Girl Who Played with Fire, The - Stieg Larsson [107]
“And hired a hit man. Micke—that’s the stuff of American movies. This book is about the exploiters, the users. It names police officers, politicians, journalists… So you think one of them murdered Dag and Mia?”
“I don’t know, Ricky. But we’re supposed to be going to press in three weeks with the toughest exposé of trafficking that’s ever been published in Sweden.”
At that moment Eriksson knocked and put her head round the door. An Inspector Bublanski wanted to speak with Blomkvist.
Bublanski shook hands with Berger and Blomkvist and sat down in the third chair at the table by the window. He studied Blomkvist and saw a hollow-eyed man with a day’s growth of beard.
“Have there been any developments?” Blomkvist said.
“Maybe. I understand you were the one who found the couple in Enskede and called the police last night.”
Blomkvist nodded wearily.
“I know that you told your story to the detective on duty last night, but I wonder if you could clarify a few details for me.”
“What would you like to know?”
“How did you come to be driving over to see Svensson and Johansson so late at night?”
“That’s not a detail, it’s a whole novel,” Blomkvist said with a tired smile. “I was at a dinner party at my sister’s house—she lives in a new development in Stäket. Dag Svensson called me on my mobile and said that he wasn’t going to have time to come to the office on Thursday—today, that is—as we had previously agreed. He was supposed to deliver some photographs to our art director. The reason he gave was that he and Mia had decided to drive up to her parents’ house over the weekend, and they wanted to leave early in the morning. He asked if it would be OK if he messengered them to me last night instead. I said that since I lived so close, I could pick up the photographs on my way home from my sister’s.”
“So you drove to Enskede to pick up photographs.”
“Yes.”
“Can you think of any motive for the murders of Svensson and Johansson?”
Blomkvist and Berger glanced at each other. Neither said a word.
“What is it?” Bublanski wanted to know.
“We’ve discussed the matter today and we’re having a bit of a disagreement. Well, actually not a disagreement—we’re just not certain. We would rather not speculate.”
“Tell me.”
Blomkvist described to him the subject of Svensson’s book, and how he and Berger had been discussing whether it might have some connection to the murders. Bublanski sat quietly for a moment, digesting the information.
“So Dag Svensson was about to expose police officers.”
He did not at all like the turn the conversation had taken, and imagined how a “police trail” might wander back and forth in the media and give rise to all kinds of conspiracy theories.
“No,” Blomkvist said. “He was about to expose criminals, a few of whom happen to be police officers. There are also one or two members of my own profession, namely journalists.”
“And you’re thinking of publishing this information now?”
Blomkvist turned to look at Berger.
“No,” she said. “We’ve spent the day working on the next issue. In all probability we’ll publish Svensson’s book, but that won’t happen until we know exactly what’s going on. In light of what has happened, the book will have to be extensively reworked. We will do nothing to sabotage the investigation into the murder of our two friends, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I’ll have to take a look at Svensson’s desk, but since these are the editorial offices of a magazine it might be a sensitive thing to put in hand a complete search.”
“You’ll find all Dag’s material in his laptop,” Berger said.
“I’ve gone through his desk,” Blomkvist said. “I’ve taken some documents that directly identify sources who want to remain anonymous. You are at liberty to examine everything else,