Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The - Stieg Larsson [163]
“It’s bleeding like hell, but it’s not dangerous,” Blomkvist said before she could ask.
She turned and got the first-aid kit from the cupboard; it contained two packets of elastic bandages, a mosquito stick, and a little roll of surgical tape. He pulled off his clothes and dropped them on the floor; then he went to the bathroom.
The wound on his temple was a gash so deep that he could lift up a big flap of flesh. It was still bleeding and it needed stitches, but he thought it would probably heal if he taped it closed. He ran a towel under the cold tap and wiped his face.
He held the towel against his temple while he stood under the shower and closed his eyes. Then he slammed his fist against the tile so hard that he scraped his knuckles. Fuck you, whoever you are, he thought. I’m going to find you, and I will get you.
When Salander touched his arm he jumped as if he had had an electric shock and stared at her with such anger in his eyes that she took a step back. She handed him the soap and went back to the kitchen without a word.
He put on three strips of surgical tape. He went into the bedroom, pulled on a clean pair of jeans and a new T-shirt, taking the folder of printed-out photographs with him. He was so furious he was almost shaking.
“Stay here, Lisbeth,” he shouted.
He walked over to Cecilia Vanger’s house and rang the doorbell. It was half a minute before she opened the door.
“I don’t want to see you,” she said. Then she saw his face, where blood was already seeping through the tape.
“Let me in. We have to talk.”
She hesitated. “We have nothing to talk about.”
“We do now, and you can discuss it here on the steps or in the kitchen.”
Blomkvist’s tone was so determined that Cecilia stepped back and let him in. He sat at her kitchen table.
“What have you done?” she said.
“You claim that my digging for the truth about Harriet Vanger is some futile form of occupational therapy for Henrik. That’s possible, but an hour ago someone bloody nearly shot my head off, and last night someone—maybe the same humourist—left a horribly dead cat on my porch.”
Cecilia opened her mouth, but Blomkvist cut her off.
“Cecilia, I don’t give a shit about your hang-ups or what you worry about or the fact that you suddenly hate the sight of me. I’ll never come near you again, and you don’t have to worry that I’m going to bother you or run after you. Right this minute I wish I’d never heard of you or anyone else in the Vanger family. But I require answers to my questions. The sooner you answer them, the sooner you’ll be rid of me.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Number one: where were you an hour ago?”
Cecilia’s face clouded over.
“An hour ago I was in Hedestad.”
“Can anyone confirm where you were?”
“Not that I can think of, and I don’t have to account to you.”
“Number two: why did you open the window in Harriet’s room the day she disappeared?”
“What?”
“You heard me. For all these years Henrik has tried to work out who opened the window in Harriet’s room during those critical minutes. Everybody has denied doing it. Someone is lying.”
“And what in hell makes you think it was me?”
“This picture,” Blomkvist said, and flung the blurry photograph onto her kitchen table.
Cecilia walked over to the table and studied the picture. Blomkvist thought he could read shock on her face. She looked up at him. He felt a trickle of blood run down his cheek and drop onto his shirt.
“There were sixty people on the island that day,” he said. “And twenty-eight of them were women. Five or six of them had shoulder-length blonde hair. Only one of those was wearing a light-coloured dress.”
She stared intently at the photograph.
“And you think that’s supposed to be me?”
“If it isn’t you, I’d like you to tell me who you think it is. Nobody knew about this picture before. I’ve had it for weeks and tried to talk