In the last building on the east side of the road lived Gerda Vanger, widow of
Henrik’s brother Greger, and her son, Alexander.
“Gerda is sickly. She suffers from rheumatism. Alexander owns a small share of the
Vanger Corporation, but he runs a number of his own businesses, including
restaurants. He usually spends a few months each year in Barbados, where he has
invested a considerable sum in the tourist trade.”
Between Gerda’s and Henrik’s houses was a plot of land with two smaller, empty
buildings. They were used as guest houses for family members. On the other side of
Henrik’s house stood a private dwelling where another retired employee lived with
his wife, but it was empty in the winter when the couple repaired to Spain.
They returned to the crossroads, and with that the tour was over. Dusk was
beginning to fall. Blomkvist took the initiative.
“Henrik, I’ll do what I’ve been hired to do. I’ll write your autobiography, and I’ll
humour you by reading all the material about Harriet as carefully and critically as I
can. I just want you to realise that I’m not a private detective.”
“I expect nothing.”
“Fine.”
“I’m a night owl,” Vanger said. “So I’m at your disposal any time after lunch. I’ll
arrange for you to have an office up here, and you can make use of it whenever you
like.”
“No, thank you. I have an office in the guest house, and that’s where I’ll do my
work.”
“As you wish.”
“If I need to talk to you, we’ll do it in your office, but I’m not going to start throwing
questions at you tonight.”
“I understand.” The old man seemed improbably timid.
“It’s going to take a couple of weeks to read through the papers. We’ll work on two
fronts. We’ll meet for a few hours each day so that I can interview you and gather