Girl Who Played with Fire, The - Stieg Larsson [120]
Modig looked at him intently. “This is a murder investigation we’re carrying out here.”
“And I hope that you will catch the bastard who killed Dag and Mia as soon as possible.”
“You don’t think Salander is that killer?”
“No, I do not.”
“In that case, who do you think did shoot your friends?”
“I don’t know. But Dag was intending to expose a large number of people who had a great deal to lose. One of them could be the killer.”
“And why would such a person also shoot the lawyer, Nils Bjurman?”
“I don’t know. At least not yet.”
His gaze was steady with his own conviction. Modig suddenly smiled. She knew that he was nicknamed Kalle Blomkvist after the detective in Astrid Lindgren’s books. Now she understood why.
“But you intend to find out?”
“If I can. You can tell that to Inspector Bublanski.”
“I’ll do that. And if Salander gets in touch, I hope you’ll let us know.”
“I don’t expect her to contact me and confess that she’s guilty of the murders, but if she does I’ll do everything I can to persuade her to give herself up. In that case I would support her in any way I can—she’s going to need a friend.”
“And if she says she’s not guilty?”
“Then I just hope she can shed some light on what happened.”
“Herr Blomkvist, just between us and off the record, I hope you realize that Lisbeth Salander has to be apprehended. Don’t do anything stupid if she gets in touch with you. If you’re wrong and she is responsible for these killings, it could be extremely dangerous for you.”
Blomkvist nodded.
“I hope we won’t have to put you under surveillance. You know, of course, that it is illegal to give help to a fugitive. Aiding and abetting anyone wanted for murder is a serious offence.”
“For my part, I hope that you will devote some time to looking at the possibility that Salander had nothing to do with these killings.”
“We will. Next question. Do you happen to know what sort of computer Dag Svensson worked on?”
“He had a secondhand Mac iBook 500, white, with a fourteen-inch screen. Just like mine but with a larger display.” Blomkvist pointed to his machine on the table next to them.
“Do you have any idea where he kept it?”
“He usually carried it in a black bag. I assume it’s in his apartment.”
“It’s not. Could it be at the office?”
“No. I’ve been through his desk and it definitely isn’t there.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
“Do I take it that Dag’s computer is missing?” Blomkvist said at last.
Blomkvist and Eriksson had made a list of the people who might theoretically have had a motive for killing Svensson. Each name had been written on large sheets of paper that Blomkvist taped up on his livingroom wall. All of them were men, either johns or pimps, and they all appeared in the book. By 8:00 that night they had thirty-seven names, of which thirty were readily identified. Seven had been given pseudonyms in Svensson’s text. Twenty-one of the men identified were johns who on various occasions had exploited one or another of the girls. The practical problem—from the point of view of whether they should publish the book—was that many of the claims were based on information that only Svensson or Johansson possessed. A writer who knew—inevitably—less about the subject would have to verify the information independently.
They estimated that about 80 percent of the existing text could be published without any great problems, but a good deal of legwork was going to have to be done before Millennium could risk publishing the remaining 20 percent. They didn’t doubt the accuracy of the contents, but weren’t sufficiently familiar with the detailed work behind the book’s most explosive findings. If Svensson were still alive they would have been able to publish without question—he and Johansson could have easily dealt with and refuted any objections.
Blomkvist looked out the window. Night had fallen and it was raining. He asked if Eriksson wanted more coffee. She did not.
“We’ve got the manuscript under control,” she said. “But we aren’t any closer to pinpointing Dag and Mia’s killer.”
“It could be one of