that everyone understood the need for the greatest secrecy, although this reminder was probably unnecessary. Two years earlier Hallvigs had printed Blomkvist's book about Hans-Erik Wennerstrom under very similar circumstances. They knew that books from this peculiar publisher Millennium always promised something extra.
Blomkvist drove back to Stockholm in no particular hurry. He parked outside Bellmansgatan 1 and went to his apartment to pack a change of clothes and a wash bag. He drove on to Stavsnas wharf in Varmdo, where he parked the Honda and took the ferry out to Sandhamn.
It was the first time since Christmas that he had been to the cabin. He unfastened the window shutters to let in the air and drank a Ramlosa. As always when a job was finished and at the printer, and nothing could be changed, he felt empty.
He spent an hour sweeping and dusting, scouring the shower tray, switching on the fridge, checking the water pipes and changing the bedclothes up in the sleeping loft. He went to the grocery and bought everything he would need for the weekend. Then he started up the coffeemaker and sat outside on the veranda, smoking a cigarette and not thinking about anything in particular.
Just before 5.00 he went down to the steamboat wharf and met Figuerola.
"I thought you said you couldn't take time off," he said, kissing her on the cheek.
"That's what I thought too. But I told Edklinth I've been working every waking minute for the past few weeks and I'm starting to burn out. I said I needed two days off to recharge my batteries."
"In Sandhamn?"
"I didn't tell him where I was going," she said with a smile.
Figuerola ferreted around in Blomkvist's 25-square-metre cabin. She subjected the kitchen area, the bathroom and the loft to a critical inspection before she nodded in approval. She washed and changed into a thin summer dress while Blomkvist cooked lamb chops in red wine sauce and set the table on the veranda. They ate in silence as they watched the parade of sailing boats on their way to or from the marina. They shared the rest of the bottle of wine.
"It's a wonderful cabin. Is this where you bring all your girlfriends?" Figuerola said.
"Just the important ones."
"Has Erika Berger been here?"
"Many times."
"And Salander?"
"She stayed here for a few weeks when I was writing the book about Wennerstrom. And we spent Christmas here two years ago."
"So both Berger and Salander are important in your life?"
"Erika is my best friend. We've been friends for twenty-five years. Lisbeth is a whole different story. She's certainly unique, and she the most antisocial person I've ever known. You could say that she made a big impression on me when we first met. I like her. She's a friend."
"You don't feel sorry for her?"
"No. She has herself to blame for a lot of the crap that's happened to her. But I do feel enormous sympathy and solidarity with her."
"But you aren't in love either with her or with Berger?"
He shrugged. Figuerola watched an Amigo 23 coming in late with its navigation lights glowing as it chugged past a motorboat on the way to the marina.
"If love is liking someone an awful lot, then I suppose I'm in love with several people," Blomkvist said.
"And now with me?"
Blomkvist nodded. Figuerola frowned and looked at him.
"Does it bother you?"
"That you've brought other women here? No. But it does bother me that I don't really know what's happening between us. And I don't think I can have a relationship with a man who screws around whenever he feels like it..."
"I'm not going to apologize for the way I've led my life."
"And I guess that in some way I'm falling for you because you are who you are. It's easy to sleep with you because there's no bullshit and you make me feel safe. But this all started because I gave in to a crazy impulse. It doesn't happen very often, and I hadn't planned it. And now we've got to the stage where I've become just another one of the girls you invite out here."
They sat in silence for a moment.
"You didn't have to come."
"Yes, I did. Oh, Mikael..."
"I know."
"I'm unhappy. I don't want to fall in love with you. It'll hurt far too much when it's over."
"Listen, I've had this cabin for twenty-five years, since my father died and my mother moved back to Norrland. We shared out the property so that my sister got our apartment and I got the cabin. Apart from some