disappearance. You may think I’m obsessed with it—at least most of my relatives
think so.”
“It was a horrific event.”
“More than that. It ruined my life. That’s something I’ve become more aware of as
time has passed. Do you have a good sense of yourself?”
“I think so, yes.”
“I do too. I can’t forget what happened. But my motives have changed over the
years. At first it was probably grief. I wanted to find her and at least have a chance
to bury her. It was about getting justice for Harriet.”
“In what way has that changed?”
“Now it’s more about finding the bastard who did it. But the funny thing is, the
older I get, the more of an all-absorbing hobby it has become.”
“Hobby?”
“Yes, I would use that word. When the police investigation petered out I kept
going. I’ve tried to proceed systematically and scientifically. I’ve gathered all the
information that could possibly be found—the photographs, the police report, I’ve
written down everything people told me about what they were doing that day. So
in effect I’ve spent almost half my life collecting information about a single day.”
“You realise, I suppose, that after thirty-six years the killer himself might be dead
and buried?”
“I don’t believe that.”
Blomkvist raised his eyebrows at the conviction in his voice.
“Let’s finish dinner and go back upstairs. There’s one more detail before my story is
done. And it’s the most perplexing of all.”
Salander parked the Corolla with the automatic transmission by the commuter
railway station in Sundbyberg. She had borrowed the Toyota from Milton Security’s