Blomkvist nodded.
“It’s an old industrial town with a harbour. Population of only 24,000. But people
like living here. Herr Vanger lives in Hedeby—at the southern edge of the town.”
“Do you live here too?”
“I do now. I was born in Skåne down south, but I started working for Vanger right
after I graduated in 1962. I’m a corporate lawyer, and over the years Herr Vanger
and I became friends. Today I’m officially retired, and Herr Vanger is my only client.
He’s retired too, of course, and doesn’t need my services very often.”
“Only to scrape up journalists with ruined reputations.”
“Don’t sell yourself short. You’re not the first one to lose a match against Hans-Erik
Wennerström.”
Blomkvist turned to Frode, unsure how to read that reply.
“Does this invitation have anything to do with Wennerström?” he said.
“No,” said Frode. “But Herr Vanger is not remotely in Wennerström’s circle of
friends, and he followed the trial with interest. He wants to meet you to discuss a
wholly different matter.”
“Which you don’t want to tell me about.”
“Which it isn’t my place to tell you about. We have arranged it so that you can
spend the night at Herr Vanger’s house. If you would rather not do that, we can
book you a room in the Grand Hotel in town.”
“I might be taking the evening train back to Stockholm.”
The road into Hedeby was still unploughed, and Frode manoeuvred the car down
frozen tyre ruts. The old town centre consisted of houses along the Gulf of Bothnia,
and around them larger, more modern homes. The town began on the mainland
and spilled across a bridge to a hilly island. On the mainland side of the bridge
stood a small, white stone church, and across the street glowed an old-fashioned
neon sign that read SUSANNE’S BRIDGE CAFÉ AND BAKERY. Frode drove about a
hundred yards farther and turned left on to a newly shovelled courtyard in front of
a stone building. The farmhouse was too small to be called a manor, but it was