Girl Who Kicked the Hornets Nest, The - Stieg Larsson [186]
Von Rottinger, on the other hand, had never set foot in the office in London where he supposedly worked. In 1973 the office building where he had claimed to be working was in fact torn down and replaced by an extension to King’s Cross Station. No doubt someone made a blunder when the cover story was devised. In the course of the day Figuerola’s team had interviewed a number of people now retired from the Swedish Atomic Energy Agency. Not one of them had heard of Hans von Rottinger.
“Now we know,” Edklinth said. “We just have to discover what it was they really were doing.”
Figuerola said: “What do we do about Blomkvist?”
“In what sense?”
“We promised to give him feedback if we uncovered anything about Clinton and von Rottinger.”
Edklinth thought about it. “He’s going to be digging up that stuff himself if he keeps at it for a while. It’s better that we stay on good terms with him. You can give him what you’ve found. But use your judgement.”
Figuerola promised that she would. They spent a few minutes making arrangements for the weekend. Two of Figuerola’s team were going to keep working. She would be taking the weekend off.
Then she clocked out and went to the gym at St Eriksplan, where she spent two hours driving herself hard to catch up on lost training time. She was home by 7.00. She showered, made a simple dinner, and turned on the T. V. to listen to the news. But then she got restless and put on her running kit. She paused at the front door to think. Bloody Blomkvist. She flipped open her mobile and called his Ericsson.
“We found out a certain amount about von Rottinger and Clinton.”
“Tell me.”
“I will if you come over.”
“Sounds like blackmail,” Blomkvist said.
“I’ve just changed into jogging things to work off a little of my surplus energy,” Figuerola said. “Should I go now or should I wait for you?”
“Would it be O.K. if I came after 9.00?” “That’ll be fine.”
At 8.00 on Friday evening Salander had a visit from Dr Jonasson. He sat in the visitor’s chair and leaned back.
“Are you going to examine me?” Salander said.
“No. Not tonight.”
“O.K.”
“We studied all your notes today and we’ve informed the prosecutor that we’re prepared to discharge you.”
“I understand.”
“They want to take you over to the prison in Göteborg tonight.”
“So soon?”
He nodded. “Stockholm is making noises. I said I had a number of final tests to run on you tomorrow and that I couldn’t discharge you until Sunday.”
“Why’s that?”
“Don’t know. I was just annoyed they were being so pushy.”
Salander actually smiled. Given a few years she would probably be able to make a good anarchist out of Dr Anders Jonasson. In any case he had a penchant for civil disobedience on a private level.
“Fredrik Clinton,” Blomkvist said, staring at the ceiling above Figuerola’s bed.
“If you light that cigarette I’ll stub it out in your navel,” Figuerola said.
Blomkvist looked in surprise at the cigarette he had extracted from his jacket.
“Sorry,” he said. “Could I borrow your balcony?”
“As long as you brush your teeth afterwards.”
He tied a sheet around his waist. She followed him to the kitchen and filled a large glass with cold water. Then she leaned against the door frame by the balcony.
“Clinton first?”
“If he’s still alive, he’s the link to the past.”
“He’s dying, he needs a new kidney and spends a lot of his time in dialysis or some other treatment.”
“But he’s alive. We should contact him and put the question to him directly. Maybe he’ll talk.”
“No,” Figuerola said. “First of all, this is a preliminary investigation and the police are handling it. In that sense, there is