“So...where does that take us?”
“We know that Gottfried was responsible for the first series of murders, between
1949 and 1965.”
“OK. And he brought on little Martin.”
“Talk about a dysfunctional family,” Blomkvist said. “Martin really didn’t have a
chance.”
Salander gave him a strange look.
“What Martin told me—even though it was rambling—was that his father started
his apprenticeship after he reached puberty. He was there at the murder of Lea in
Uddevalla in 1962. He was fourteen, for God’s sake. He was there at the murder of
Sara in 1964 and that time he took an active part. He was sixteen.”
“And?”
“He said that he had never touched another man—except his father. That made me
think that...well, the only possible conclusion is that his father raped him. Martin
called it ‘his duty.’ The sexual assaults must have gone on for a long time. He was
raised by his father, so to speak.”
“Bullshit,” Salander said, her voice as hard as flint.
Blomkvist stared at her in astonishment. She had a stubborn look in her eyes. There
was not an ounce of sympathy in it.
“Martin had exactly the same opportunity as anyone else to strike back. He killed
and he raped because he liked doing it.”
“I’m not saying otherwise. But Martin was a repressed boy and under the influence
of his father, just as Gottfried was cowed by his father, the Nazi.”
“So you’re assuming that Martin had no will of his own and that people become
whatever they’ve been brought up to be.”
Blomkvist smiled cautiously. “Is this a sensitive issue?”
Salander’s eyes blazed with fury. Blomkvist quickly went on.