erandslammedthealbumshut.
Restlesslyhewenttothekitchenwindowandpeeredoutintothedarkness.
Thenheturnedhisgazebacktothealbum.Hecouldnothaveexplainedthefeeling,butathoughtflittedthroughhishead,asthoughhewerereactingtosomethinghehadjustseen.Itwasasthoughaninvisiblecreaturehadwhisperedinhisear,makingthehairsonthebackofhisneckstandonend.
Heopenedthealbumagain.Hewentthroughitpagebypage,lookingatallthepicturesofthebridge.Helookedattheyoungerversionofanoil-soakedHenrikVangerandayoungerHarald,amanwhomhehadstillnotmet.Thebrokenrailing,thebuildings,thewindowsandthevehiclesvisibleinthepictures.Hecouldnotfailtoidentifyatwenty-year-oldCeciliainthemidstoftheonlookers.Shehadonalight-coloureddressandadarkjacketandwasinatleasttwentyofthephotographs.
Hefeltafreshexcitement,andovertheyearsBlomkvisthadlearnedtotrusthisinstincts.Theseinstinctswerereactingtosomethinginthealbum,buthecouldnotyetsaywhatitwas.
Hewasstillatthekitchentableat11:00,staringonebyoneagainatthephotographswhenheheardthedooropen.
“MayIein?”ItwasCeciliaVanger.Withoutwaitingforananswershesatdownacrossfromhimatthetable.Blomkvisthadastrangefeelingofdéjàvu.Shewasdressedinathin,loose,light-coloureddressandagreyish-bluejacket,clothesalmostidenticaltothoseshewaswearinginthephotographsfrom1966.
“You’retheonewho’stheproblem,”shesaid.
Blomkvistraisedhiseyebrows.
“Fiveme,butyoutookmebysurprisewhenyouknockedonthedoortonight.NowI’msounhappyIcan’tsleep.”
“Whyareyouunhappy?”
“Don’tyouknow?”
Heshookhishead.
“IfItellyou,promiseyouwon’tlaugh.”
“Promise.”
“WhenIseducedyoulastwinteritwasanidiotic,impulsiveact.Iwantedtoenjoymyself,that’sall.ThatfirstnightIwasquitedrunk,andIhadnointentionofstartinganythinglong-termwithyou.Thenitturnedintosomethingelse.Iwantyoutoknowthatthoseweekswithyouasmyoasionalloverweresomeofthehappiestinmylife.”
“Ithoughtitwaslovelytoo.”
“Mikael,I’vebeenlyingtoyouandtomyselfthewholetime.I’veneverbeenpart