Hedestad. Gunnar lives here with his wife, whose name is Helena. Their children
have moved out.”
Vanger paused for a moment to shape what he would say next, which was: “Mikael,
the official explanation for your presence here is that you’re going to help me write
my autobiography. That will give you an excuse for poking around in all the dark
corners and asking questions. The real assignment is strictly between you and me
and Dirch Frode.”
“I understand. And I’ll repeat what I said before: I don’t think I’m going to be able to
solve the mystery.”
“All I ask is that you do your best. But we must be careful what we say in front of
anyone else. Gunnar is fifty-six, which means that he was nineteen when Harriet
disappeared. There’s one question that I never got answered—Harriet and Gunnar
were good friends, and I think some sort of childish romance went on between
them. He was pretty interested in her, at any rate. But on the day she disappeared,
he was in Hedestad; he was one of those stranded on the mainland. Because of
their relationship, he came under close scrutiny. It was quite unpleasant for him. He
was with some friends all day, and he didn’t get back here until evening. The police
checked his alibi and it was airtight.”
“I assume that you have a list of everyone who was on the island and what
everybody was doing that day.”
“That’s correct. Shall we go on?”
They stopped at the crossroads on the hill, and Vanger pointed down towards the
old fishing harbour, now used for small boats.
“All the land on Hedeby Island is owned by the Vanger family—or by me, to be
more precise. The one exception is the farmland at Östergården and a few houses
here in the village. The cabins down there at the fishing harbour are privately
owned, but they’re summer cottages and are mostly vacant during the winter.
Except for that house farthest away—you can see smoke coming from the
chimney.”
Blomkvist saw the smoke rising. He was frozen to the bone.
“It’s a miserably draughty hovel that functions as living quarters year-round. That’s
where Eugen Norman lives. He’s in his late seventies and is a painter of sorts. I think