“Rebeck a Jacobsson,” Henrik said without a second’ she sitation. “That’s a name I’ll
never forget, although I haven’t heard it mentioned in years.”
“But you know about the murder?”
“Indeed I do. Rebecka Jacobsson was twenty-three or twenty-four when she died.
That must have been in...It was in 1949. There was a tremendous hue and cry, I had
a small part in it myself.”
“You did?”
“Oh yes. Rebecka was on our clerical staff, a popular girl and very attractive. But
why are you asking?”
“I’m not sure, Henrik, but I may be on to something. I’m going to have to think this
through.”
“Are you suggesting that there’s a connection between Harriet and Rebecka? There
were...almost seventeen years separating the two.”
“Let me do my thinking and I’ll come back and see you tomorrow if you’re feeling
better.”
Blomkvist did not see Vanger the following day. Just before 1:00 a.m. he was still at
the kitchen table, reading Harriet’s Bible, when he heard the sound of a car making
its way at high speed across the bridge. He looked out the window and saw the
flashing blue lights of an ambulance.
Filled with foreboding, he ran outside. The ambulance parked by Vanger’s house.
On the ground floor all the lights were on. He dashed up the porch steps in two
bounds and found a shaken Anna in the hall.
“It’s his heart,” she said. “He woke me a little while ago, complaining of pains in his
chest. Then he collapsed.”
Blomkvist put his arms around the housekeeper, and he was still there when the
medics came out with an unconscious Vanger on a stretcher. Martin Vanger,
looking decidedly stressed, walked behind. He had been in bed when Anna called.