Girl Who Played with Fire, The - Stieg Larsson [151]
Bublanski nodded. “Dragan Armansky doesn’t believe it either. He’s too cautious to say it straight out, but he’s also looking for proof that she’s innocent.”
“And you? What do you think?”
“I’m a detective. I arrest people and question them. Right now things look dismal for Fröken Salander. We’ve put away murderers on considerably weaker circumstantial evidence.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I don’t know. If she did turn out to be innocent… Who do you think would have a motive for killing both her guardian and your two friends?”
Blomkvist took out a pack of cigarettes and offered it to Bublanski, who shook his head. He did not want to lie to the police. He ought to say something about the man known as Zala. He should also tell Bublanski about Superintendent Gunnar Björck of the Security Police.
But Bublanski and his colleagues had access to Svensson’s material, which contained the same folder. All they had to do was read it. Instead they were charging along like a steamroller and feeding salacious details about Salander to the press.
He had an idea, but didn’t know where it would lead. He didn’t want to name Björck before he was sure. Zalachenko. That was the link between Bjurman and Dag and Mia. The problem was that Björck so far hadn’t told him anything.
“Let me dig a little deeper, then I’ll give you an alternative theory.”
“No police traces, I hope.”
“Not yet. What did Miriam Wu say?”
“Just about the same as you. They had a relationship.”
“None of my business,” Blomkvist said.
“She and Salander have known each other for three years. She says she knows nothing about Salander’s background and didn’t even know where she worked. It’s hard to believe, but I think she’s telling the truth.”
“Lisbeth is obsessively private,” Blomkvist said. “Do you have Miriam Wu’s phone number?”
“Yes.”
“Can I have it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Mikael, this is police business. We don’t need private investigators with wild theories.”
“I don’t have any theories yet. On the other hand, I think the answer lies somewhere in Svensson’s material.”
“You could get in touch with Wu if you made an effort.”
“Probably, but the simplest way is to ask somebody who already has the number.”
Bublanski sighed.
Blomkvist was suddenly very annoyed with him. “Are policemen more talented than normal people, the ones you call private investigators?”
“No, I don’t think that. But the police have the training and it’s their job to solve crimes.”
“Ordinary people have training too,” Blomkvist said slowly. “And sometimes a private investigator is better at working things out than a real detective.”
“So you believe.”
“I know it. Take the Rahman case.∗ A bunch of policemen sat on their backsides with their eyes closed for five years while Rahman was locked up, innocent of the murder of an old lady. He would still be locked up today if a schoolteacher hadn’t devoted several years to a serious investigation. She did it without the resources you have at your disposal. Not only did she prove that he was innocent, but she also identified the person who in all probability was the real killer.”
“We did lose face in the Rahman case. The prosecutor refused to listen to the facts.”
“Bublanski… I’m going to tell you something. At this very moment you’re losing face in the Salander case as well. I’m damn sure that she did not kill Dag and Mia, and I’m going to prove it. I’m going to produce another killer for you, and when that happens I am also going to write an article that you and your colleagues are going to find painful reading.”
On his way home to Katarina Bangata, Bublanski felt an urge to talk with God about the case, but instead of going to the synagogue he went to the Catholic church on Folkungagatan. He sat in one of the pews at the back and did not move for over an hour. As a Jew he had no business being in a church, but it was a peaceful place that he regularly visited when he felt the need to sort out his thoughts, and he knew that God did not mind. There was a difference, besides,