Girl Who Played with Fire, The - Stieg Larsson [204]
“Hey, what the hell are you doing? Are you crazy?”
“Bublanski!” Ekström shouted, startled.
Hedström looked nervous. Bohman’s mouth dropped open.
“Is this yours?” Bublanski asked, holding out the Sony Ericsson mobile.
“Let me go!”
“IS THIS YOUR MOBILE?”
“Yeah, damn it. Let me go.”
“Not yet. You’re under arrest.”
“I’m what?”
“You’re under arrest for breach of secrecy and for interfering with a police investigation. Or else give us a reasonable explanation for why, according to your list of calls, you called a journalist who answers to the name of Tony Scala at 9:57 this morning, right after the meeting and just before Scala went public with the very information we had decided to keep secret.”
After getting instructions to go to Stallarholmen and set a fire, Lundin had wandered over to the clubhouse in the abandoned printing factory on the outskirts of Svavelsjö and taken Nieminen with him. It was perfect weather to roll out the hogs for the first time since winter. He had been given detailed directions and had studied a map. They put on their leathers and covered the distance from Svavelsjö to Stallarholmen in no time.
Lundin did not believe his eyes when he saw Lisbeth Salander in the driveway in front of Bjurman’s summer cabin. It was a bonus that would blow the giant’s fucking mind. He was sure it was her, although she looked different. Was that a wig? She was just standing there, waiting for them.
They rode up and parked six feet away on each side of her. When they switched off their motors it was utterly silent in the woods. Lundin didn’t quite know what to say. At last he managed to speak.
“Well, how about that? We’ve been looking for you for a while, Salander. Sonny, meet Fröken Salander.”
He smiled. Salander regarded Lundin with expressionless eyes. She noticed that he still had a bright red, newly healed welt on his cheek and jaw where she had cut him with her keys. She raised her eyes and looked at the treetops behind him. Then she lowered them again. Her eyes were disconcertingly coal black.
“I’ve had a fucking miserable week and I’m in a fucking bad mood,” she said. “You know what the worst thing is? Every time I turn around there’s some fucking pile of shit with a beer belly in my way acting tough. Now I’d like to leave. So move your ass.”
Lundin’s mouth was hanging open. He thought he had heard wrong. Then he started laughing involuntarily. The situation was ridiculous. There stood a skinny girl who could fit into his breast pocket getting cheeky with two fully grown men with leather vests that showed they belonged to Svavelsjö MC, which meant they were the most dangerous of bikers and would soon be members of Hell’s Angels. They could tear her apart and stuff her in their saddlebags.
Even if the girl was as nutty as a fruitcake—which she obviously was, according to the newspapers and what he had just seen of her here—their emblem still ought to command respect. And she didn’t show the smallest sign of that. This sort of behaviour could not be tolerated, no matter how ridiculous the situation. He glanced at Nieminen.
“I think the dyke needs some cock, Sonny,” he said, climbing off the Harley and setting his kickstand. He took two slow steps towards Salander and looked down at her. She did not shift an inch. Lundin shook his head and sighed. Then he lashed out a backhand with the same considerable power with which he had struck Blomkvist on Lundagatan.
He met nothing but thin air. At the instant his hand should have hit her face, she took one step back and stood there just out of his reach.
Nieminen was leaning on the handlebars of his Harley and watching his fellow club member with amusement. Lundin was red in the face and took another couple of swings at her. She backed