Salander stuffed the envelope with the pictures into her jacket pocket. After that
she carried the binders over to the woodstove and struck a match. When she was
done with the fire, she stirred the ashes. It was pouring down with rain when she
took a short walk and, kneeling as if to tie a shoelace, discreetly dropped Martin
Vanger’s laptop into the water under the bridge.
When Frode marched through the open door at 7:30 that morning, Salander was at
the kitchen table smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee. Frode’s face was ashen,
and he looked as if he had had a cruel awakening.
“Where’s Mikael?” he said.
“He’s still asleep.”
Frode sat down heavily on a kitchen chair. Salander poured coffee and pushed the
cup over to him.
“Martin...I just found out that Martin was killed in a car accident last night.”
“That’s sad,” Salander said, taking a sip of her own coffee.
Frode looked up. At first he stared at her, uncomprehending. Then his eyes opened
wide.
“What...?”
“He crashed. How annoying.”
“What do you know about this?”
“He drove his car right into the front of a truck. He committed suicide. The press,
the stress, a floundering financial empire, dot, dot, dot, too much for him. At least
that’s what I suppose it will say on the placards.”
Frode looked as if he were about to have a cerebral haemorrhage. He stood up
swiftly and walked unsteadily to the bedroom.
“Let him sleep,” Salander snapped.