Girl Who Played with Fire, The - Stieg Larsson [15]
He nodded. “I understand …”
“Don’t speak. I don’t want to hear your voice.”
He clenched his teeth. He had not dared to try to reach her, since she had threatened to send the video to the authorities if he did. Instead he had thought for months what he would say to her when eventually she contacted him. He really had nothing he could say in his defence. All he could do was appeal to her humanity. He would try to convince her—if she would only give him a chance to speak—that he had done it in a fit of insanity, that he was utterly sorry for it and wanted to make amends. He would grovel if that would convince her, if he could only somehow defuse the threat that she posed.
“I have something to say,” he said in a pitiful voice. “I want to ask your forgiveness…”
She listened in silence to his plea. Then she put one foot on the bottom of the bed and stared at him in disgust.
“Now you listen, Bjurman: you’re a pervert. I have no reason to forgive you. But if you keep yourself clean, I’ll let you off the hook the day my declaration of incompetence is rescinded.”
She waited until he lowered his gaze. She’s going to make me crawl.
“There’s no change to what I said a year ago. You fail, and the video goes to the agency. You contact me in any way other than I tell you to, then I make the video public. I die in an accident, the video will be made public. You ever touch me again, I will kill you.”
He believed her.
“One more thing. The day I set you free, you can do as you like. But until that day you will not set foot again in that clinic in Marseilles. If you begin treatment, I will tattoo you again, and this time I’ll do it on your forehead.”
How the fucking hell did she find out about the clinic?
The next moment she was gone. He heard a faint click as she turned the front-door key. It was as if a ghost had paid him a visit.
At that instant he began to loathe Lisbeth Salander with an intensity that blazed like red-hot steel in his brain and transformed his life into an obsession to crush her. He fantasized about killing her. He toyed with fantasies of having her crawl at his feet and beg him for mercy. But he would be merciless. He would put his hands around her throat and strangle her until she gasped for air. He wanted to tear her eyes from their sockets and her heart from her chest. He wanted to erase her from the earth.
Paradoxically, it was at this same moment that he felt as though he had begun to function again, and he discovered in himself a surprising emotional balance. He was obsessed with the woman and she was on his mind every waking minute. But he had begun to think rationally again. If he was going to find a way of destroying her, he would have to get his head in order. His life settled on a new objective.
He stopped fantasizing about her death and began planning for it.
Blomkvist passed less than six feet behind Advokat Bjurman’s back as he navigated with two scalding glasses of caffè latte to editor in chief Erika Berger’s table at Café Hedon. Neither he nor Berger had ever heard of Nils Bjurman, so neither was aware of his being there.
Berger frowned and moved an ashtray aside to make room for her glass. Blomkvist hung his jacket over the back of his chair, slid the ashtray over to his side of the table, and lit a cigarette. Berger detested cigarette smoke and gave him a furious look. He turned his head to blow the smoke away from her.
“I thought you gave up.”
“Temporary backsliding.”
“I’m going to stop having sex with guys who smell of smoke,” she said, smiling sweetly.
“No problem. There are plenty of girls who aren’t so particular,” Blomkvist said, smiling back.
Berger rolled her eyes. “So what’s the problem? I’m meeting Charlie at the theatre in twenty minutes.” Charlie was Charlotta Rosenberg, a childhood friend.
“Our intern bothers me,” Blomkvist said. “I don’t mind her being the daughter of one of your girlfriends, but she’s supposed to be in editorial for another eight weeks and I don’t think I can put up with her that long.”
“I’ve noticed