The first question had to do with Harriet herself. Who was she?
From his kitchen window Blomkvist had noticed a light go on upstairs in Cecilia
Vanger’s house at a little after 5:00 in the afternoon. He knocked on her door at
7:30, just as the news broadcast was starting on TV. She opened the door dressed in
her bathrobe, her hair wet under a yellow towel. Blomkvist apologised at once for
disturbing her and made to retreat, but she waved him into the living room. She
turned on the coffeemaker and vanished upstairs for a few minutes. When she
came back down, she had put on jeans and a check flannel shirt.
“I was starting to think you were never going to call.”
“I should have rung first, but I saw your light was on and came over on impulse.”
“I’ve seen the lights on all night at your place. And you’re often out walking after
midnight. You’re a night owl?”
Blomkvist shrugged. “It’s turned out that way.” He looked at several textbooks
stacked on the edge of the kitchen table. “Do you still teach?”
“No, as headmistress I don’t have time. But I used to teach history, religion, and
social studies. And I have a few years left.”
“Left?”
She smiled. “I’m fifty-six. I’ll be retiring soon.”
“You don’t look a day over fifty, more like in your forties.”
“Very flattering. How old are you?”
“Well, over forty,” Blomkvist said with a smile.
“And you were just twenty the other day. How fast it all goes. Life, that is.”
Cecilia Vanger served the coffee and asked if he was hungry. He said that he had
already eaten, which was partly true. He did not bother with cooking and ate only
sandwiches. But he was not hungry.
“Then why did you come over? Is it time to ask me those questions?”