was that fucking whore Salander hiding?
But Wu did not know where Salander was. She did not know what kind of work Salander did. She had never heard of Milton Security. She had never heard of Dag Svensson or Mia Johansson, and consequently she could not provide a single scrap of information of any interest. She had had no idea that Salander was under guardianship, or that in her teens she had been committed, or that she had copious psychiatric assessments on her CV.
On the other hand, she was willing to confirm that she and Salander had gone to Kvarnen and kissed and then gone home to Lundagatan and parted early the next morning. Days later Miriam Wu had taken the train to Paris and missed all the headlines in the Swedish papers. Apart from a quick visit to return her car keys, she had not seen Salander since that evening at Kvarnen.
"Car keys?" Bublanski asked. "Salander doesn't own a car."
Miriam Wu told him that she had a burgundy Honda which was parked outside the apartment building. Bublanski got up and looked at Modig.
"Can you take over the interview?" he said and left the room.
He had to find Holmberg and have him do a forensic examination of a burgundy Honda parked on Lundagatan. And he needed to be alone to think.
Gunnar Bjorck, assistant chief of the immigration division of the Security Police, now on sick leave, sat ashen and ghostlike in the kitchen with its lovely view of Jungfrufjarden. Blomkvist watched him with a patient, neutral gaze. By now he was sure that Bjorck had had nothing to do with the murders. Since Svensson had never managed to confront him, Bjorck had no idea that he was about to be exposed, his name and photograph published in Millennium and in a book.
Bjorck did offer one valuable piece of information. He knew Nils Bjurman. They had met at the police shooting club, where Bjorck had been an active member for twenty-eight years. For a time he had even sat on the board along with Bjurman. They weren't close friends, but they had spent time together and occasionally had dinner.
No, he had not seen Bjurman in several months. The last time he ran into him was the previous summer, when they had been drinking in the same bar. He was sorry that Bjurman had been murdered - and by that psychopath - but he didn't plan to go to the funeral.
Blomkvist worried about the coincidence but gradually ran out of questions. Bjurman must have known hundreds of people in his professional and social life. The fact that he happened to know someone who turned up in Svensson's material was neither improbable nor statistically unusual. Blomkvist was himself casually acquainted with a journalist who also appeared in the book.
It was time to wind things up. Bjorck had gone through all the expected stages. First denial, then - when shown part of the documentation - anger, threats, attempted bribery, and, finally, pleading. Blomkvist had ignored all his outbursts.
"You'll ruin my life if you publish this stuff," said Bjorck.
"Yes."
"And you're going to do it."
"Absolutely"
"Why? Can't you give me a break? I'm not well."
"Interesting that you bring up human kindness as an argument."
"It doesn't cost a thing to be compassionate."
"You're right about that. While you moan about me destroying your life, you've enjoyed destroying the lives of young girls against whom you've committed crimes. We can prove three of them. God knows how many others there are. Where was your compassion then?"
He picked up his papers and stuffed them into his briefcase.
"I'll find my own way out."
As he reached the door, he turned back to Bjorck.
"Have you ever heard of a man named Zala?" he said.
Bjorck stared at him. He was still so agitated that he scarcely heard Blomkvist's question. Then his eyes widened.
Zala!
It's not possible.
Bjurman!
Could it be possible?
Blomkvist noticed the change and came back to the table.
"Why do you ask about Zala?" Bjorck said. He looked to be almost in shock.
"He interests me," Blomkvist said.
Blomkvist could almost see the wheels turning in Bjorck's head. After a while Bjorck grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the windowsill and lit one.
"If I do know something about Zala... what's it worth to you?"
"It depends on what you know."
Feelings and thoughts tumbled through Bjorck's head.
How the hell could Blomkvist know anything about Zalachenko?
"It's a name I haven't heard in a long time," Bjorck finally said.
"So you know who he is?"
"I didn't say that. What are you after?"
"He's one of