“There are ways,” Salander said.
There was a great deal of blood on the floor, not all of it dry, as well as a bolt cutter,
which they reckoned had been used to cut off the cat’s head.
Blomkvist looked around. A raised sarcophagus belonged to Alexandre
Vangeersad, and four graves in the floor housed the remains of the earliest family
members. More recently the Vangers had apparently settled for cremation. About
thirty niches on the wall had the names of the clan ancestors. Blomkvist traced the
family chronicle forward in time, wondering where they buried family members
who were not given space inside the crypt—those not deemed important enough.
“Now we know,” Blomkvist said as they were re-crossing the bridge. “We’re hunting
for the complete lunatic.”
“What do you mean?”
Blomkvist paused in the middle of the bridge and leaned on the rail.
“If this was some run-of-the-mill crackpot who was trying to frighten us, he would
have taken the cat down to the garage or even out into the woods. But he went to
the crypt. There’s something compulsive about that. Just think of the risk. It’s
summer and people are out and about at night, going for walks. The road through
the cemetery is a main road between the north and south of Hedeby. Even if he
shut the door behind him, the cat must have raised Cain, and there must have been
a burning smell.”
“He?”
“I don’t think that Cecilia Vanger would be creeping around here in the night with a
blowtorch.”
Salander shrugged.
“I don’t trust any last one of them, including Frode or your friend Henrik. They’re all
part of a family that would swindle you if they had the chance. So what do we do
now?”