anyone else who could put him in a better mood. But he resisted the impulse and instead sent off an encrypted text to Salander. What did it matter if she wanted nothing to do with him?
He was and he remained bound to her.
* * *
—
Camilla, or Kira as she called herself these days, was sitting in her limousine on Tverskoy Boulevard, looking admiringly at her long legs. She was wearing a black Dior dress with red Gucci high heels, and a Graff diamond necklace which gleamed with a blueish light just above her neckline.
She was devastatingly beautiful, nobody knew this better than she herself, and often, as now, she would linger in the backseat of her car. She liked to visualize the scene: how the men give a little start when she makes her entrance; how so many of them cannot help staring. She knew from experience that only a few ever have the courage to pay her compliments and meet her gaze. Kira always dreamed of sparkling like nobody else, and now she closed her eyes and listened to the rain drumming against the body of the car. Then she looked out of the tinted glass windows.