Girl Who Kicked the Hornets Nest, The - Stieg Larsson [26]
Modig nodded.
“I’m going to do everything I can to counter any such claims. I believe that Salander is as sane as you or I. Odd, certainly, but her intellectual gifts are undeniable.” He paused to let what he had said sink in. “I’m going to need somebody on the inside I can trust.”
She met his gaze. “I’m not competent to judge whether or not Salander is mentally ill.”
“But you are competent to say whether or not she was the victim of a miscarriage of justice.”
“What are you suggesting?”
“I’m only asking you to let me know if you discover that Salander is being subjected to another miscarriage of justice.”
Modig said nothing.
“I don’t want details of the investigation or anything like that. I just need to know what’s happening with the charges against her.”
“It sounds like a good way for me to get booted off the force.”
“You would be a source. I would never, ever mention your name.”
He wrote an email address on a page torn from his notebook.
“This is an untraceable hotmail address. You can use it if you have anything to tell me. Don’t use your official address, obviously, just set up your own temporary hotmail account.”
She put the address into the inside pocket of her jacket. She did not make him any promises.
Inspector Erlander woke at 7.00 on Saturday morning to the ringing of his telephone. He heard voices from the T. V. and smelled coffee from the kitchen where his wife was already about her morning chores. He had returned to his apartment in Mölndal at 1.00 in the morning having being on duty for twenty-two hours, so he was far from wide awake when he reached to answer it.
“Rikardsson, night shift. Are you awake?”
“No,” Erlander said. “Hardly. What’s happened?”
“News. Anita Kaspersson has been found.”
“Where?”
“Outside Seglora, south of Borås.”
Erlander visualized the map in his head.
“South,” he said. “He’s taking the back roads. He must have driven up the 180 through Borås and swung south. Have we alerted Malmö?”
“Yes, and Helsingborg, Landskrona, and Trelleborg. And Karlskrona. I’m thinking of the ferry to the east.”
Erlander rubbed the back of his neck.
“He has almost a 24-hour head start now. He could be clean out of the country. How was Kaspersson found?”
“She turned up at a house on the outskirts of Seglora.”
“She what?”
“She knocked—”
“You mean she’s alive?”
“I’m sorry, I’m not expressing myself clearly enough. The Kaspersson woman kicked on the door of a house at 3.10 this morning, scaring the hell out of a couple and their kids, who were all asleep. She was barefoot and suffering from severe hypothermia. Her hands were tied behind her back. She’s at the hospital in Borås, reunited with her husband.”
“Amazing. I think we all assumed she was dead.”
“Sometimes you can be surprised. But here’s the bad news: Assistant County Police Chief Spångberg has been here since 5.00 this morning. She’s made it plain that she wants you up and over to Borås to interview the woman.”
It was Saturday morning and Blomkvist assumed that the Millennium offices would be empty. He called Malm as the train was coming into Stockholm and asked him what had prompted the tone of his text message.
“Have you had breakfast?” Malm said.
“On the train.”
“O.K. Come over to my place and I’ll make you something more substantial.”
“What’s this about?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here.”
Blomkvist took the tunnelbana to Medborgarplatsen and walked to Allhelgonagatan. Malm’s boyfriend, Arnold Magnusson, opened the door to him. No matter how hard Blomkvist tried, he could never rid himself of the feeling that he was looking at an advertisement for something. Magnusson was often onstage at the Dramaten, and was one of Sweden’s most popular actors. It was always a shock to meet him in person. Blomkvist was not ordinarily impressed by celebrity, but Magnusson had such a distinctive appearance and was so familiar from