fine). The station also raised cattle, pigs, and chickens. Cochran Farm had
impressive annual exports to the U.S.A., Japan, China, and Europe.
The personal biographies were fascinating.
In 1972 Cochran Farm passed down from Raymond Cochran to Spencer Cochran,
educ. Oxford. Spencer d. in 1994, and farm run by widow. Blomkvist found her in a
blurry, low-resolution photograph downloaded from the Cochran Farm website. It
showed a woman with short blonde hair, her face partially hidden, shearing a
sheep.
According to Joshua’s note, the couple had married in Italy in 1971.
Her name was Anita Cochran.
Blomkvist stopped overnight in a dried-up hole of a town with the hopeful name of
Wannado. At the local pub he ate roast mutton and downed three pints along with
some locals who all called him “mate.”
Last thing before he went to bed he called Berger in New York.
“I’m sorry, Ricky, but I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had time to call.”
“What the hell is going on?” she exploded. “Christer called and told me that Martin
Vanger had been killed in a car accident.”
“It’s a long story.”
“And why don’t you answer your telephone? I’ve been calling like crazy for two
days.”
“It doesn’t work here.”
“Where is here?”
“Right now I’m about one hundred twenty-five miles north of Alice Springs. In
Australia, that is.”