“I’m only saying that I think that a person’s upbringing does play a role. Gottfried’s
father beat him mercilessly for years. That leaves its mark.”
“Bullshit,” Salander said again. “Gottfried isn’t the only kid who was ever mistreated.
That doesn’t give him the right to murder women. He made that choice himself.
And the same is true of Martin.”
Blomkvist held up his hand.
“Can we not argue?”
“I’m not arguing. I just think that it’s pathetic that creeps always have to have
someone else to blame.”
“They have a personal responsibility. We’ll work it all out later. What matters is that
Martin was seventeen when Gottfried died, and he didn’t have anyone to guide
him. He tried to continue in his father’s footsteps. In February 1966, in Uppsala.”
Blomkvist reached for one of Salander’s cigarettes.
“I won’t speculate about what impulses Gottfried was trying to satisfy or how he
himself interpreted what he was doing. There’s some sort of Biblical gibberish that
a psychiatrist might be able to figure out, something to do with punishment and
purification in a figurative sense. It doesn’t matter what it was. He was a cut and
dried serial killer.
“Gottfried wanted to kill women and clothe his actions in some sort of pseudo-
religious clap-trap. Martin didn’t even pretend to have an excuse. He was organised
and did his killing systematically. He also had money to put into his hobby. And he
was shrewder than his father. Every time Gottfried left a body behind, it led to a
police investigation and the risk that someone might track him down, or at least
link together the various murders.”
“Martin Vanger built his house in the seventies,” Salander said pensively.
“I think Henrik mentioned it was in 1978. Presumably he ordered a safe room put in
for important files or some such purpose. He got a soundproofed, windowless
room with a steel door.”
“He’s had that room for twenty-five years.”