It had taken almost that whole month for Berger’s fury to subside. At 9:30 in the
evening, on one of the last days in January, she called him.
“Are you really intending to stay up there?” she began. The call was such a surprise
that Blomkvist could not at first reply. Then he smiled and wrapped the blanket
tighter around him.
“Hi, Ricky. You should try it yourself.”
“Why would I? What is so charming about living in the back of beyond?”
“I just brushed my teeth with ice water. It makes my fillings hurt.”
“You have only yourself to blame. But it’s cold as hell down here in Stockholm too.”
“Let’s hear the worst.”
“We’ve lost two-thirds of our regular advertisers. No-one wants to come right out
and say it, but...”
“I know. Make a list of the ones that jump ship. Someday we’ll do a good story on
them.”
“Micke...I’ve run the numbers, and if we don’t rope in some new advertisers, we’ll
be bust by the autumn. It’s as simple as that.”
“Things will turn around.”
She laughed wearily on the other end of the line.
“That’s not something you can say, nestling up there in Laplander hell.”
“Erika, I’m...”
“I know. A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, and all that crap. You don’t have
to say anything. I’m sorry I was such a bitch and didn’t answer your messages. Can
we start again? Do I dare come up there to see you?”
“Whenever you like.”
“Do I need to bring along a rifle with wolf-shot?”