Girl Who Played with Fire, The - Stieg Larsson [146]
Nobody had any.
“OK. We’ll keep it quiet that Miriam Wu has turned up. She might have more to tell us, and I don’t want the media jumping all over her.”
Ekström agreed that they should proceed according to Bublanski’s plan.
“Right,” Hedström said, looking at Modig. “You’re the detective, you tell me what we’re going to do.”
They were in the corridor outside the conference room.
“I think we should have another talk with Mikael Blomkvist,” she said. “But first I have to discuss one or two things with Bublanski. I have tomorrow and Sunday off. That means we won’t get started until Monday morning. Spend the weekend going through the case material.”
They said goodbye to each other. Modig walked into Bublanski’s office as Ekström was leaving.
“Do you have a minute?” she said.
“Sit down.”
“I got so angry with Faste that I lost my temper.”
“He mentioned that you really laid into him.”
“He said that I obviously wanted to be alone with Wu because I was turned on by her.”
“That qualifies as sexual harassment. Would you like to file a complaint?”
“I slapped his face. That was enough.”
“You were extremely provoked.”
“I was.”
“Faste has problems with strong women.”
“I’ve noticed that.”
“You’re a strong woman and a very good cop.”
“Thanks.”
“But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t beat up the staff.”
“It won’t happen again. I didn’t even get a chance to go through Svensson’s desk at Millennium today.”
“Go home and take it easy over the weekend. We’ll get started with the new approach on Monday.”
Hedström stopped off at Central Station and had a coffee at George Café. He felt depressed. All week he had been waiting for the news that Salander had been caught. If she had resisted arrest, with a little luck some right-minded cop might have shot her.
And that was an appealing fantasy.
But Salander was still at liberty. Not only that, but Bublanski was floating the idea that she might not be the murderer. Not a positive development.
Being subordinate to Bohman was bad enough—the man was one of the most boring and least imaginative people at Milton—but now he had been put under Inspector Modig, and she was the most sceptical of the Salander lead. She was probably the one who had put doubts in Bublanski’s mind. He wondered whether the famous Officer Bubble had something going on with that bitch. It wouldn’t surprise him. He seemed thoroughly pussy-whipped by her. Of all the officers in the investigation, only Faste had enough balls to say what he thought.
Hedström was thinking hard. That morning he and Bohman had had a brief meeting at Milton with Armansky and Fräklund. A week of investigating had turned up nothing, and Armansky was frustrated that nobody had found any explanation for the murders. Fräklund had suggested that Milton Security should rethink its involvement—there were other more pressing tasks for Bohman and Hedström than to work as unpaid labour for the police.
Armansky decided that Bohman and Hedström should stay on for one more week. If by then there was no result, the assignment would be called off.
In other words, Hedström had only a week before the door to his involvement in the investigation would slam shut. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do.
After a while he took out his mobile and called Tony Scala, a freelance journalist who made a living writing drivel for men’s magazines. Hedström had met him a few times. He told Scala that he had one or two bits of information about the investigation into the murders in Enskede. He explained how he had ended up right in the middle of the hottest police investigation in years. Scala took the bait at once: it might turn into a scoop for a major magazine. They agreed to meet for a coffee an hour later at the Aveny on Kungsgatan.
Scala was fat. Seriously fat.
“If you want information from me there are two preconditions,” Hedström said.
“Shoot.”
“First, no mention of Milton Security in the article. Our role is as consultants only.”
“Although it is newsworthy given that Salander