Mildred Brännlund, remarried and now Mildred Berggren, opened the door when
Blomkvist knocked around 10:00 on Sunday morning. The woman was much older,
of course, and had by now filled out a good deal, but he recognised her at once.
“Hi, my name is Mikael Blomkvist. You must be Mildred Berggren.”
“That’s right.”
“I’m sorry for knocking on your door like this, but I’ve been trying to find you, and
it’s rather complicated to explain.” He smiled at her. “I wonder if I could come in
and take up a small amount of your time.”
Mildred’s husband and a son who was about thirty-five were home, and without
much hesitation she invited Blomkvist to come and sit in their kitchen. He shook
hands with each of them. He had drunk more coffee during the past twenty-four
hours than at any time in his life, but by now he had learned that in Norrland it was
rude to say no. When the coffee cups were on the table, Mildred sat down and
asked with some curiosity how she could help him. It was obvious that he did not
easily understand her Norsjö dialect, so she switched to standard Swedish.
Blomkvist took a deep breath. “This is a long and peculiar story,” he said. “In
September 1966 you were in Hedestad with your then husband, Gunnar
Brännlund.”
She looked surprised. He waited for her to nod before he laid the photograph from
Järnvägsgatan on the table in front of her.
“When was this picture taken? Do you remember the occasion?”
“Oh, my goodness,” Mildred Berggren said. “That was a lifetime ago.”
Her present husband and son came to stand next to her to look at the picture.
“We were on our honeymoon. We had driven down to Stockholm and Sigtuna and
were on our way home and happened to stop somewhere. Was it in Hedestad, you
said?”
“Yes, Hedestad. This photograph was taken at about 1:00 in the afternoon. I’ve
been trying to find you for some time now, and it hasn’t been a simple task.”