Anita Vanger lived in a terrace house in the attractive suburb of St. Albans, about an
hour’s drive north. From the van they saw her arrive home and unlock the door
some time after 7:30 that evening. They waited until she had settled, had her
supper, and was sitting in front of the TV before Blomkvist rang the doorbell.
An almost identical copy of Cecilia Vanger opened the door, her expression politely
questioning.
“Hi, Anita. My name is Mikael Blomkvist. Henrik Vanger asked me to come and see
you. I assume that you’ve heard the news about Martin.”
Her expression changed from surprise to wariness. She knew exactly who Mikael
Blomkvist was. But Henrik’s name meant that she was forced to open the door. She
showed Blomkvist into her living room. He noticed a signed lithograph by Anders
Zorn over the fireplace. It was altogether a charming room.
“Forgive me for bothering you out of the blue, but I happened to be in St. Albans,
and I tried to call you during the day.”
“I understand. Please tell me what this is about?”
“Are you planning to be at the funeral?”
“No, as a matter of fact, I’m not. Martin and I weren’t close, and anyway, I can’t get
away at the moment.”
Anita Vanger had stayed away from Hedestad for thirty years. After her father
moved back to Hedeby Island, she had hardly set foot there.
“I want to know what happened to Harriet Vanger, Anita. It’s time for the truth.”
“Harriet? I don’t know what you mean.”
Blomkvist smiled at her feigned surprise.
“You were Harriet’s closest friend in the family. You were the one she turned to
with her horrible story.”
“I can’t think what you’re talking about,” Anita said.