support in this other business.
And then there had been the visit of Jonas Sandberg, or whatever his name was. Sandberg offered a considerably stronger lifeline. But that lifeline could also be a trap. Zalachenko had to play his cards right, and he would have to take control of the situation. Control was everything.
In the end he had his own resources to fall back on. For the moment he needed medical attention, but in a couple of days, maybe a week, he would have regained his strength. If things came to a head, he might have only himself to rely on. That meant he would have to disappear, from right under the noses of the policemen circling around him. He would need a hideout, a passport, and some cash. Thomasson could provide all that. But first he would have to get strong enough to make his escape.
At 1:00 a.m. the night nurse looked in. He pretended to be asleep. When she closed the door he arduously sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He sat still for a while, testing his sense of balance. Then he cautiously put his left foot down on the floor. Luckily the axe blow had struck his already crippled right leg. He reached for his prosthesis, stored in the cabinet next to his bed, and attached it to his stump. Then he stood up, keeping his weight on his uninjured leg. As he shifted his weight, a sharp pain shot through his right leg.
He gritted his teeth and took a step. He would need crutches, and he was sure that the hospital would offer him some soon. He braced himself against the wall and limped over to the door. It took him several minutes, and he had to stop after each step to deal with the pain.
He rested on one leg as he pushed open the door a crack and peered out into the corridor. He did not see anyone, so he stuck his head out a little farther. He heard faint voices to the left and turned to look. The night nurses were at their station about twenty yards down on the other side of the corridor.
He turned his head to the right and saw the exit at the other end.
Earlier in the day he had enquired about Lisbeth Salander’s condition. He was, after all, her father. The nurses obviously had been instructed not to discuss other patients. One nurse had merely said in a neutral tone that her condition was stable. But she had unconsciously glanced to her left.
In one of the rooms between his own and the exit was Lisbeth Salander.
He carefully closed the door, limped back to the bed, and detached hisprosthesis. He was drenched in sweat when he finally slipped under the covers.
Inspector Holmberg returned to Stockholm at lunchtime on Sunday. He was hungry and exhausted. He took the tunnelbana to City Hall, walked to police headquarters on Bergsgatan, and went up to Inspector Bublanski’s office. Modig and Andersson had already arrived. Bublanski had called the meeting on Sunday because he knew that preliminary investigation leader Richard Ekström was busy elsewhere.
“Thanks for coming in,” said Bublanski. “I think it’s time we had a discussion in peace and quiet to try to make sense of this mess. Jerker, do you have anything new?”
“Nothing I haven’t already told you on the phone. Zalachenko isn’t budging an inch. He’s innocent of everything and won’t talk. Just that—”
“Yes?”
“Sonja, you were right. He’s one of the nastiest people I’ve ever met. It might sound stupid to say that. Policemen aren’t supposed to think in those terms, but there’s something really scary beneath his calculating façade.”
“OK.” Bublanski cleared his throat. “What have we got? Sonja?”
She smiled weakly.
“The investigative reporter won this round. I can’t find Zalachenko in any public registry, but a Karl Axel Bodin seems to have been born in 1942 in Uddevalla. His parents were Marianne and Georg Bodin. They died in an accident in 1946. Karl Axel Bodin was brought up by an uncle living in Norway. So there is no record of him until the seventies, when he moved back to
And then there had been the visit of Jonas Sandberg, or whatever his name was. Sandberg offered a considerably stronger lifeline. But that lifeline could also be a trap. Zalachenko had to play his cards right, and he would have to take control of the situation. Control was everything.
In the end he had his own resources to fall back on. For the moment he needed medical attention, but in a couple of days, maybe a week, he would have regained his strength. If things came to a head, he might have only himself to rely on. That meant he would have to disappear, from right under the noses of the policemen circling around him. He would need a hideout, a passport, and some cash. Thomasson could provide all that. But first he would have to get strong enough to make his escape.
At 1:00 a.m. the night nurse looked in. He pretended to be asleep. When she closed the door he arduously sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He sat still for a while, testing his sense of balance. Then he cautiously put his left foot down on the floor. Luckily the axe blow had struck his already crippled right leg. He reached for his prosthesis, stored in the cabinet next to his bed, and attached it to his stump. Then he stood up, keeping his weight on his uninjured leg. As he shifted his weight, a sharp pain shot through his right leg.
He gritted his teeth and took a step. He would need crutches, and he was sure that the hospital would offer him some soon. He braced himself against the wall and limped over to the door. It took him several minutes, and he had to stop after each step to deal with the pain.
He rested on one leg as he pushed open the door a crack and peered out into the corridor. He did not see anyone, so he stuck his head out a little farther. He heard faint voices to the left and turned to look. The night nurses were at their station about twenty yards down on the other side of the corridor.
He turned his head to the right and saw the exit at the other end.
Earlier in the day he had enquired about Lisbeth Salander’s condition. He was, after all, her father. The nurses obviously had been instructed not to discuss other patients. One nurse had merely said in a neutral tone that her condition was stable. But she had unconsciously glanced to her left.
In one of the rooms between his own and the exit was Lisbeth Salander.
He carefully closed the door, limped back to the bed, and detached hisprosthesis. He was drenched in sweat when he finally slipped under the covers.
Inspector Holmberg returned to Stockholm at lunchtime on Sunday. He was hungry and exhausted. He took the tunnelbana to City Hall, walked to police headquarters on Bergsgatan, and went up to Inspector Bublanski’s office. Modig and Andersson had already arrived. Bublanski had called the meeting on Sunday because he knew that preliminary investigation leader Richard Ekström was busy elsewhere.
“Thanks for coming in,” said Bublanski. “I think it’s time we had a discussion in peace and quiet to try to make sense of this mess. Jerker, do you have anything new?”
“Nothing I haven’t already told you on the phone. Zalachenko isn’t budging an inch. He’s innocent of everything and won’t talk. Just that—”
“Yes?”
“Sonja, you were right. He’s one of the nastiest people I’ve ever met. It might sound stupid to say that. Policemen aren’t supposed to think in those terms, but there’s something really scary beneath his calculating façade.”
“OK.” Bublanski cleared his throat. “What have we got? Sonja?”
She smiled weakly.
“The investigative reporter won this round. I can’t find Zalachenko in any public registry, but a Karl Axel Bodin seems to have been born in 1942 in Uddevalla. His parents were Marianne and Georg Bodin. They died in an accident in 1946. Karl Axel Bodin was brought up by an uncle living in Norway. So there is no record of him until the seventies, when he moved back to
Similar Books
