Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The - Stieg Larsson [187]
Her expression changed from surprise to wariness. She knew exactly who Mikael Blomkvist was. But Henrik’s name meant that she was forced to open the door. She showed Blomkvist into her living room. He noticed a signed lithograph by Anders Zorn over the fireplace. It was altogether a charming room.
“Forgive me for bothering you out of the blue, but I happened to be in St. Albans, and I tried to call you during the day.”
“I understand. Please tell me what this is about?”
“Are you planning to be at the funeral?”
“No, as a matter of fact, I’m not. Martin and I weren’t close, and anyway, I can’t get away at the moment.”
Anita Vanger had stayed away from Hedestad for thirty years. After her father moved back to Hedeby Island, she had hardly set foot there.
“I want to know what happened to Harriet Vanger, Anita. It’s time for the truth.”
“Harriet? I don’t know what you mean.”
Blomkvist smiled at her feigned surprise.
“You were Harriet’s closest friend in the family. You were the one she turned to with her horrible story.”
“I can’t think what you’re talking about,” Anita said.
“Anita, you were in Harriet’s room that day. I have photographic proof of it, in spite of what you said to Inspector Morell. In a few days I’m going to report to Henrik, and he’ll take it from there. It would be better to tell me what happened.”
Anita Vanger stood up.
“Get out of my house this minute.”
Blomkvist got up.
“Sooner or later you’re going to have to talk to me.”
“I have nothing now, nor ever will have, anything to say to you.”
“Martin is dead,” Blomkvist said. “You never liked Martin. I think that you moved to London not only to avoid seeing your father but also so that you wouldn’t have to see Martin. That means that you also knew about Martin, and the only one who could have told you was Harriet. The question is: what did you do with that knowledge?”
Anita Vanger slammed her front door in his face.
Salander smiled with satisfaction as she unfastened the microphone from under his shirt.
“She picked up the telephone about twenty seconds after she nearly took the door off its hinges,” she said.
“The country code is Australia,” Trinity said, putting down the earphones on the little desk in the van. “I need to check the area code.” He switched on his laptop. “OK, she called the following number, which is a telephone in a town called Tennant Creek, north of Alice Springs in the Northern Territory. Do you want to hear the conversation?”
Blomkvist nodded. “What time is it in Australia right now?”
“About 5:00 in the morning.” Trinity started the digital player and attached a speaker. Mikael counted eight rings before someone picked up the telephone. The conversation took place in English.
“Hi. It’s me.”
“Hmm, I know I’m a morning person but…”
“I thought of calling you yesterday…Martin is dead. He seems to have driven his car into a truck the day before yesterday.”
Silence. Then what sounded like someone clearing their throat, but it might have been: “Good.”
“But we have got a problem. A disgusting journalist that Henrik dug up from somewhere has just knocked on my door, here in St. Albans. He’s asking questions about what happened in 1966. He knows something.”
Again silence. Then a commanding voice.
“Anita. Put down the telephone right now. We can’t have any contact for a while.”
“But…”
“Write a letter. Tell me what’s going on.” Then the conversation was over.
“Sharp chick,” Salander said.
They returned to their hotel just before 11:00. The front desk manager helped them to reserve seats on the next available flight to Australia. Soon they had reservations on a plane leaving at 7:05 the following evening, destination Melbourne, changing in Singapore.
This was Salander’s first visit to London. They spent the morning walking from Covent Garden through Soho. They stopped to have a caffe latte on Old Compton Street. Around 3:00 they were back at the hotel to collect their luggage. While Blomkvist paid the