The Girl Who Kicked The Hornets’ Nest

EPILOGUE. INVENTORY OF ESTATE

Giannini met Salander in the bar of the Södra theatre at 9.00. Salander was drinking beer and was already coming to the end of her second glass.

“Sorry I’m late,” Giannini said, glancing at her watch. “I had to deal with another client.”

“That’s O.K.,” said Lisbeth.

“What are you celebrating?”

“Nothing. I just feel like getting drunk.”

Giannini looked at her sceptically and took a seat.

“Do you often feel that way?”

“I drank myself stupid after I was released, but I have no tendency to alcoholism. It just occurred to me that for the first time in my life I have a legal right to get drunk here in Sweden.”

Giannini ordered a Campari.

“O.K. Do you want to drink alone,” she said, “or would you like some company?”

“Preferably alone. But if you don’t talk too much you can sit with me. I take it you don’t feel like coming home with me and having sex.”

“I beg your pardon?” Giannini said.

“No, I didn’t think so. You’re one of those insanely heterosexual people.”

Giannini suddenly looked amused.

“That’s the first time in my life that one of my clients has proposed sex.”

“Are you interested?”

“No, not in the least, sorry. But thanks for the offer.”

“So what was it you wanted, counsellor?”

“Two things. Either I quit as your lawyer here and now or you start answering your telephone when I call. We’ve already had this discussion, when you were released.”

Salander looked at Giannini.

“I’ve been trying to get hold of you for a week. I’ve called, I’ve sent letters, I’ve emailed.”

“I’ve been away.”

“In fact you’ve been impossible to get hold of for most of the autumn. This just isn’t working. I said I would represent you in all negotiations with the government. There are formalities that have to be taken care of. Papers to be signed. Questions to be answered. I have to be able to reach you, and I have no wish to be made to feel like an idiot because I don’t know where the hell you are.”

“I was away again for two weeks. I came home yesterday and called you as soon as I knew you were looking for me.”

“That’s not good enough. You have to keep me informed of where you are and get in touch at least once a week until all the issues about compensation and such are resolved.”

“I don’t give a shit about compensation. I just want the government to leave me alone.”

“But the government isn’t going to leave you alone, no matter how much you may want it to. Your acquittal has set in motion a long chain of consequences. It’s not just about you. Teleborian is going to be charged for what he did to you. You’re going to have to testify. Ekström is the subject of an investigation for dereliction of duty, and he may even be charged too if it turns out that he deliberately disregarded his duty at the behest of the Section.”

Salander raised her eyebrows. For a moment she looked interested.

“I don’t think it’s going to come to an indictment. He was led up the garden path by the Section and in fact he had nothing to do with them. But as recently as last week a prosecutor initiated a preliminary investigation against the guardianship agency. It involves several reports being sent to the Parliamentary Ombudsman, as well as a report to the Ministry of Justice.”

“I didn’t report anyone.”

“No. But it’s obvious that there has been gross dereliction of duty. You’re not the only person affected.”

Salander shrugged. “This has nothing to do with me. But I promise to be in closer contact with you. These last two weeks have been an exception. I’ve been working.”

Giannini did not look as though she believed her. “What are you working on?”

“Consulting.”

“I see,” she said. “The other thing is that the inventory of the estate is now ready.”

“Inventory of what estate?”

“Your father’s. The state’s legal representative contacted me since nobody seemed to know how to get in touch with you. You and your sister are the sole heirs.”

Salander looked at Giannini blankly. Then she caught the waitress’s eye and pointed at her glass.

“I don’t want any inheritance from my father. Do whatever the hell you want with it.”

“Wrong. You can do what you want with the inheritance. My job is to see to it that you have the opportunity to do so.”

“I don’t want a single öre from that pig.”

“Then give the money to Greenpeace or something.”

“I don’t give a shit about whales.”

Giannini’s voice suddenly softened. “Lisbeth, if you’re going to be a legally responsible citizen, then you’re going to have to start behaving like one. I don’t give a damn what you do with your money. Just sign here that you received it, and then you can get drunk in peace.”

Salander glanced at her and then looked down at the table. Annika assumed this was some kind of conciliatory gesture that perhaps corresponded to an apology in Salander’s limited register of expressions.

“What kind of figures are we talking about?”

“They’re not insignificant. Your father had about 300,000 kronor in shares. The property in Gosseberga would sell for around 1.5 million – there’s a little woodland included. And there are three other properties.”

“What sort of properties?”

“It seems that he invested a significant amount of money. There’s nothing of enormous value, but he owns a small building in Udderalla with six apartments, and they bring in some income. But the property is not in good shape. He didn’t bother with upkeep and the apartments have even been up before the rental board. You won’t get rich, but you’d get a good price if you sold it. He also owns a summer cabin in Småland that’s worth around 250,000 kronor. Plus he owns a dilapidated industrial site outside Norrtälje.”

“Why in the world did he buy all this shit?”

“I have no idea. But the estate could bring in over four million kronor after taxes etc., but…”

“But what?”

“The inheritance has to be divided equally between you and your sister. The problem is that nobody knows where your sister is.”

Salander looked at Giannini in silence.

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Where is your sister?”

“I have no idea. I haven’t seen her for ten years.”

“Her file is classified, but I found out that she is listed as out of the country.”

“I see,” Salander said, showing little interest.

Giannini sighed in exasperation.

“I would suggest that we liquidate all the assets and deposit half the proceeds in the bank until your sister can be found. I can initiate the negotiations if you give me the go-ahead.”

Salander shrugged. “I don’t want anything to do with his money.”

“I understand that. But the balance sheet still has to be sorted out. It’s part of your responsibility as a citizen.”

“Sell the crap, then. Put half in the bank and send the rest to whoever you like.”

Giannini stared at her. She had understood that Salander had money stashed away, but she had not realized that her client was so well off that she could ignore an inheritance that might amount to a million kronor or more. What is more, she had no idea where Salander had got her money, or how much was involved. On the other hand she was keen to finalize the bureaucratic procedure.

“Lisbeth, please… could you read through the estate inventory and give me the green light so that we can get this matter resolved?”

Salander grumbled for a moment, but finally she acquiesced and stuffed the folder into her shoulder bag. She promised to read through it and send instructions as to what she wanted Giannini to do. Then she went back to her beer. Giannini kept her company for an hour, drinking mostly mineral water.

It was not until several days later, when Giannini telephoned to remind her about the estate inventory, that Salander took out the crumpled papers. She sat at the kitchen table, smoothed out the documents, and read through them.

The inventory covered several pages. There was a detailed list of all kinds of junk – the china in the kitchen cupboards in Gosseberga, clothing, cameras and other personal effects. Zalachenko had not left behind much of real value, and not one of the objects had the slightest sentimental value for Salander. She decided that her attitude had not changed since she met with Giannini at the theatre bar. Sell the crap and give the money away. Or something. She was positive that she did not want a single öre of her father’s wealth, but she also was pretty sure that Zalachenko’s real assets were hidden where no tax inspector would look for them.

Then she opened the title deeds for the property in Norrtälje.

It was an industrial site of three buildings totalling twenty thousand square metres in the vicinity of Skederid, between Norrtälje and Rimbo.

The estate assessor had apparently paid a cursory visit, and noted that it was an old brickworks that had been more or less empty and abandoned since it was shut down in the ’60s, apart from a period in the ’70s when it had been used to store timber. He noted that the buildings were in “extremely poor condition” and could not in all likelihood be renovated for any other activity. The term “poor condition” was also used to describe the “north building,” which had in fact been destroyed by fire and collapsed. Some repairs, he wrote, had been made to the “main building”.

What gave Salander a jolt was the site’s history. Zalachenko had acquired the property for a song on 12 March, 1984, but the signatory on the purchase documents was Agneta Sofia Salander.

So Salander’s mother had in fact been the owner of the property. Yet in 1987 her ownership had ceased. Zalachenko had bought her out for 2,000 kronor. After that the property had stood unused for fifteen years. The inventory showed that on 17 September, 2003, K.A.B. Import A.B. had hired the builders NorrBygg Inc. to do renovations which included repairs to the floor and roof, as well as improvements to the water and electrical systems. Repair work had gone on for two months, until the end of November, and then discontinued. NorrBygg had sent an invoice which had been paid.

Of all the assets in her father’s estate, this was the only surprising entry. Salander was puzzled. Ownership of the industrial site made sense if her father had wanted to give the impression that K.A.B. Import was carrying on legitimate activities or owned certain assets. It also made sense that he had used her mother as a front in the purchase and had then for a pittance bought back the property.

But why in heaven’s name would he spend almost 440,000 kronor to renovate a ramshackle building, which according to the assessor was still not being used for anything in 2005?

She could not understand it, but was not going to waste time wondering. She closed the folder and called Giannini.

“I’ve read the inventory. What I said still holds. Sell the shit and do whatever you like with the money. I want nothing from him.”

“Very well. I’ll see to it that half the revenue is deposited in an account for your sister, and I’ll suggest some suitable recipients for the rest.”

“Right,” Salander said and hung up without further discussion.

She sat in her window seat, lit a cigarette, and looked out towards Saltsjön.

Salander spent the next week helping Armansky with an urgent matter. She had to help track down and identify a person suspected of being hired to kidnap a child in a custody battle resulting from a Swedish woman divorcing her Lebanese husband. Salander’s job amounted to checking the email of the person who was presumed to have hired the kidnapper. Milton Security’s role was discontinued when the parties reached a legal solution.

On December 18, the Sunday before Christmas, Salander woke at 6.00 and remembered that she had to buy a Christmas present for Palmgren. For a moment she wondered whether there was anyone else she should buy presents for – Giannini perhaps. She got up and took a shower in no particular hurry, and ate a breakfast of toast with cheese and marmalade and a coffee.

She had nothing special planned for the day and spent a while clearing papers and magazines from her desk. Then her gaze fell on the folder with the estate inventory. She opened it and reread the page about the title registration for the site in Norrtälje. She sighed. O.K. I have to find out what the hell he had going on there.

She put on warm clothes and boots. It was 8.30 when she drove her burgundy Honda out of the garage beneath Fiskargatan 9. It was icy cold but beautiful, sunshine and a pastel-blue sky. She took the road via Slussen and Klarabergsleden and wound her way on to the E18 going north, heading for Norrtälje. She was in no hurry. At 10.00 she turned into an O.K. petrol station and shop a few miles outside Skederid to ask the way to the old brickworks. No sooner had she parked than she realized that she did not even need to ask.

She was on a hillside with a good view across the valley on the other side of the road. To the left towards Norrtälje she could see a paint warehouse, some sort of builder’s yard, and another yard with bulldozers. To the right, at the edge of the industrial area, about four hundred metres from the road was a dismal brick building with a crumbling chimney-stack. The factory stood like a last outpost of the industrial area, somewhat isolated beyond a road and a narrow stream. She surveyed the building thoughtfully and asked herself what on earth had possessed her to drive all the way up to Norrtälje.

She turned and glanced at the O.K. station, where a long-distance truck and trailer with the emblem of the International Road Transport Union had just pulled in. She remembered that she was on the main road from the ferry terminal at Kapellskär, through which a good deal of the freight traffic between Sweden and the Baltic countries passed.

She started the car and drove out on to the road towards the old brickworks. She parked in the middle of the yard and got out. It was below freezing outside, and she put on a black knitted cap and leather gloves.

The main building was on two floors. On the ground floor all the windows had been boarded up with plywood, and she could see that on the floor above many of them had been broken. The factory was a much bigger building than she had imagined, and it was incredibly dilapidated. She could see no evidence of repairs. There was no trace of a living soul, but she saw that someone had discarded a used condom in the yard, and that graffiti artists had attacked part of the facade.

Why had Zalachenko owned this building?

She walked around the factory and found the ramshackle north building to the rear. She saw that the doors to the main building were locked. In frustration she studied a door at one end of the building. All the other doors had padlocks attached with iron bolts and galvanized security strips, but the lock on the gable end seemed weaker and was in fact attached only with rough spikes. Damn it, it’s my building. She looked about and found a narrow iron pipe in a pile of rubbish. She used it to lever open the fastening of the padlock.

She entered a stairwell with a doorway on to the ground floor area. The boarded-up windows meant that it was pitch black inside, except for a few shafts of light seeping in at the edges of the boards. She stood still for several minutes until her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She saw a sea of junk, wooden pallets, old machine parts and timber in a workshop that was forty-five metres long and about twenty metres wide, supported by massive pillars. The old brick ovens seemed to have been disassembled, and in their place were big pools of water and patches of mould on the floor. There was a stale, foul smell from all the debris. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

She turned back and went up the stairs. The top floor was dry and consisted of two similar rooms, each about twenty by twenty metres square, and at least eight metres high. There were tall, inaccessible windows close to the ceiling which provided no view but let in plenty of light. The upper floor, just like the workshop downstairs, was full of junk. There were dozens of one-metre-high packing cases stacked on top of one another. She gripped one of them but could not move it. The text on the crate read: Machine parts 0-A77, with an apparently corresponding text in Russian underneath. She noticed an open goods lift halfway down one wall of the first room.

A machine warehouse of some sort, but that would hardly generate income so long as the machinery stood there rusting.

She went into the inner room and discovered that this was where the repair work must have been carried out. The room was again full of rubbish, boxes and old office furniture arranged in some sort of labyrinthine order. A section of the floor was exposed where new floor planks had been laid. Salander guessed that the renovation work had been stopped abruptly. Tools, a crosscut saw and a circular saw, a nail gun, a crowbar, an iron rod and tool boxes were still there. She frowned. Even if the work had been discontinued, the joiners should have collected up their tools. But this question too was answered when she held a screwdriver up to the light and saw that the writing on the handle was Russian. Zalachenko had imported the tools and probably the workers as well.

She switched on the circular saw and a green light went on. There was power. She turned it off.

At the far end of the room were three doors to smaller rooms, perhaps the old offices. She tried the handle of the door on the north side of the building. Locked. She went back to the tools and got a crowbar. It took her a while to break open the door.

It was pitch black inside the room and smelled musty. She ran her hand along the wall and found a switch that lit a bare bulb in the ceiling. Salander looked around in astonishment.

The furniture in the room consisted of three beds with soiled mattresses and another three mattresses on the floor. Filthy bedlinen was strewn around. To the right was a two-ring electric hob and some pots next to a rusty water tap. In a corner stood a tin bucket and a roll of toilet paper.

Somebody had lived here. Several people.

Then she saw that there was no handle on the inside of the door. She felt an ice-cold shiver run down her back.

There was a large linen cupboard at the far end of the room. She opened it and found two suitcases. Inside the one on top were some clothes. She rummaged through them and held up a dress with a Russian label. She found a handbag and emptied the contents on the floor. From among the cosmetics and other bits and pieces she retrieved a passport belonging to a young, dark-haired woman. It was a Russian passport, and she spelled out the name as Valentina.

Salander walked slowly from the room. She had a feeling of déjà vu. She had done the same kind of crime scene examination in a basement in Hedeby two and a half years earlier. Women’s clothes. A prison. She stood there for a long time, thinking. It bothered her that the passport and clothes had been left behind. It did not feel right.

Then she went back to the assortment of tools and rummaged about until she found a powerful torch. She checked that there was life in the batteries and went downstairs into the larger workshop. The water from the puddles on the floor seeped into her boots.

The nauseating stench of rotting matter grew stronger the further into the workshop she went, and seemed to be worst when she was in the middle of the room. She stopped next to the foundations of one of the old brick furnaces, which was filled with water almost to the brim. She shone her torch on to the coal-black surface of the water but could not make anything out. The surface was partly covered by algae that had formed a green slime. Nearby she found a long steel rod which she stuck into the pool and stirred around. The water was only about fifty centimetres deep. Almost immediately the rod bumped into something. She manipulated it this way and that for several seconds before a body rose to the surface, face first, a grinning mask of death and decomposition. Breathing through her mouth, Salander looked at the face in the beam of the torch and saw that it was a woman, possibly the woman from the passport photograph. She knew nothing about the speed of decay in cold, stagnant water, but the body seemed to have been in the pool for a long time.

There was something moving on the surface of the water. Larvae of some sort.

She let the body sink back beneath the surface and poked around more with the rod. At the edge of the pool she came across something that might have been another body. She left it there and pulled out the rod, letting it fall to the floor as she stood thinking next to the pool.

Salander went back up the stairs. She used the crowbar to break open the middle door. The room was empty.

She went to the last door and slotted the crowbar in place, but before she began to force it, the door swung open a crack. It was not locked. She nudged it open with the crowbar and looked around.

The room was about thirty metres square. It had windows at a normal height with a view of the yard in front of the brickworks. She could see the O.K. petrol station on the hill. There was a bed, a table, and a sink with dishes. Then she saw a bag lying open on the floor. There were banknotes in it. In surprise she took two steps forward before she noticed that it was warm and saw an electric heater in the middle of the room. Then she saw that the red light was on on the coffee machine.

Someone was living here. She was not alone in the building.

She spun around and ran through the inner room, out of the doors and towards the exit in the outer workshop. She stopped five steps short of the stairwell when she saw that the exit had been closed and padlocked. She was locked in. Slowly she turned and looked around, but there was no-one.

“Hello, little sister,” came a cheerful voice from somewhere to her right.

She turned to see Niedermann’s vast form materialize from behind some packing crates.

In his hand was a large knife.

“I was hoping I’d have a chance to see you again,” Niedermann said. “Everything happened so fast the last time.”

Salander looked about her.

“Don’t bother,” Niedermann said. “It’s just you and me, and there’s no way out except through the locked door behind you.”

Salander turned her eyes to her half-brother.

“How’s the hand?” she said.

Niedermann was smiling at her. He raised his right hand and showed her. His little finger was missing.

“It got infected. I had to chop it off.”

Niedermann could not feel pain. Salander had sliced his hand open with a spade at Gosseberga only seconds before Zalachenko had shot her in the head.

“I should have aimed for your skull,” Salander said in a neutral tone. “What the hell are you doing here? I thought you’d left the country months ago.”

He smiled at her again.

If Niedermann had tried to answer Salander’s question as to what he was doing in the dilapidated brickworks, he probably would not have been able to explain. He could not explain it to himself.

He had left Gosseberga with a feeling of liberation. He was counting on the fact that Zalachenko was dead and that he would take over the business. He knew he was an excellent organizer.

He had changed cars in Alingsås, put the terror-stricken dental nurse Anita Kaspersson in the boot, and driven towards Borås. He had no plan. He improvised as he went. He had not reflected on Kaspersson’s fate. It made no difference to him whether she lived or died, and he assumed that he would be forced to do away with a bothersome witness. Somewhere on the outskirts of Borås it came to him that he could use her in a different way. He turned south and found a desolate forest outside Seglora. He tied her up in a barn and left her there. He reckoned that she would be able to work her way loose within a few hours and then lead the police south in their hunt for him. And if she did not manage to free herself, and starved or froze to death in the barn, it did not matter, it was no concern of his.

Then he drove back to Borås and from there east towards Stockholm. He had driven straight to Svavelsjö, but he avoided the clubhouse itself. It was a drag that Lundin was in prison. He went instead to the home of the club’s sergeant-at-arms, Hans-Åke Waltari. He said he was looking for a place to hide, which Waltari sorted out by sending him to Göransson, the club’s treasurer. But he had stayed there only a few hours.

Niedermann had, theoretically, no money worries. He had left behind almost 200,000 kronor in Gosseberga, but he had access to considerably larger sums that had been deposited abroad. His problem was that he was short of actual cash. Göransson was responsible for Svavelsjö M.C.’s finances, and it had not been difficult for Niedermann to persuade him to take him to the cabinet in the barn where the cash was kept. Niedermann was in luck. He had been able to help himself to 800,000 kronor.

He seemed to remember that there had been a woman in the house too, but he had forgotten what he had done with her.

Göransson had also provided a car that the police were not yet looking for. Niedermann went north. He had a vague plan to make it on to one of the ferries at Kapellskär that would take him to Tallinn.

When he got to Kapellskär he sat in the car park for half an hour, studying the area. It was crawling with policemen.

He drove on aimlessly. He needed a place where he could lie low for a while. When he passed Norrtälje he remembered the old brickworks. He had not even thought about the place in more than a year, since the time when repairs had been under way. The brothers Harry and Atho Ranta were using the brickworks as a depot for goods moving to and from the Baltic ports, but they had both been out of the country for several weeks, ever since that journalist Svensson had started snooping around the whore trade. The brickworks would be empty.

He had driven Göransson’s Saab into a shed behind the factory and gone inside. He had had to break open a door on the ground floor, and one of the first things he did was to create an emergency exit through a loose plywood board at one end of the ground floor. He later replaced the broken padlock. Then he had made himself at home in a cosy room on the upper floor.

A whole afternoon had passed before he heard the sounds coming through the walls. At first he thought these were his familiar phantoms. He sat alert and listened for almost an hour before he got up and went out to the workshop to listen more closely. At first he heard nothing, but he stood there patiently until he heard more scraping noises.

He found the key next to the sink.

Niedermann had seldom been as amazed as when he opened the door and found the two Russian whores. They were skin and bones. They seemed to have had no food for several weeks and had been living on tea and water since the last packet of rice had run out.

One of the girls was so exhausted that she could not get up from the bed. The other was in better shape. She spoke only Russian, but he knew enough of the language to understand that she was thanking God and him for saving them. She fell on her knees and threw her arms around his legs. He pushed her away, then left the room and locked the door behind him.

He had not known what to do with the whores. He heated up some soup from the cans he found in the kitchen and gave it to them while he thought. The weaker woman on the bed seemed to be getting some of her strength back. He spent the evening questioning them. It was a while before he understood that the two women were not whores at all, but students who had paid the Ranta brothers to get them into Sweden. They had been promised visas and work permits. They had come from Kapellskär in February and were taken straight to the warehouse, and there they were locked up.

Niedermann’s face had darkened with anger. Those bastard Ranta brothers were collecting an income that they had not told Zalachenko about. Then they had completely forgotten about the women, or maybe had knowingly left them to their fate when they fled Sweden in such a hurry.

The question was: what was he supposed to do with them? He had no reason to harm them, and yet he could not really let them go, considering that they would probably lead the police to the brickworks. It was that simple. He could not send them back to Russia, because that would mean he would have to drive them down to Kapellskär. That seemed too difficult. The dark-haired woman, whose name was Valentina, had offered him sex if he helped them. He was not the least bit interested in having sex with the girls, but the offer had turned her into a whore too. All women were whores. It was that simple.

After three days he had tired of their incessant pleading, nagging and knocking on the wall. He could see no other way out. So he unlocked the door one last time and swiftly solved the problem. He asked Valentina to forgive him before he reached out and in one movement broke her neck between the second and third cervical vertebrae. Then he went over to the blonde girl on the bed whose name he did not know. She lay there passively, did not put up any resistance. He carried the bodies downstairs and put them in one of the flooded pits. At last he could feel some sort of peace.

Niedermann had not intended to stay long at the brickworks. He thought he would have to lie low only until the initial police manhunt had died down. He shaved his head and let his beard grow to half an inch, and that altered his appearance. He found a pair of overalls belonging to one of the workers from NorrBygg which were almost big enough to fit him. He put on a Becker’s Paint baseball cap and stuffed a folding ruler into a leg pocket. At dusk he drove to the O.K. shop on the hill and bought supplies. He had all the cash he needed from Svavelsjö M.C.’s piggy bank. He looked like any workman stopping on his way home, and nobody seemed to pay him any attention. He shopped once or twice a week at the same time of day. At the O.K. shop they were always perfectly friendly to him.

From the very first day he had spent a considerable amount of time fending off the creatures that inhabited the building. They lived in the walls and came out at night. He could hear them wandering around the workshop.

He barricaded himself in his room. After several days he had had enough. He armed himself with a large knife which he had found in a kitchen drawer and went out to confront the monsters. It had to end.

All of a sudden he discovered that they were retreating. For the first time in his life he had been able to dominate his phantoms. They shrank back when he approached. He could see their deformed bodies and their tails slinking off behind the packing crates and cabinets. He howled at them. They fled.

Relieved, he went back to his warm room and sat up all night, waiting for them to return. They mounted a renewed attack at dawn and he faced them down once more. They fled.

He was teetering between panic and euphoria.

All of his life he had been haunted by these creatures in the dark, and for the very first time he felt that he was in control of the situation. He did nothing. He slept. He ate. He thought. It was peaceful.

The days turned to weeks and spring turned to summer. From his transistor radio and the evening papers he could tell that the hunt for the killer Ronald Niedermann was winding down. He read with interest the reports of the murder of Zalachenko. What a laugh. A psycho had put an end to Zalachenko. In July his interest was again aroused when he followed the reports of Salander’s trial. He was appalled when she was acquitted and released. It did not feel right. She was free while he was forced to hide.

He bought the Millennium special issue at the O.K. shop and read all about Salander and Zalachenko and Niedermann. A journalist named Blomkvist had described Niedermann as a pathological murderer and a psychopath. He frowned.

Autumn came suddenly and still he had not made a move. When it got colder he bought an electric heater at the O.K. shop. He did not know what kept him from leaving the brickworks.

Occasionally some young people had driven into the yard and parked there, but no-one had disturbed him or tried to break into the building. In September a car drove up and a man in a blue windcheater had tried the doors and snooped around the property. Niedermann had watched him from the window on the upper floor. The man kept writing in his notebook. He had stayed for twenty minutes before he looked around one last time and got into his car and drove away. Niedermann breathed a sigh of relief. He had no idea who the man was or what business had brought him there, but he appeared to be doing a survey of the property. It did not occur to Niedermann that Zalachenko’s death had prompted an inventory of his estate.

He thought a lot about Salander. He had never expected to see her again, but she fascinated and frightened him. He was not afraid of any living person. But his sister – his half-sister – had made a particular impression on him. No-one else had ever defeated him the way she had done. She had come back to life, even though he had buried her. She had come back and hunted him down. He dreamed about her every night. He would wake up in a cold sweat, and he recognized that she had replaced his usual phantoms.

In October he made a decision. He was not going to leave Sweden before he had found his sister and destroyed her. He did not have a plan, but at least his life now had a purpose. He did not know where she was or how he would trace her. He just sat in his room on the upper floor of the brickworks, staring out of the window, day after day, week after week.

Until one day a burgundy Honda parked outside the building and, to his complete astonishment, he saw Salander get out of the car. God is merciful, he thought. Salander would join the two women whose names he no longer remembered in the pool downstairs. His wait was over, and he could at last get on with his life.

Salander assessed the situation and saw that it was anything but under control. Her brain was working at high speed. Click, click, click. She still held the crowbar in her hand but she knew that it was a feeble weapon against a man who could not feel pain. She was locked inside an area of about a thousand square metres with a murderous robot from hell.

When Niedermann suddenly moved towards her she threw the crowbar at him. He dodged it easily. Salander moved fast. She stepped on to a pallet, swung herself up on to a packing crate and kept climbing, like a monkey, up two more crates. She stopped and looked down at Niedermann, now four metres below her. He was looking up at her and waiting.

“Come down,” he said patiently. “You can’t escape. The end is inevitable.”

She wondered if he had a gun of some sort. Now that would be a problem.

He bent down and picked up a chair and threw it at her. She ducked.

Niedermann was getting annoyed. He put his foot on the pallet and started climbing up after her. She waited until he was almost at the top before she took a running start of two quick steps and jumped across an aisle to land on top of another crate. She swung down to the floor and grabbed the crowbar.

Niedermann was not actually clumsy, but he knew that he could not risk jumping from the stack of crates and perhaps breaking a bone in his foot. He had to climb down carefully and set his feet on the floor. He always had to move slowly and methodically, and he had spent a lifetime mastering his body. He had almost reached the floor when he heard footsteps behind him and turned just in time to block a blow from the crowbar with his shoulder. He lost his grip on the knife.

Salander dropped the crowbar just as she had delivered the blow. She did not have time to pick up the knife, but kicked it away from him along the pallets, dodging a backhand blow from his huge fist and retreating back up on to the packing crates on the other side of the aisle. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Niedermann reach for her. Quick as lightning she pulled up her feet. The crates stood in two rows, stacked up three high next to the centre aisle and two high along the outside. She swung down on to the two crates and braced herself, using all the strength in her legs and pushing her back against the crate next to her. It must have weighed two hundred kilos. She felt it begin to move and then tumble down towards the centre aisle.

Niedermann saw the crate coming and threw himself to one side. A corner of the crate struck him on the chest, but he seemed not to have been injured. He picked himself up. She was resisting. He started climbing up after her. His head was just appearing over the third crate when she kicked at him. Her boot struck him with full force in the forehead. He grunted and heaved himself up on top of the packing crates. Salander fled, leaping back to the crates on the other side of the aisle. She dropped over the edge and vanished immediately from his sight. He could hear her footsteps and caught a glimpse of her as she passed through the doorway to the inner workshop.

Salander took an appraising look around. Click. She knew that she did not have a chance. She could survive for as long as she could avoid Niedermann’s enormous fists and keep her distance. But when she made a mistake – which would happen sooner or later – she was dead. She had to evade him. He would only have to grab hold of her once, and the fight would be over.

She needed a weapon.

A pistol. A sub-machine gun. A rocket-propelled grenade. A personnel mine.

Any bloody thing at all.

But there was nothing like that to hand.

She looked everywhere.

No weapons.

Only tools. Click. Her eyes fell on the circular saw, but he was hardly going to lie down on the saw bench. Click. Click. She saw an iron rod that could be used as a spear, but it was probably too heavy for her to handle effectively. Click. She glanced through the door and saw that Niedermann was down from the crates and no more than fifteen metres away. He was coming towards her again. She started to move away from the door. She had maybe five seconds left before Niedermann was upon her. She glanced one last time at the tools.

A weapon… or a hiding place.

Niedermann was in no hurry. He knew that there was no way out and that sooner or later he would catch his sister. But she was dangerous, no doubt about it. She was, after all, Zalachenko’s daughter. And he did not want to be injured. It was better to let her run around and wear herself out.

He stopped in the doorway to the inner room and looked around at the jumble of tools, furniture and half-finished floorboards. She was nowhere to be seen.

“I know you’re in here. And I’m going to find you.”

Niedermann stood still and listened. All he could hear was his own breathing. She was hiding. He smiled. She was challenging him. Her visit had suddenly turned into a game between brother and sister.

Then he heard a clumsy rustling noise from somewhere in the centre of the room. He turned his head but at first could not tell where the sound was coming from. Then he smiled again. In the middle of the floor set slightly apart from the other debris stood a five-metre-long wooden workbench with a row of drawers and sliding cabinet doors beneath it.

He approached the workbench from the side and glanced behind it to make sure that she was not trying to fool him. Nothing there.

She was hiding inside the cabinet. So stupid.

He slid open the first door on the far left.

He instantly heard movement inside the cabinet, from the middle section. He took two quick steps and opened the middle door with a triumphant expression on his face.

Empty.

Then he heard a series of sharp cracks that sounded like pistol shots. The sound was so close that at first he could not tell where it was coming from. He turned to look. Then he felt a strange pressure against his left foot. He felt no pain, but he looked down at the floor just in time to see Salander’s hand moving the nail gun over to his right foot.

She was underneath the cabinet.

He stood as if paralysed for the seconds it took her to put the mouth of the nail gun against his boot and fire another five seven-inch nails straight through his foot.

He tried to move.

It took him precious seconds to realize that his feet were nailed solidly to the newly laid plank floor. Salander’s hand moved the nail gun back to his left foot. It sounded like an automatic weapon getting shots off in bursts. She managed to shoot in another four nails as reinforcement before he was able to react.

He reached down to grab her hand, but immediately lost his balance and regained it only by bracing himself against the workbench as he heard the nail gun being fired again and again, ka-blam, ka-blam, ka-blam. She was back to his right foot. He saw that she was firing the nails diagonally through his heel and into the floor.

Niedermann howled in sudden rage. He lunged again for Salander’s hand.

From her position under the cabinet Salander saw his trouser leg slide up, a sign that he was trying to bend down. She let go of the nail gun. Niedermann saw her hand disappear quick as a lizard beneath the cabinet just before he reached her.

He reached for the nail gun, but the instant he touched it with the tips of his fingers she drew it under the cabinet.

The gap between the floor and the cabinet was about twenty centimetres. With all the strength he could muster he toppled the cabinet on to its back. Salander looked up at him with big eyes and an offended expression. She aimed the nail gun and fired it from a distance of fifty centimetres. The nail hit him in the middle of his shin.

The next instant she dropped the nail gun, rolled fast as lightning away from him and got to her feet beyond his reach. She backed up several feet and stopped.

Niedermann tried to move and again lost his balance, swaying backwards and forwards with his arms flailing. He steadied himself and bent down in rage.

This time he managed to grab hold of the nail gun. He pointed it at Salander and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. He looked in dismay at the nail gun and then at Salander again. She looked back at him blankly and held up the plug. In fury he threw the nail gun at her. She dodged to the side.

Then she plugged in the cord again and hauled in the nail gun.

He met Salander’s expressionless eyes and was amazed. She had defeated him. She’s supernatural. Instinctively he tried to pull one foot from the floor. She’s a monster. He could lift his foot only a few millimetres before his boot hit the heads of the nails. They had been driven into his feet at different angles, and to free himself he would have to rip his feet to shreds. Even with his almost superhuman strength he was unable to pull himself loose. For several seconds he swayed back and forth as if he were swimming. He saw a pool of blood slowly forming between his shoes.

Salander sat down on a stool and watched for signs that he might be able to tear his feet loose. Since he could not feel pain, it was a matter of whether he was strong enough to pull the heads of the nails straight through his feet. She sat stock still and observed his struggle for ten minutes. The whole time her eyes were frozen blank. After a while she stood up and walked behind him and held the nail gun to his spine, just below the nape of his neck.

Salander was thinking hard. This man had transported, drugged, abused and sold women both retail and wholesale. He had murdered at least eight people, including a policeman in Gosseberga and a member of Svavelsjö M.C. and his wife. She had no idea how many other lives her half-brother might have on his account, if not his conscience, but thanks to him she had been hunted all over Sweden like a mad dog, suspected of three of the murders he had committed.

Her finger rested heavily on the trigger.

He had murdered the journalist Dag Svensson and his partner Mia Johansson.

With Zalachenko he had also murdered her and buried her in Gosseberga. And now he had resurfaced to murder her again.

You could get pretty angry with less provocation.

She saw no reason to let him live any longer. He hated her with a passion that she could not even fathom. What would happen if she turned him over to the police? A trial? A life sentence? When would he be granted parole? How soon would he escape? And now that her father was finally gone – how many years would she have to look over her shoulder, waiting for the day when her brother would suddenly turn up again? She felt the heft of the nail gun. She could end this thing once and for all.

Risk assessment.

She bit her lip.

Salander was afraid of no-one and nothing. She realized that she lacked the necessary imagination – and that was evidence enough that there was something wrong with her brain.

Niedermann hated her and she responded with an equally implacable hatred towards him. He joined the ranks of men like Magge Lundin and Martin Vanger and Zalachenko and dozens of other creeps who in her estimation had absolutely no claim to be among the living. If she could put them all on a desert island and set off an atomic bomb, then she would be satisfied.

But murder? Was it worth it? What would happen to her if she killed him? What were the odds that she would avoid discovery? What would she be ready to sacrifice for the satisfaction of firing the nail gun one last time?

She could claim self-defence… no, not with his feet nailed to the floorboards.

She suddenly thought of Harriet Fucking Vanger, who had also been tormented by her father and her brother. She recalled the exchange she had had with Mikael Bastard Blomkvist in which she cursed Harriet Vanger in the harshest possible terms. It was Harriet Vanger’s fault that her brother Martin had been allowed to go on murdering women year after year.

“What would you do?” Blomkvist had said.

“I’d kill the fucker,” she had said with a conviction that came from the depths of her cold soul.

And now she was standing in exactly the same position in which Harriet Vanger had found herself. How many more women would Niedermann kill if she let him go? She had the legal right of a citizen and was socially responsible for her actions. How many years of her life did she want to sacrifice? How many years had Harriet Vanger been willing to sacrifice?

Suddenly the nail gun felt too heavy for her to hold against his spine, even with both hands.

She lowered the weapon and felt as though she had come back to reality. She was aware of Niedermann muttering something incoherent. He was speaking German. He was talking about a devil that had come to get him.

She knew that he was not talking to her. He seemed to see somebody at the other end of the room. She turned her head and followed his gaze. There was nothing there. She felt the hairs rise on the back of her neck.

She turned on her heel, grabbed the iron rod, and went to the outer room to find her shoulder bag. As she bent to retrieve it she caught sight of the knife. She still had her gloves on, and she picked up the weapon.

She hesitated a moment and then placed it in full view in the centre aisle between the stacks of packing crates. With the iron rod she spent three minutes prising loose the padlock so that she could get outside.

She sat in her car and thought for a long time. Finally she flipped open her mobile. It took her two minutes to locate the number for Svavelsjö M.C.’s clubhouse.

“Yeah?”

“Nieminen,” she said.

“Wait.”

She waited for three minutes before Sonny Nieminen came to the telephone.

“Who’s this?”

“None of your bloody business,” Salander said in such a low voice that he could hardly make out the words. He could not even tell whether it was a man or a woman.

“Alright, so what do you want?”

“You want a tip about Niedermann?”

“Do I?”

“Don’t give me shit. Want to know where he is or not?”

“I’m listening.”

Salander gave him directions to the brickworks outside Norrtälje. She said that he would be there long enough for Nieminen to find him if he hurried.

She closed her mobile, started the car and drove up to the O.K. petrol station across the road. She parked so that she had a clear view of the brickworks.

She had to wait for more than two hours. It was just before 1.30 in the afternoon when she saw a van drive slowly past on the road below her. It stopped at the turning off the main road, stood there for five minutes, and then drove down to the brickworks. On this December day, twilight was setting in.

She opened the glove box and took out a pair of Minolta 16 × 50 binoculars and watched as the van parked. She identified Nieminen and Waltari with three men she did not recognize. New blood. They had to rebuild their operation.

When Nieminen and his pals had found the open door at the end of the building, she opened her mobile again. She composed a message and sent it to the police station in Norrtälje.

POLICE MURDERER R. NIEDERMANN IN OLD BRICKWORKS BY THE O.K. STATION OUTSIDE SKEDERID. ABOUT TO BE MURDERED BY S. NIEMINEN AND MEMBERS OF SVAVELSJÖ M.C. WOMEN DEAD IN PIT ON GROUND FLOOR.

She could not see any movement from the factory.

She bided her time.

As she waited she removed the S.I.M. card from her telephone and cut it up with some nail scissors. She rolled down the window and tossed out the pieces. Then she took a new S.I.M. card from her wallet and inserted it in her mobile. She was using a Comviq cash card, which was virtually impossible to track. She called Comviq and credited 500 kronor to the new card.

Eleven minutes after her message was sent, two police vans with their sirens off but with blue lights flashing drove at speed up to the factory from the direction of Norrtälje. They parked in the yard next to Nieminen’s van. A minute later two squad cars arrived. The officers conferred and then moved together towards the brickworks. Salander raised her binoculars. She saw one of the policemen radio through the registration number of Nieminen’s van. The officers stood around waiting. Salander watched as another team approached at high speed two minutes later.

Finally it was all over.

The story that had begun on the day she was born had ended at the brickworks.

She was free.

When the policemen officers took out assault rifles from their vehicles, put on Kevlar vests and started to fan out around the factory site, Salander went inside the shop and bought a coffee and a sandwich wrapped in cellophane. She ate standing at a counter in the café.

It was dark by the time she got back to her car. Just as she opened the door she heard two distant reports from what she assumed were handguns on the other side of the road. She saw several black figures, presumably policemen, pressed against the wall near the entrance at one end of the building. She heard sirens as another squad car approached from the direction of Uppsala. A few cars had stopped at the side of the road below her to watch the drama.

She started the Honda, turned on to the E18, and drove home.

It was 7.00 that evening when Salander, to her great annoyance, heard the doorbell ring. She was in the bath and the water was still steaming. There was really only one person who could be at her front door.

At first she thought she would ignore it, but at the third ring she sighed, got out of the bath, and wrapped a towel around her. With her lower lip pouting, she trailed water down the hall floor. She opened the door a crack.

“Hello,” Blomkvist said.

She did not answer.

“Did you hear the evening news?”

She shook her head.

“I thought you might like to know that Ronald Niedermann is dead. He was murdered today in Norrtälje by a gang from Svavelsjö M.C.”

“Really?” Salander said.

“I talked to the duty officer in Norrtälje. It seems to have been some sort of internal dispute. Apparently Niedermann had been tortured and slit open with a knife. They found a bag at the factory with several hundred thousand kronor.”

“Jesus.”

“The Svavelsjö mob was arrested, but they put up quite a fight. There was a shoot-out and the police had to send for a back-up team from Stockholm. The bikers surrendered at around 6.00.”

“Is that so?”

“Your old friend Sonny Nieminen bit the dust. He went completely nuts and tried to shoot his way out.”

“That’s nice.”

Blomkvist stood there in silence. They looked at each other through the crack in the door.

“Am I interrupting something?” he said.

She shrugged. “I was in the bath.”

“I can see that. Do you want some company?”

She gave him an acid look.

“I didn’t mean in the bath. I’ve brought some bagels,” he said, holding up a bag. “And some espresso coffee. Since you own a Jura Impressa X7, you should at least learn how to use it.”

She raised her eyebrows. She did not know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

“Just company?”

“Just company,” he confirmed. “I’m a good friend who’s visiting a good friend. If I’m welcome, that is.”

She hesitated. For two years she had kept as far away from Mikael Blomkvist as she could. And yet he kept sticking to her life like gum on the sole of her shoe, either on the Net or in real life. On the Net it was O.K. There he was no more than electrons and words. In real life, standing on her doorstep, he was still fucking attractive. And he knew her secrets just as she knew all of his.

She looked at him for a moment and realized that she now had no feelings for him. At least not those kinds of feelings.

He had in fact been a good friend to her over the past year.

She trusted him. Maybe. It was troubling that one of the few people she trusted was a man she spent so much time avoiding.

Then she made up her mind. It was absurd to pretend that he did not exist. It no longer hurt her to see him.

She opened the door wide and let him into her life again.