unchtimetherainhadstoppedandthewindhaddieddownabit.Hewentoutandwipedoffthegardenfurnitureandthensattherewithamugofcoffee.Hewaswearingashirtwiththecollarturnedup.
Martin’sdeathcastashadow,ofcourse,overthedailylifeofHedeby.CarsbeganparkingoutsideIsabellaVanger’shouseastheclangatheredtooffercondolences.Salanderobservedtheprocessionwithoutemotion.
“Howareyoufeeling?”shesaidatlast.
“IthinkI’mstillinshock,”hesaid.“Iwashelpless.ForseveralhoursIwasconvincedthatIwasgoingtodie.Ifeltthefearofdeathandtherewasn’tathingIcoulddo.”
Hestretchedouthishandandplaceditonherknee.
“Thankyou,”hesaid.“Butforyou,Iwouldbedead.”
Salandersmiledhercrookedsmile.
“Allthesame…Idon’tunderstandhowyoucouldbesuchanidiotastotacklehimonyourown.Iwaschainedtothefloordownthere,prayingthatyou’dseethepictureandputtwoandtwotogetherandcallthepolice.”
“IfI’dwaitedforthepolice,youwouldn’thavesurvived.Iwasn’tgoingtoletthatmotherfuckerkillyou.”
“Whydon’tyouwanttotalktothepolice?”
“Inevertalktotheauthorities.”
“Whynot?”
“That’smybusiness.Butinyourcase,Idon’tthinkitwouldbeaterrifiareermovetobehungouttodryasthejournalistwhowasstrippednakedbyMartinVanger,thefamousserialkiller.Ifyoudon’tlike‘KalleBlomkvist,’youcanthinkupawholenewepithet.Justdon’ttakeitoutofthischapterofyourheroiclife.”
Blomkvistgaveherasearchinglookanddroppedthesubject.
“Wedostillhaveaproblem,”shesaid.
Blomkvistnodded.“WhathappenedtoHarriet.Yes.”
SalanderlaidthetwoPolaroidpicturesonthetableinfrontofhim.Sheexplainedwhereshe’dfoundthem.Mikaelstudiedthepicturesintentlyforawhilebeforehelookedup.
“Itmightbeher,”hesaidatlast.“Iwouldn’tsweartoit,buttheshapeofherbodyandthehairremindmeofthepicturesI’veseen.”
Theysatinthegardenforanhour,piecingtogetherthedetails.Theydiscoveredthateachofthem,independentlyandfromdifferentdirections,hadidentifiedMartinVangerasthemissinglink.
SalanderneverdidfindthephotographthatBlomkvisthadleftonthekit