Girl Who Played with Fire, The - Stieg Larsson [91]
Beckman had never uttered a word of criticism against Blomkvist. On the contrary, he seemed to regard his relationship with his wife as beneficial; and his love for her was deepened because he knew he could never take her for granted.
Blomkvist, on the other hand, had never felt entirely at ease in Beckman’s company—a dreary reminder that even liberated relationships had a price. Accordingly, he had been to Saltsjöbaden only on the few occasions when Berger had hosted parties where his absence would have been remarked on.
Now he stood at the door of their substantial villa. Despite his uneasiness about bringing bad news, he resolutely put his finger on the doorbell and held it there for about forty seconds until he heard footsteps. Beckman opened the door with a towel wrapped around his waist and his face full of bleary anger that changed to astonishment when he saw his wife’s lover.
“Hi, Greger,” Blomkvist said.
“Good morning, Blomkvist. What the hell time is it?”
Beckman was blond and thin. He had a lot of hair on his chest and hardly any on his head. He had a week’s growth of beard and a prominent scar over his right eyebrow, the result of a sailing accident some years before.
“Just after 5:00,” Blomkvist said. “Could you wake Erika? I have to talk to her.”
Beckman took it that since Blomkvist had all of a sudden overcome his reluctance to visit Saltsjöbaden—and at that hour—something out of the ordinary must have happened. Besides, the man looked as if he badly needed a drink, or at least a bed so that he could sleep off whatever it was. Beckman held the door open and let him in.
“What happened?”
Before Blomkvist could reply, Berger appeared at the top of the stairs, tying the sash of a white terry-cloth bathrobe. She stopped halfway down when she saw Blomkvist in the hall.
“What?”
“Dag and Mia,” Blomkvist said.
His face instantly revealed the news he had come to give her.
“No.” She put a hand to her mouth.
“They were murdered last night. I just came from the police station.”
“Murdered?” Berger and Beckman said at the same time.
“Somebody got into their apartment in Enskede and shot them. I was the one who found them.”
Berger sat down on the stairs.
“I didn’t want you to have to hear it on the morning news,” Blomkvist said.
It was 6:59 a.m. on Maundy Thursday as Blomkvist and Berger let themselves into the Millennium offices. Berger had woken Malm and Eriksson with the news that Svensson and Johansson had been killed the night before. They lived much closer and had already arrived for the meeting. The coffeemaker was going in the kitchenette.
“What the hell is happening?” Malm wanted to know.
Eriksson shushed him and turned up the volume on the 7:00 a.m. news.
Two people, a man and a woman, were shot dead late last night in an apartment in Enskede. The police say that it was a double homicide. Neither of the deceased was previously known to the police. The motive for the murders is still unknown. Our reporter Hanna Olofsson is at the scene.
“It was just before midnight when the police received a report of shots fired in an apartment building on Björneborgsvägen here in Enskede. No suspect has yet been arrested. The police have cordoned off the apartment and a crime scene investigation is under way.”
“That was pretty succinct,” Eriksson said and turned the volume down. Then she started to cry. Berger put an arm around her shoulders. “Jesus Christ,” Malm said to no-one in particular. “Sit down, everyone,” Berger said in a firm voice. “Mikael…” Blomkvist told them what he knew of what had happened. He spoke in a dull monotone and sounded like the radio reporter when he described how he had found Svensson and Johansson.
“Jesus Christ,” Malm said again. “This is crazy.”
Eriksson was once more overwhelmed by emotion. She began weeping again and made no attempt to hide her tears.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“I feel the same way,” said Malm.
Blomkvist wondered why he could not cry. He felt only a huge emptiness, almost as if he were anesthetized.
“What we know