One afternoon during Blomkvist’s second week in Hedeby there was a knock on the
door. He put aside the binder from the police report that he had just opened—the
sixth in the series—and closed the door to his office before he opened the front
door to a blonde woman well wrapped up against the cold.
“Hi. I just thought I’d come and say hello. I’m Cecilia Vanger.”
They shook hands and he got out the coffee cups. Cecilia, daughter of Harald
Vanger, appeared to be an open and engaging woman. Blomkvist remembered
that Vanger had spoken of her appreciatively; he had also said that she was not on
speaking terms with her father, her next-door neighbour. They chatted for a while
before she brought up the reason for her visit.
“I understand that you’re writing a book about the family,” she said. “I’m not sure
that I care for the idea. I wanted to see what sort of person you are.”
“Well, Henrik Vanger hired me. It’s his story, so to speak.”
“And our good Henrik isn’t exactly neutral in his attitude towards the family.”
Blomkvist studied her, unsure what she was getting at. “You’re opposed to having a
book written about the Vanger family?”
“I didn’t say that. And it doesn’t really matter what I think. But by now you must
have realised that it hasn’t always been plain sailing to be part of this family.”
Blomkvist had no idea what Vanger had said or how much Cecilia knew about his
assignment. He threw out his hands.
“I’m contracted by your uncle to write a family chronicle. He has some very
colourful views about members of the family, but I’ll be sticking strictly to what can
be documented.”
Cecilia Vanger smiled but without warmth. “What I want to know is: will I have to
go into exile or emigrate when the book comes out?”
“I don’t expect so,” Blomkvist said. “People will be able to tell the sheep from the
goats.”