“Don’t get me wrong. He’s one of the warmest and most thoughtful people I know.
I’m very fond of him. But on this particular topic, he’s obsessive.”
“But Harriet really did disappear.”
“I’m just so damn sick of the whole story. It’s poisoned our lives for decades, and it
doesn’t stop doing so.” She got up abruptly and put on her fur coat. “I have to go.
You seem like a pleasant sort. Martin thinks so too, but his judgement isn’t always
reliable. You’re welcome to come for coffee at my house whenever you like. I’m
almost always home in the evening.”
“Thank you,” Blomkvist said. “You didn’t answer the question that wasn’t an
interview question.”
She paused at the door and replied without looking at him.
“I have no idea. I think it was an accident that has such a simple explanation that it
will astonish us if we ever find out.”
She turned to smile at him—for the first time with warmth. Then she was gone.
If it had been an agreeable first meeting with Cecilia Vanger, the same could not be
said of his first encounter with Isabella. Harriet’s mother was exactly as Henrik
Vanger had warned: she proved to be an elegant woman who reminded him
vaguely of Lauren Bacall. She was thin, dressed in a black Persian lamb coat with
matching cap, and she was leaning on a black cane when Blomkvist ran into her
one morning on his way to Susanne’s. She looked like an ageing vampire—still
strikingly beautiful but as venomous as a snake. Isabella Vanger was apparently on
her way home after taking a walk. She called to him from the crossroad.
“Hello there, young man. Come here.”
The commanding tone was hard to mistake. Blomkvist looked around and
concluded that he was the one summoned. He did as instructed.
“I am Isabella Vanger,” the woman said.
“Hello. My name is Mikael Blomkvist.” He stuck out his hand, which she ignored.