“I think I’ll take this opportunity to leave you two alone,” said Frode. “I have to go
home and discipline the grandkids before they tear the house down.”
He turned to Mikael.
“I live on the right, just across the bridge. You can walk there in five minutes; the
third house towards the water down from the bakery. If you need me, just
telephone.”
Blomkvist reached into his jacket pocket and turned on a tape recorder. He had no
idea what Vanger wanted, but after the past twelve months of havoc with
Wennerström he needed a precise record of all strange occurrences anywhere near
him, and an unlooked-for invitation to Hedestad came into that category.
Vanger patted Frode on the shoulder in farewell and closed the front door before
turning his attention to Blomkvist.
“I’ll get right to the point in that case. This is no game. I ask you to listen to what I
have to say and then make up your mind. You’re a journalist, and I want to give you
a freelance assignment. Anna has served coffee upstairs in my office.”
The office was a rectangle of more than 1,300 square feet. One wall was dominated
by a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf thirty feet long containing a remarkable assortment
of literature: biographies, history, business and industry, and A4 binders. The books
were arranged in no apparent order. It looked like a bookshelf that was used. The
opposite wall was dominated by a desk of dark oak. On the wall behind the desk
was a large collection of pressed flowers in neat meticulous rows.
Through the window in the gable the desk had a view of the bridge and the
church. There was a sofa and coffee table where the housekeeper had set out a
thermos, rolls, and pastries.
Vanger gestured towards the tray, but Blomkvist pretended not to see; instead he
made a tour of the room, first studying the bookshelf and then the wall of framed
flowers. The desk was orderly, only a few papers in one heap. At its edge was a
silver-framed photograph of a dark-haired girl, beautiful but with a mischievous
look; a young woman on her way to becoming dangerous, he thought. It was
apparently a confirmation portrait that had faded over the years it had been there.