The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (Millennium #1)

"Where's she going to sleep tonight?"

"We'll find her a room somewhere. One of Henrik's spare rooms. She won't be sleeping in my bed, anyway."

Cecilia thought about this for a moment.

"I don't know if I can handle this. You and she might function that way, but I don't know... I've never..." She shook her head. "I'm going back to my place. I have to think about this for a while."

"Cecilia, you asked me earlier and I told you about my relationship with Erika. Her existence can't be any great surprise to you."

"That's true. But as long as she was at a comfortable distance down in Stockholm I could ignore her."

Cecilia put on her jacket.

"This situation is ludicrous," she said with a smile. "Come over for dinner tonight. Bring Erika. I think I'm going to like her."

Erika had already solved the problem of where to sleep. On previous occasions when she had been up to Hedeby to visit Vanger she had stayed in one of his spare rooms, and she asked him straight out if she could borrow the room again. Henrik could scarcely conceal his delight, and he assured her that she was welcome at any time.

With these formalities out of the way, Blomkvist and Berger went for a walk across the bridge and sat on the terrace of Susanne's Bridge Cafe just before closing time.

"I'm really pissed off," Berger said. "I drive all the way up here to welcome you back to freedom and find you in bed with the town femme fatale."

"I'm sorry about that."

"How long have you and Miss Big Tits..." Berger waved her index finger.

"From about the time Vanger became part owner."

"Aha."

"What do you mean, aha?"

"Just curious."

"Cecilia's a good woman. I like her."

"I'm not criticising. I'm just pissed off. Candy within reach and then I have to go on a diet. How was prison?"

"Like an uneventful holiday. How are things at the magazine?"

"Better. For the first time in a year the advertising revenue is on the rise. We're way below this time last year, but we've turned the corner. Thanks to Henrik. But the weird thing is that subscriptions are going up too."

"They tend to fluctuate."

"By a couple of hundred one way or the other. But we've picked up three thousand in the past quarter. At first I thought it was just luck, but new subscribers keep coming in. It's our biggest subscription jump ever. At the same time, our existing subscribers are renewing pretty consistently across the board. None of us can understand it. We haven't run any ad campaigns. Christer spent a week doing spot checks on what sort of demographic is showing up. First, they're all brand-new subscribers. Second, 70 percent of them are women. Normally it's the other way around. Third, the subscribers can be described as middle-income white-collar workers from the suburbs: teachers, middle management, civil service workers."

"Think it's the middle-class revolt against big capital?"

"I don't know. But if this keeps up, it'll mean a significant shift in our subscriber profile. We had an editorial conference two weeks ago and decided to start running new types of material in the magazine. I want more articles on professional matters associated with TCO, the Swedish Confederation of Professional Employees, and also more investigative reporting on women's issues, for instance."

"Don't change too much," Blomkvist said. "If we're getting new subscribers then it means that they like what we're running already."

Cecilia had also invited Vanger to dinner, possibly to reduce the risk of troublesome topics of conversation. She had made a venison stew. Berger and Vanger spent a good deal of the time discussing Millennium's development and the new subscribers, but gradually the conversation moved on to other matters. Berger suddenly turned to Blomkvist at one point and asked him how his work was coming along.

"I'm counting on having a draft of the family chronicle complete in a month for Henrik to look at."

"A chronicle in the spirit of the Addams family," Cecilia said.

"It does have certain historical aspects," Blomkvist conceded.

Cecilia glanced at Vanger.

"Mikael, Henrik isn't really interested in a family chronicle. He wants you to solve the mystery of Harriet's disappearance."

Blomkvist did not say a word. Ever since he had begun his relationship with Cecilia he had talked fairly openly about Harriet with her. Cecilia had already deduced that this was his real assignment, even though he never formally admitted it. He had certainly never told Henrik that he and Cecilia had discussed the subject. Vanger's bushy eyebrows drew together a bit. Erika was silent.

"My dear Henrik," Cecilia said. "I'm not stupid. I don't know what sort of agreement you and Mikael have, but his stay here in Hedeby is about Harriet. It is, isn't it?"

Vanger nodded and glanced at Blomkvist.

"I told you she was sharp." He turned to Berger. "I presume that Mikael has explained to you what he's working on here in Hedeby."

She nodded.

"And I presume you think it's a senseless undertaking. No, you don't have to answer that. It is an absurd and senseless task. But I have to find out."

"I have no opinion on the matter," Berger said diplomatically.

"Of course you do." He turned to Blomkvist. "Tell me. Have you found anything at all that might take us forward?"

Blomkvist avoided meeting Vanger's gaze. He thought instantly of the cold, unplaceable certainty he had had the night before. The feeling had been with him all day, but he had had no time to work his way through the album again. At last he looked up at Vanger and shook his head.

"I haven't found a single thing."

The old man scrutinised him with a penetrating look. He refrained from commenting.

"I don't know about you young people," he said, "but for me it's time to go to bed. Thank you for dinner, Cecilia. Good night, Erika. Do see me before you leave tomorrow."

When Vanger had closed the front door, silence settled over them. It was Cecilia who spoke first.

"Mikael, what was all that about?"

"It means that Henrik is as sensitive to people's reactions as a seismograph. Last night when you came to the cottage I was looking through an album."

"Yes?"

"I saw something. I don't know what it was yet. It was something that almost became an idea, but I missed it."

"So what were you thinking about?"

"I just can't tell you. And then you arrived."

Cecilia blushed. She avoided Berger's gaze and went out to put on some coffee.

It was a warm and sunny day. New green shoots were appearing, and Blomkvist caught himself humming the old song of spring, "Blossom Time Is Coming." It was Monday and Berger had left early.

When he had gone to prison in mid-March, snow still covered the land. Now the birches were turning green and the lawn around his cabin was lush. For the first time he had a chance to look around all of Hedeby Island. At 8:00 he went over and asked to borrow a thermos from Anna. He spoke briefly with Vanger, who was just up, and was given his map of the island. He wanted to get a closer look at Gottfried's cabin. Vanger told him that the cabin was owned by Martin Vanger now but that it had stood mostly vacant over the years. Occasionally some relative would borrow it.

Blomkvist just managed to catch Martin before he left for work. He asked if he might borrow the key. Martin gave him an amused smile.

"I presume the family chronicle has now reached the chapter about Harriet."

"I just want to take a look..."

Martin came back with the key in a minute.

"Is it OK then?"

"As far as I'm concerned, you can move in there if you want. Except for the fact that it's stuck right at the other end of the island, it's actually a nicer spot than the cottage you're in."

Blomkvist made coffee and sandwiches. He filled a bottle with water before he set off, stuffing his picnic lunch in a rucksack he slung over one shoulder. He followed a narrow, partially overgrown path that ran along the bay on the north side of Hedeby Island. Gottfried's cabin was on a point about one and a half miles from the village, and it took him only half an hour to cover the distance at a leisurely pace.

Martin Vanger had been right. When Blomkvist came around the bend of the narrow path, a shaded area by the water opened up. There was a marvellous view of the inlet to the Hede River, Hedestad marina to the left, and the industrial harbour to the right.

He was surprised that no-one had wanted to move into Gottfried's cabin. It was a rustic structure made of horizontal dark-stained timber with a tile roof and green frames, and with a small porch at the front door. The maintenance of the cabin had been neglected. The paint around the doors and windows was flaking off, and what should have been a lawn was scrub a yard high. Clearing it would take one whole day's hard work with scythe and saw.

Blomkvist unlocked the door and unscrewed the shutters over the windows from the inside. The framework seemed to be an old barn of less than 1,300 square feet. The inside was finished with planks and consisted of one room with big windows facing the water on either side of the front door. A staircase led to an open sleeping loft at the rear of the cabin that covered half the space. Beneath the stairs was a niche with a propane gas stove, a counter, and a sink. The furnishings were basic; built into the wall to the left of the door there was bench, a rickety desk, and above it a bookcase with teak shelves. Farther down on the same side was a broad wardrobe. To the right of the door was a round table with five wooden chairs; a fireplace stood in the middle of the side wall.

The cabin had no electricity; instead there were several kerosene lamps. In one window was an old Grundig transistor radio. The antenna was broken off. Blomkvist pressed the power button but the batteries were dead.

He went up the narrow stairs and looked around the sleeping loft. There was a double bed with a bare mattress, a bedside table, and a chest of drawers.

Blomkvist spent a while searching through the cabin. The bureau was empty except for some hand towels and linen smelling faintly of mould. In the wardrobe there were some work clothes, a pair of overalls, rubber boots, a pair of worn tennis shoes, and a kerosene stove. In the desk drawers were writing paper, pencils, a blank sketchpad, a deck of cards, and some bookmarks. The kitchen cupboard contained plates, mugs, glasses, candles, and some packages of salt, tea bags, and the like. In a drawer in the table there were eating utensils.

He found the only traces of any intellectual interests on the bookcase above the desk. Mikael brought over a chair and got up on it to see what was on the shelves. On the lowest shelf lay issues of Se, Rekordmagasinet, Tidsfordriv, and Lektyr from the late fifties and early sixties. There were several Bildjournalen from 1965 and 1966, Matt Livs Novell, and a few comic books: The 91, Phantomen, and Romans. He opened a copy of Lektyr from 1964 and smiled to see how chaste the pin-up was.

Of the books, about half were mystery paperbacks from Wahlstrom's Manhattan series: Mickey Spillane with titles like Kiss Me, Deadly with the classic covers by Bertil Hegland. He found half a dozen Kitty books, some Famous Five novels by Enid Blyton, and a Twin Mystery by Sivar Ahlrud - The Metro Mystery. He smiled in recognition. Three books by Astrid Lindgren: The Children of Noisy Village, Kalle Blomkvist and Rasmus, and Pippi Longstocking. The top shelf had a book about short-wave radio, two books on astronomy, a bird guidebook, a book called The Evil Empire on the Soviet Union, a book on the Finnish Winter War, Luther's catechism, the Book of Hymns, and the Bible.

He opened the Bible and read on the inside cover: Harriet Vanger, May 12, 1963. It was her Confirmation Bible. He sadly put it back on the shelf.

Behind the cabin there were a wood and tool shed with a scythe, rake, hammer, and a big box with saws, planes, and other tools. He took a chair on to the porch and poured coffee from his thermos. He lit a cigarette and looked across Hedestad Bay through the veil of undergrowth.

Gottfried's cabin was much more modest than he had expected. Here was the place to which Harriet and Martin's father had retreated when his marriage to Isabella was going to the dogs in the late fifties. He had made this cabin his home and here he got drunk. And down there, near the wharf, he had drowned. Life at the cabin had probably been pleasant in the summer, but when the temperature dropped to freezing it must have been raw and wretched. According to what Vanger told him, Gottfried continued to work in the Vanger Corporation - interrupted by periods when he was on wild binges - until 1964. The fact that he was able to live in the cabin more or less permanently and still appear for work shaven, washed, and in a jacket and tie spoke of a surviving personal discipline.

And here was also the place that Harriet had been to so often that it was one of the first in which they looked for her. Vanger had told him that during her last year, Harriet had gone often to the cabin, apparently to be in peace on weekends or holidays. In her last summer she had lived here for three months, though she came into the village every day. Anita Vanger, Cecilia's sister, spent six weeks with her here.

What had she done out here all alone? The magazines Mitt Livs Novell and Romans, as well as a number of books about Kitty, must have been hers. Perhaps the sketchpad had been hers. And her Bible was here.

She had wanted to be close to her lost father - was it a period of mourning she needed to get through? Or did it have to do with her religious brooding? The cabin was spartan - was she pretending to live in a convent?

Blomkvist followed the shoreline to the southeast, but the way was so interrupted by ravines and so grown over with juniper shrubs that it was all but impassable. He went back to the cabin and started back on the road to Hedeby. According to the map there was a path through the woods to something called the Fortress. It took him twenty minutes to find it in the overgrown scrub. The Fortress was what remained of the shoreline defence from the Second World War; concrete bunkers with trenches spread out around a command building. Everything was overrun with long grass and scrub.