Girl Who Kicked the Hornets Nest, The - Stieg Larsson [269]
She sat there, silent and unnoticed next to a pillar, studying the people in the bar. She saw a couple in their thirties engaged in quiet conversation. The woman was wearing a light-coloured summer dress, and the man was holding her hand under the table. Two tables away sat a black family, the man with the beginnings of grey at his temples, the woman wearing a lovely, colourful dress in yellow, black and red. They had two young children with them. She studied a group of businessmen in white shirts and ties, their jackets hung over the backs of their chairs. They were drinking beer. She saw a group of elderly people, without a doubt American tourists. The men wore baseball caps, polo shirts and loose-fitting trousers. She watched a man in a light-coloured linen jacket, grey shirt and dark tie come in from the street and pick up his room key at the front desk before he headed over to the bar and ordered a beer. He sat down three metres away from her. She gave him an expectant look as he took out his mobile and began to speak in German.
“Hello, is that you? … Is everything alright? … It’s going fine, we’re having our next meeting tomorrow afternoon … No, I think it’ll work out … I’ll be staying here five or six days at least, and then I go to Madrid … No, I won’t be home before the end of next week … Me too. I love you … Sure … I’ll call you later in the week … Kiss kiss.”
He was a little over one metre eighty-five tall, about fifty years old maybe fifty-five, blond hair that was turning grey and was a bit on the long side, a weak chin, and too much weight around the middle. But still reasonably well preserved. He was reading the Financial Times. When he finished his beer and headed for the lift, Salander got up and followed him.
He pushed the button for the sixth floor. Salander stood next to him and leaned her head against the side of the lift.
“I’m drunk,” she said.
He smiled down at her. “Oh, really?”
“It’s been one of those weeks. Let me guess. You’re a businessman of some sort, from Hanover or somewhere in northern Germany. You’re married. You love your wife. And you have to stay here in Gibraltar for another few days. I gathered that much from your telephone call in the bar.”
The man looked at her, astonished.
“I’m from Sweden myself. I’m feeling an irresistible urge to have sex with somebody. I don’t care if you’re married and I don’t want your phone number.”
He looked startled.
“I’m in room 711, the floor above yours. I’m going to go up to my room, take a bath and get into bed. If you want to keep me company, knock on the door within half an hour. Otherwise I’ll be asleep.”
“Is this some kind of joke?” he said as the lift stopped.
“No. It’s just that I can’t be bothered to go out to some pick-up bar. Either you knock on my door or you don’t.”
Twenty-five minutes later there was a knock on the door of Salander’s room. She had a bath towel around her when she opened the door.
“Come in,” she said.
He stepped inside and looked around the room suspiciously.
“I’m alone here,” she said.
“How old are you, actually?”
She reached for her passport on top of a chest of drawers and handed it to him.
“You look younger.”
“I know,” she said, taking off the bath towel and throwing it on to a chair. She went over to the bed and pulled off the bedspread.
She glanced over her shoulder and saw that he was staring at her tattoos.
“This isn’t a trap. I’m a woman, I’m single, and I’ll be here for a few days. I haven’t had sex for months.”
“Why did you choose me?”
“Because you were the only man in the bar who looked as if you were here alone.”
“I’m married—