“Hi. It’s me.”
“Hmm, I know I’m a morning person but...”
“I thought of calling you yesterday...Martin is dead. He seems to have driven his car
into a truck the day before yesterday.”
Silence. Then what sounded like someone clearing their throat, but it might have
been: “Good.”
“But we have got a problem. A disgusting journalist that Henrik dug up from
somewhere has just knocked on my door, here in St. Albans. He’s asking questions
about what happened in 1966. He knows something.”
Again silence. Then a commanding voice.
“Anita. Put down the telephone right now. We can’t have any contact for a while.”
“But...”
“Write a letter. Tell me what’s going on.” Then the conversation was over.
“Sharp chick,” Salander said.
They returned to their hotel just before 11:00. The front desk manager helped them
to reserve seats on the next available flight to Australia. Soon they had reservations
on a plane leaving at 7:05 the following evening, destination Melbourne, changing
in Singapore.
This was Salander’s first visit to London. They spent the morning walking from
Covent Garden through Soho. They stopped to have a caffe latte on Old Compton
Street. Around 3:00 they were back at the hotel to collect their luggage. While
Blomkvist paid the bill, Salander turned on her mobile. She had a text message.
“Armansky says to call at once.”
She used a telephone in the lobby. Blomkvist, who was standing a short distance
away, noticed Salander turn to him with a frozen expression on her face. He was at
her side at once.