she was probably riding a Harley-Davidson and contained the warning that she was armed and had shot someone at a summer cabin in the vicinity of Stallarholmen.
The police set up roadblocks on routes into Strangnas, Mariefred, and Sodertalje. Every commuter train between Sodertalje and Stockholm was searched that evening. But no-one answering to Salander's description was found.
At around 7:00 p.m. a police patrol found the Harley-Davidson outside the fairground in alvsjo, and that shifted the focus of the search from Sodertalje to Stockholm. The report from alvsjo said that part of a leather jacket with the insignia of Svavelsjo MC had also been found. News of the find made Inspector Bublanski push his glasses up on his head and peer glumly at the darkness outside his office on Kungsholmen.
The day's developments had led to nothing but bafflement. The kidnapping of Salander's girlfriend, the inexplicable involvement of the boxer Paolo Roberto, the arson near Sodertalje, and bodies buried in the woods there. And finally this bizarre business in Stallarholmen.
Bublanski went out to the main office and looked at the map of Stockholm and its environs. He found Stallarholmen, Nykvarn, Svavelsjo, and finally alvsjo, the four places that for apparently different reasons were of current interest. He moved his gaze to Enskede and sighed. He had the unpleasant feeling that the police investigation was many miles behind the unfolding events. Whatever the Enskede murders had been about, it was much more complicated than they had supposed.
Blomkvist was unaware of the drama at Stallarholmen. He left Smådalaro around 3:00 in the afternoon. He stopped at a gas station and had some coffee as he tried to make sense of what he had discovered.
He was surprised that Bjorck had given him so many details, but the man had absolutely refused to give him the last piece of the puzzle: Zalachenko's Swedish identity.
"We had a deal," Blomkvist said.
"And I've fulfilled my part of it. I've told you who Zalachenko is. If you want more than that we'll have to make a new agreement. I'll need guarantees that my name will be taken out of all your research material. And I'll need guarantees that you won't write about me at all in connection with the Zalachenko story."
Blomkvist was willing to go so far as to treat Bjorck as an anonymous source in connection with the background story, but he could not guarantee that Bjorck would not be identified by anyone else - the police, for example.
"I'm not worried about the police," Bjorck said.
They agreed in the end to think about everything for a day or so before resuming their conversation.
As Blomkvist sat drinking his coffee, he felt that there was something right in front of his nose that he wasn't seeing. He was so close that he could sense shapes, but he couldn't bring the picture into focus. Then it came to him that there was another person who might be able to shed some light on the story. He was quite close to the rehabilitation home in Ersta. He checked his watch. He would go to see Holger Palmgren.
After the meeting Bjorck was exhausted. His back hurt worse than ever. He took three painkillers and had to stretch out on the sofa in the living room. Thoughts were churning around in his head. After about an hour he got up and boiled some water and took out a Lipton's tea bag. He sat at the kitchen table and brooded.
Could he trust Blomkvist? He was now at the man's mercy. But he had held back the crucial information: Zala's identity and his role in the whole drama.
How the hell had he landed in this mess? All he did was pay some whores. He was a bachelor. That sixteen-year-old bitch hadn't even pretended that she liked him. He had felt her disgust.
Fucking cunt. If she hadn't been so young. If she'd been at least twenty it wouldn't have looked so bad. Blomkvist detested him too, and made no effort to hide it.
Zalachenko.
A pimp. What irony. He had fucked Zalachenko's whores. But Zalachenko had been smart enough to stay in the background.
Bjurman and Salander.
And Blomkvist.
A way out.
After an hour of worrying he went to his study and found the piece of paper with the telephone number he had retrieved from his office earlier in the week. It wasn't the only thing he'd kept from Blomkvist. He knew exactly where Zalachenko was, though he hadn't spoken to him in more than twelve years. Nor had he any desire to