paralyzed. Only when he took hold of her jacket and started to shout about Johannes Forsell did she manage to tug herself free and escape.
“Can’t you remember a single thing of what he said?” Blomkvist had asked.
She had said it was the usual rubbish. But maybe it was more than that, after all. The words came back to her and now she no longer found them incomprehensible, or thought they were the sort of thing people always said about Forsell. Now they suggested something entirely different.
----
—
Mikael was nearing home, exhausted and sweaty. He looked around him, but there was no-one, and again he thought: I’m just imagining things, this is absurd. In recent days he had begun to suspect that he was being followed, and felt he was bumping into a man with a ponytail and beard and tattoos on his arms rather too often. The man was dressed as a holidaymaker, but there was something altogether too watchful about him. He did not look like a person off duty.
Not that he really believed the man had anything to do with him, and most of the time he devoted himself to Catrin and managed to forget the world out there. But every so often, as now, he felt a stab of anxiety, and then he almost always thought of Salander. He imagined the most terrible scenes…
Still catching his breath, he looked up. There were no clouds in the sky. They’d said that the heat wave was to continue, but that it would turn windy overnight and there might be a storm. He stopped outside his gate, and his garden with the two currant bushes which he ought to have pruned. Breathing heavily, he looked out at the water and the swimmers as he bent forward, his hands on his knees.
Then he went indoors, expecting an enthusiastic reception. Catrin had spoiled him by greeting him like a returning soldier if he popped out even for ten minutes. But now she just sat there stiffly on the bed, looking grim, and he was worried. His thoughts immediately went back to the man with the ponytail.
“Has anything happened?”
“What…no,” she said.
“And no-one’s come to visit?”
“Were you expecting someone?” she said, and that reassured him a little. He stroked her hair and asked her how she was feeling.
Catrin said she was fine, but he did not believe her. It was not the first time he had noticed this gloomy streak in her. But it had always vanished as quickly as it appeared, and when she told him that the medical examiner had called, he decided to leave her be and went to ring Nyman to hear about the hair test.
“So what conclusions do you draw?” he asked her.
“To be honest, I’ve been twisting and turning this every which way. And it still seems suspicious,” she said.
Blomkvist looked at Catrin, who was sitting with her arms across her stomach. He smiled and she gave a forced smile in return, and he looked out of the window. There were whitecaps as far out as he could see. His outboard motor was bobbing up and down on the waves. He would have to pull it up properly later.
“What does Faste say now?”
“He doesn’t know yet, but I’ve put it in my report.”
“You have to let him know.”
“I will. Your friend said that the beggar was talking about Forsell.”
“The man’s a kind of virus,” he said. “Every nutcase has him on the brain.”
“I had no idea.”
“A little like the Palme assassination back then, which seemed to creep into every little psychosis. I’m inundated with absurd conspiracy theories about Forsell.”
“How come?”
He looked at Catrin, who got up and went into the bathroom.
“I don’t think you ever know,” he said. “Certain public figures just seem to wind up people’s imaginations. But in this case it can only have been planted, in revenge for the fact that Forsell identified Russia’s involvement in the stock market crash at a very early stage, and generally took an uncompromising line against the Kremlin. There’s more than a suspicion that he’s been targeted by a
“Can’t you remember a single thing of what he said?” Blomkvist had asked.
She had said it was the usual rubbish. But maybe it was more than that, after all. The words came back to her and now she no longer found them incomprehensible, or thought they were the sort of thing people always said about Forsell. Now they suggested something entirely different.
----
—
Mikael was nearing home, exhausted and sweaty. He looked around him, but there was no-one, and again he thought: I’m just imagining things, this is absurd. In recent days he had begun to suspect that he was being followed, and felt he was bumping into a man with a ponytail and beard and tattoos on his arms rather too often. The man was dressed as a holidaymaker, but there was something altogether too watchful about him. He did not look like a person off duty.
Not that he really believed the man had anything to do with him, and most of the time he devoted himself to Catrin and managed to forget the world out there. But every so often, as now, he felt a stab of anxiety, and then he almost always thought of Salander. He imagined the most terrible scenes…
Still catching his breath, he looked up. There were no clouds in the sky. They’d said that the heat wave was to continue, but that it would turn windy overnight and there might be a storm. He stopped outside his gate, and his garden with the two currant bushes which he ought to have pruned. Breathing heavily, he looked out at the water and the swimmers as he bent forward, his hands on his knees.
Then he went indoors, expecting an enthusiastic reception. Catrin had spoiled him by greeting him like a returning soldier if he popped out even for ten minutes. But now she just sat there stiffly on the bed, looking grim, and he was worried. His thoughts immediately went back to the man with the ponytail.
“Has anything happened?”
“What…no,” she said.
“And no-one’s come to visit?”
“Were you expecting someone?” she said, and that reassured him a little. He stroked her hair and asked her how she was feeling.
Catrin said she was fine, but he did not believe her. It was not the first time he had noticed this gloomy streak in her. But it had always vanished as quickly as it appeared, and when she told him that the medical examiner had called, he decided to leave her be and went to ring Nyman to hear about the hair test.
“So what conclusions do you draw?” he asked her.
“To be honest, I’ve been twisting and turning this every which way. And it still seems suspicious,” she said.
Blomkvist looked at Catrin, who was sitting with her arms across her stomach. He smiled and she gave a forced smile in return, and he looked out of the window. There were whitecaps as far out as he could see. His outboard motor was bobbing up and down on the waves. He would have to pull it up properly later.
“What does Faste say now?”
“He doesn’t know yet, but I’ve put it in my report.”
“You have to let him know.”
“I will. Your friend said that the beggar was talking about Forsell.”
“The man’s a kind of virus,” he said. “Every nutcase has him on the brain.”
“I had no idea.”
“A little like the Palme assassination back then, which seemed to creep into every little psychosis. I’m inundated with absurd conspiracy theories about Forsell.”
“How come?”
He looked at Catrin, who got up and went into the bathroom.
“I don’t think you ever know,” he said. “Certain public figures just seem to wind up people’s imaginations. But in this case it can only have been planted, in revenge for the fact that Forsell identified Russia’s involvement in the stock market crash at a very early stage, and generally took an uncompromising line against the Kremlin. There’s more than a suspicion that he’s been targeted by a
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