considerably larger than the rest of the houses in the settlement. This was the
master’s domain.
“This is the Vanger farm,” Frode said. “Once it was full of life and hubbub, but today
only Henrik and a housekeeper live there. There are plenty of guest rooms.”
They got out. Frode pointed north.
“Traditionally the person who leads the Vanger concern lives here, but Martin
Vanger wanted something more modern, so he built his house on the point there.”
Blomkvist looked around and wondered what insane impulse he had satisfied by
accepting Frode’s invitation. He decided that if humanly possible he would return
to Stockholm that evening. A stone stairway led to the entry, but before they
reached it the door was opened. He immediately recognised Henrik Vanger from
the photograph posted on the Internet.
In the pictures there he was younger, but he looked surprisingly vigorous for
eighty-two: a wiry body with a rugged, weather-beaten face and thick grey hair
combed straight back. He wore neatly pressed dark trousers, a white shirt, and a
well-worn brown casual jacket. He had a narrow moustache and thin steel-rimmed
glasses.
“I’m Henrik Vanger,” he said. “Thank you for agreeing to visit me.”
“Hello. It was a surprising invitation.”
“Come inside where it’s warm. I’ve arranged a guest room for you. Would you like
to freshen up? We’ll be having dinner a little later. And this is Anna Nygren, who
looks after me.”
Blomkvist shook hands with a short, stout woman in her sixties. She took his coat
and hung it in a hall cupboard. She offered him a pair of slippers because of the
draught.
Mikael thanked her and then turned to Henrik Vanger. “I’m not sure that I shall be
staying for dinner. It depends on what this game is all about.”
Vanger exchanged a glance with Frode. There was an understanding between the
two men that Blomkvist could not interpret.