“You heard me. For all these years Henrik has tried to work out who opened the
window in Harriet’s room during those critical minutes. Everybody has denied
doing it. Someone is lying.”
“And what in hell makes you think it was me?”
“This picture,” Blomkvist said, and flung the blurry photograph onto her kitchen
table.
Cecilia walked over to the table and studied the picture. Blomkvist thought he
could read shock on her face. She looked up at him. He felt a trickle of blood run
down his cheek and drop onto his shirt.
“There were sixty people on the island that day,” he said. “And twenty-eight of
them were women. Five or six of them had shoulder-length blonde hair. Only one
of those was wearing a light-coloured dress.”
She stared intently at the photograph.
“And you think that’s supposed to be me?”
“If it isn’t you, I’d like you to tell me who you think it is. Nobody knew about this
picture before. I’ve had it for weeks and tried to talk to you about it. I may be an
idiot, but I haven’t showed it to Henrik or anyone else because I’m deathly afraid of
casting suspicion on you or doing you wrong. But I do have to have an answer.”
“You’ll get your answer.” She held out the photograph to him. “I didn’t go into
Harriet’s room that day. It’s not me in the picture. I didn’t have the slightest thing to
do with her disappearance.”
She went to the front door.
“You have your answer. Now please go. But I think you should have a doctor look at
that wound.”