period of calm among the local hooligans he would take out those folders and
study them.”
“Was that also a case about a missing girl?”
Morell looked surprised. Then he smiled when he realised that Blomkvist was
looking for some sort of connection.
“No, that’s not why I mentioned it. I’m talking about the soul of a policeman. The
Rebecka case was something that happened before Harriet Vanger was even born,
and the statute of limitations has long since run out. Sometime in the forties a
woman was assaulted in Hedestad, raped, and murdered. That’s not altogether
uncommon. Every officer, at some point in his career, has to investigate that kind of
crime, but what I’m talking about are those cases that stay with you and get under
your skin during the investigation. This girl was killed in the most brutal way. The
killer tied her up and stuck her head into the smouldering embers of a fireplace.
One can only guess how long it took for the poor girl to die, or what torment she
must have endured.”
“Christ Almighty.”
“Exactly. It was so sadistic. Poor Torstensson was the first detective on the scene
after she was found. And the murder remained unsolved, even though experts
were called in from Stockholm. He could never let go of that case.”
“I can understand that.”
“My Rebecka case was Harriet. In this instance we don’t even know how she died.
We can’t even prove that a murder was committed. But I have never been able to
let it go.” He paused to think for a moment. “Being a homicide detective can be the
loneliest job in the world. The friends of the victim are upset and in despair, but
sooner or later—after weeks or months—they go back to their everyday lives. For
the closest family it takes longer, but for the most part, to some degree, they too
get over their grieving and despair. Life has to go on; it does go on. But the
unsolved murders keep gnawing away and in the end there’s only one person left
who thinks night and day about the victim: it’s the officer who’s left with the
investigation.”