the way down to the cranium and peeled back the skin round the entry wound. He used clamps to secure the opening. A theatre nurse inserted a suction tube to remove any blood. Then came the awkward part, when he had to use a drill to enlarge the hole in the skull. The procedure was excruciatingly slow.
Finally he had a hole big enough to give access to Salander's brain. With infinite care he inserted a probe into the brain and enlarged the wound channel by a few millimetres. Then he inserted a thinner probe and located the bullet. From the X-ray he could see that the bullet had turned and was lying at an angle of forty-five degrees to the entry channel. He used the probe cautiously to prise at the edge of the bullet, and after a few unsuccessful attempts he managed to lift it very slightly so that he could turn it in the right direction.
Finally he inserted narrow forceps with serrated jaws. He gripped the base of the bullet, got a good hold on it, then pulled the forceps straight out. The bullet emerged with almost no resistance. He held it up to the light for a few seconds and saw that it appeared intact; then he dropped it into a bowl.
"Swab," he said, and his request was instantly met.
He glanced at the E.C.G., which showed that his patient still had regular heart activity.
"Forceps."
He pulled down the powerful magnifying glass hanging overhead and focused on the exposed area.
"Careful," Ellis said.
Over the next forty-five minutes Jonasson picked out no fewer than thirty-two tiny bone chips from round the entry wound. The smallest of these chips could scarcely be seen with the naked eye.
As Blomkvist tried in frustration to manoeuvre his mobile out of the breast pocket of his jacket - it proved to be an impossible task with his hands cuffed behind his back, nor was it clear to him how he was going to be able to use it - several more vehicles containing both uniformed officers and technical personnel arrived at the Gosseberga farm. They were detailed by Paulsson to secure forensic evidence in the woodshed and to do a thorough examination of the farmhouse, from which several weapons had already been confiscated. By now resigned to his futility, Blomkvist had observed their comings and goings from his vantage point in Paulsson's vehicle.
An hour passed before it dawned on Paulsson that Torstensson and Ingemarsson had not yet returned from their mission to retrieve Niedermann. He had Blomkvist brought into the kitchen, where he was required once more to provide precise directions to the spot.
Blomkvist closed his eyes.
He was still in the kitchen with Paulsson when the armed response team sent to relieve Torstensson and Ingemarsson reported back. Ingemarsson had been found dead with a broken neck. Torstensson was still alive, but he had been savagely beaten. The men had been discovered near a MOOSE CROSSING sign by the side of the road. Their service weapons and the marked police car were gone.
Inspector Paulsson had started out with a relatively manageable situation: now he had a murdered policeman and an armed killer on the run.
"Imbecile," Blomkvist said again.
"It won't help to insult the police."
"That certainly seems to be true in your case. But I'm going to report you for dereliction of duty and you won't even know what hit you. Before I'm through with you, you're going to be celebrated as the dumbest policeman in Sweden on every newspaper billboard in the country."
The notion of being the object of public ridicule appeared at last to have an effect on Inspector Paulsson. His face was lined with anxiety.
"What do you propose?"
"I don't propose, I demand that you call Inspector Bublanski in Stockholm. This minute. His number's on my mobile in my breast pocket."
Inspector Modig woke with a start when her mobile rang at the other end of the bedroom. She saw to her dismay that it was just after 4.00 in the morning. Then she looked at her husband, who was snoring peacefully. He would probably sleep through an artillery barrage. She staggered out of bed, unplugged her mobile from the charger, and fumbled for the talk button.
Jan Bublanski, she thought. Who else?
"Everything has gone to hell down in Trollhattan," her senior officer said without bothering to greet her or apologize. "The X2000 to Goteborg leaves at 5.10. Take a taxi."
"What's happened?"
"Blomkvist found Salander, Niedermann and Zalachenko. Got himself arrested for insulting a police