that he was basically a poor working-class boy from Norrland and she was an
upper-class girl with a distinguished, international family tree.
“Could I have a little more coffee?” Berger asked. Vanger poured her a cup at once.
“OK, you’ve done your homework. We’re bleeding.”
“How long?”
“We’ve got six months to turn ourselves around. Eight months, max. We don’t have
enough capital to keep ourselves afloat longer than that.”
The old man’s expression was inscrutable as he stared out of the window. The
church was still standing there.
“Did you know that I was once in the newspaper business?” he said, once more
addressing them both.
Blomkvist and Berger both shook their heads. Vanger laughed again, ruefully.
“We owned six daily newspapers in Norrland. That was back in the fifties and sixties.
It was my father’s idea—he thought it might be politically advantageous to have a
section of the media behind us. We’re actually still one of the owners of
the Hedestad Courier. Birger is the chairman of the board for the group of owners.
Harald’s son,” he added, for Blomkvist’s benefit.
“And also a local politician,” Blomkvist said.
“Martin is on the board too. He keeps Birger in line.”
“Why did you let go of the newspapers you owned?” Blomkvist asked.
“Corporate restructuring in the sixties. Publishing newspapers was in some ways
more a hobby than an interest. When we needed to tighten the budget, it was one
of the first assets that we sold. But I know what it takes to run a publication...May I
ask you a personal question?”
This was directed at Erika.
“I haven’t asked Mikael about this, and if you don’t want to answer, you don’t have
to. I’d like to know how you ended up in this quagmire. Did you have a story or
didn’t you?”