wells, vegetable cellars, outhouses, and attics in the village.
A certain frustration could be read in the official notes when the search was called off on the third day after the girl’s disappearance. Morell was, of course, not yet aware of it, but at that moment he had actually reached as far in the investigation as he would ever get. He was puzzled and struggled to identify the natural next step or any place where the search ought to be pursued. Harriet Vanger seemed to have dissolved into thin air, and Henrik Vanger’s years of torment had begun.
CHAPTER 9
Monday, January 6–Wednesday, January 8
Blomkvist kept reading until the small hours and did not get up until late on Epiphany Day. A navy blue, late-model Volvo was parked outside Vanger’s house. Even as he reached for the door handle, the door was opened by a man on his way out. They almost collided. The man seemed to be in a hurry.
“Yes? Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Henrik Vanger,” Blomkvist said.
The man’s eyes brightened. He smiled and stuck out his hand. “You must be Mikael Blomkvist, the one who’s going to help Henrik with the family chronicle, right?”
They shook hands. Vanger had apparently begun spreading Blomkvist’s cover story. The man was overweight—the result, no doubt, of too many years of negotiating in offices and conference rooms—but Blomkvist noticed at once the likeness, the similarity between his face and Harriet Vanger’s.
“I’m Martin Vanger,” the man said. “Welcome to Hedestad.”
“Thank you.”
“I saw you on TV a while ago.”
“Everybody seems to have seen me on TV.”
“Wennerström is…not very popular in this house.”
“Henrik mentioned that. I’m waiting to hear the rest of the story.”
“He told me a few days ago that he’d hired you.” Martin Vanger laughed. “He said it was probably because of Wennerström that you took the job up here.”
Blomkvist hesitated before deciding to tell the truth. “That was one important reason. But to be honest, I needed to get away from Stockholm, and Hedestad cropped up at the right moment. At least I think so. I can’t pretend that the court case never happened. And anyway, I’m going to have to go to prison.”
Martin Vanger nodded, suddenly serious. “Can you appeal?”
“It won’t do any good.”
Vanger glanced at his watch.
“I have to be in Stockholm tonight, so I must hurry away. I’ll be back in a few days. Come over and have dinner. I’d really like to hear what actually went on during that trial. Henrik is upstairs. Go right in.”
Vanger was sitting on a sofa in his office where he had the Hedestad Courier, Dagens Industri, Svenska Dagbladet, and both national evening papers on the coffee table.
“I ran into Martin outside.”
“Rushing off to save the empire,” Vanger said. “Coffee?”
“Yes, please.” Blomkvist sat down, wondering why Vanger looked so amused.
“You’re mentioned in the paper.”
Vanger shoved across one of the evening papers, open at a page with the headline “Media Short Circuit.” The article was written by a columnist who had previously worked for Monopoly Financial Magazine, making a name for himself as one who cheerfully ridiculed everyone who felt passionate about any issue or who stuck their neck out. Feminists, antiracists, and environmental activists could all reckon on receiving their share. The writer was not known for espousing a single conviction of his own. Now, several weeks after the trial in the Wennerström affair, he was bringing his fire to bear on Mikael Blomkvist, whom he described as a complete idiot. Erika Berger was portrayed as an incompetent media bimbo:
A rumour is circulating that Millennium is on the verge of collapse in spite of the fact that the editor in chief is a feminist who wears mini-skirts and pouts her lips on TV. For several years the magazine has survived on the image that has been successfully marketed by the editors—young reporters who undertake investigative journalism and expose the scoundrels of the business world. This advertising trick may work with young anarchists who want to hear just such a message, but it doesn’t wash in the district court. As Kalle Blomkvist recently found out.
Blomkvist switched on his mobile and checked to see if he had any calls from Berger. There were no messages. Vanger waited without saying anything. Blomkvist realised that the old man was allowing him to break the silence.
“He’s a moron,” Blomkvist said.
Vanger laughed, but he said: “That may be. But he’s not the one who was sentenced by the court.”
“That’s true. And he never will be. He never says anything original;