Vanger was still frail after his illness, but he was at home. He was being looked after
by a private nurse, who refused to allow him to take long walks, or walk up stairs, or
discuss anything that might upset him. During the holidays he had also come
down with a slight cold and was ordered to bed.
“Besides which, she’s expensive,” Vanger complained.
Blomkvist knew that the old man could afford any such expense—considering how
many kronor he had written off his taxes all his life. Vanger gave him a sullen look
until he started laughing.
“What the hell, you were worth every krona. I knew you would be.”
“To tell you the truth, I never thought I’d solve it.”
“I have no intention of thanking you,” Vanger said.
“I didn’t expect you would. I’m just here to tell you that I consider the job done.”
Vanger curled his lips. “You haven’t finished the job,” he said.
“I know that.”
“You haven’t written the Vanger family chronicle, which was agreed.”
“I know that. I’m not going to write it. In fact, I can’t write it. I can’t write about the
Vanger family and leave out the most central event of the past decades. How could
I write a chapter about Martin’s period as CEO and pretend that I don’t know what’s
in his basement? I also can’t write the story without destroying Harriet’s life all over
again.”
“I understand your dilemma, and I’m grateful for the decision that you’ve made.”
“Congratulations. You’ve managed to corrupt me. I’m going to destroy all my notes
and the tape recordings I’ve made of our conversations.”
“I don’t think that you’ve been corrupted,” Vanger said.
“That’s what it feels like. And I think that’s what it is.”