Girl Who Kicked the Hornets Nest, The - Stieg Larsson [7]
As Blomkvist tried in frustration to manoeuvre his mobile out of the breast pocket of his jacket – it proved to be an impossible task with his hands cuffed behind his back, nor was it clear to him how he was going to be able to use it – several more vehicles containing both uniformed officers and technical personnel arrived at the Gosseberga farm. They were detailed by Paulsson to secure forensic evidence in the woodshed and to do a thorough examination of the farmhouse, from which several weapons had already been confiscated. By now resigned to his futility, Blomkvist had observed their comings and goings from his vantage point in Paulsson’s vehicle.
An hour passed before it dawned on Paulsson that Torstensson and Ingemarsson had not yet returned from their mission to retrieve Niedermann. He had Blomkvist brought into the kitchen, where he was required once more to provide precise directions to the spot.
Blomkvist closed his eyes.
He was still in the kitchen with Paulsson when the armed response team sent to relieve Torstensson and Ingemarsson reported back. Ingemarsson had been found dead with a broken neck. Torstensson was still alive, but he had been savagely beaten. The men had been discovered near a MOOSE CROSSING sign by the side of the road. Their service weapons and the marked police car were gone.
Inspector Paulsson had started out with a relatively manageable situation: now he had a murdered policeman and an armed killer on the run.
“Imbecile,” Blomkvist said again.
“It won’t help to insult the police.”
“That certainly seems to be true in your case. But I’m going to report you for dereliction of duty and you won’t even know what hit you. Before I’m through with you, you’re going to be celebrated as the dumbest policeman in Sweden on every newspaper billboard in the country.”
The notion of being the object of public ridicule appeared at last to have an effect on Inspector Paulsson. His face was lined with anxiety.
“What do you propose?”
“I don’t propose, I demand that you call Inspector Bublanski in Stockholm. This minute. His number’s on my mobile in my breast pocket.”
Inspector Modig woke with a start when her mobile rang at the other end of the bedroom. She saw to her dismay that it was just after 4.00 in the morning. Then she looked at her husband, who was snoring peacefully. He would probably sleep through an artillery barrage. She staggered out of bed, unplugged her mobile from the charger, and fumbled for the talk button.
Jan Bublanski, she thought. Who else?
“Everything has gone to hell down in Trollhättan,” her senior officer said without bothering to greet her or apologize. “The X2000 to Göteborg leaves at 5.10. Take a taxi.”
“What’s happened?”
“Blomkvist found Salander, Niedermann and Zalachenko. Got himself arrested for insulting a police officer, resisting arrest, and for possession of an illegal weapon. Salander was taken to Sahlgrenska with a bullet in her head. Zalachenko is there too with an axe wound to his skull. Niedermann got away. And he killed a policeman tonight.”
Modig blinked twice, registering how exhausted she felt. Most of all she wanted to crawl back into bed and take a month’s holiday.
“The X2000 at 5.10. O.K. What do you want me to do?”
“Meet Jerker Holmberg at Central Station. You’re to contact an Inspector Thomas Paulsson at the Trollhättan police. He seems to be responsible for much of the mess tonight. Blomkvist described him as an Olympic-class idiot.”
“You’ve talked to Blomkvist?”
“Apparently he’s been arrested and cuffed. I managed to persuade Paulsson to let me talk to him for a moment. I’m on my way to Kungsholmen right now, and I’ll try to work out what’s going on. We’ll keep in touch by mobile.”
Modig looked at the time again. Then she called a taxi and jumped into the shower for a minute. She brushed her teeth, pulled a comb through her hair, and put on long black trousers, a black T-shirt, and a grey jacket. She put her police revolver in her shoulder bag and picked out a dark-red leather