Wadensjöö felt a pressure in his chest as he turned on to Linnégatan, where he had found a parking spot earlier that day. He disabled the alarm and was about to open the car door when he heard a movement behind him. He turned around, squinting against the sun. It was a few seconds before he recognized the stately man on the pavement before him.

“Good evening, Herr Wadensjöö,” Edklinth said. “I haven’t been out in the field in ten years, but today I felt that my presence might be appropriate.”

Wadensjöö looked in confusion at the two plain-clothes policemen flanking Edklinth. Bublanski he knew, but not the other man.

Suddenly he guessed what was going to happen.

“It is my unenviable duty to inform you that the Prosecutor General has decided that you are to be arrested for such a long string of crimes that it will surely take weeks to compile a comprehensive catalogue of them.”

“What’s going on here?” Wadensjöö said indignantly.

“What is going on at this moment is that you are being arrested, suspected of being an accessory to murder. You are also suspected of extortion, bribery, illegal telephone tapping, several counts of criminal forgery, criminal embezzlement of funds, participation in breaking and entering, misuse of authority, espionage and a long list of other lesser but that’s not to say insignificant offences. The two of us are going to Kungsholmen to have a very serious talk in peace and quiet.”

“I haven’t committed murder,” Wadensjöö said breathlessly.

“That will have to be established by the investigation.”

“It was Clinton. It was always Clinton,” Wadensjöö said.

Edklinth nodded in satisfaction.

Every police officer knows that there are two classic ways to conduct the interrogation of a suspect. The bad cop and the good cop. The bad cop threatens, swears, slams his fist on the table and generally behaves aggressively with the intent of scaring the suspect into submission and confession. The good cop, often a small, grey-haired, elderly man, offers cigarettes and coffee, nods sympathetically, and speaks in a reasonable tone.

Many policemen – though not all – also know that the good cop’s interrogation technique is by far a superior way of getting results. The tough-as-nails veteran thief will be least impressed by the bad cop. And the uncertain amateur, who might be frightened into a confession by a bad cop, would in all likelihood have confessed everything anyway, regardless of the technique used.

Blomkvist listened to the questioning of Birger Wadensjöö from an adjoining room. His presence had been the topic of a good deal of internal argument before Edklinth decided that he would probably have use for Blomkvist’s observation.

Blomkvist noticed that Edklinth was using a third variant on the police interrogator, the uninterested cop, which in this particular case seemed to be working even better. Edklinth strolled into the interrogation room, served coffee in china cups, turned on the tape recorder and leaned back in his chair.

“This is how it is: we already have every conceivable forensic evidence against you. We have, accordingly, no interest whatsoever in hearing your story save as confirmation of what we already know. But the question we might want an answer to is: why? Or how could you be so idiotic as to decide to begin liquidating individuals in Sweden just as we saw happen in Chile under the Pinochet dictatorship? The tape is rolling. If you have anything to say, now is the time. If you don’t want to talk, I’ll turn off the tape recorder and then we’ll remove your tie and shoelaces and accommodate you in a cell upstairs while we wait for a lawyer, a trial, and in due course, sentencing.”

Edklinth then took a sip of coffee and sat in silence. When nothing was said for two minutes, he reached out and turned off the tape recorder. He stood up.

“I’ll see that you’re taken upstairs in a few minutes. Good evening.”

“I didn’t murder anyone,” Wadensjöö said when Edklinth had already opened the door. Edklinth paused on the threshold.

“I’m not interested in having a general discussion with you. If you want to explain yourself, then I’ll sit down and turn the tape recorder back on. All of Swedish officialdom – and the Prime Minister in particular – is eagerly waiting to hear what you have to say. If you tell me, then I can go and see the Prime Minister tonight to give him your version of events. If you don’t tell me, you will be charged and convicted anyway.”

“Please sit down,” Wadensjöö said.

It was evident to everyone that he was resigned to it already. Blomkvist exhaled. He was there with Figuerola, Prosecutor Gustavsson, the otherwise anonymous Säpo officer Stefan, and two other altogether nameless individuals. Blomkvist suspected that one of them at least was there to represent the Minister of Justice.

“I had nothing to do with the murders,” Wadensjöö said when Edklinth started the tape recorder again.

“Murders?” Blomkvist whispered to Figuerola.

“Ssshh,” she said.

“It was Clinton and Gullberg. I had no idea what they intended. I swear it. I was utterly shocked when I heard that Gullberg had shot Zalachenko. I couldn’t believe it… I simply couldn’t believe it. And when I heard about Björck I thought I was going to have a heart attack.”

“Tell me about Björck’s murder,” Edklinth said without altering his tone. “How was it carried out?”

“ Clinton hired some people. I don’t even know how it happened, but it was two Yugoslavs. Serbs, if I’m not mistaken. Georg Nyström gave them the contract and paid them afterwards. When I found out, I knew it would end in disaster.”

“Should we take this from the beginning?” Edklinth said. “When did you first start working for the Section?”

Once Wadensjöö had begun to talk he could not be stopped. The interview lasted for almost five hours.

CHAPTER 26

Teleborian’s appearance inspired confidence as he sat in the witness box in the courtroom on Friday morning. He was questioned by Prosecutor Ekström for some ninety minutes and he replied with calm authority to every question. The expression on his face was sometimes concerned and sometimes amused.

“To sum up…” Ekström said, leafing through his sheaf of papers. “It is your judgement as a psychiatrist of long standing that Lisbeth Salander suffers from paranoid schizophrenia?”

“I have said that it is unusually difficult to make a precise evaluation of her condition. The patient is, as you know, almost autistic in her relation to doctors and other figures of authority. My assessment is that she suffers from a serious mental disorder, but that at the present time I cannot give an exact diagnosis. Nor can I determine what stage of the psychosis she is in without more extensive study.”

“At any rate, you don’t consider her to be sane.”

“Indeed her entire history presents most compelling proof that she is not sane.”

“You have been allowed to read what Lisbeth Salander has termed her ‘autobiography’, which she has presented to the district court. What are your comments on this?”

Teleborian threw up his hands and shrugged.

“How would you judge the credibility of her account?”

“There is no credibility. It is a series of assertions about various individuals, one story more fantastical than the other. Taken as a whole, her written explanation confirms our suspicions that she suffers from paranoid schizophrenia.”

“Could you give an instance?”

“The most obvious is of course the description of the alleged rape by her guardian Advokat Bjurman.”

“Could you expand on that?”

“The description is extremely detailed. It is a classic example of the sort of grotesque fantasy that children are capable of. There are plenty of parallel examples from familial incest cases in which the child gives an account which falls through due to its utter improbability, and for which there is no forensic evidence. These are erotic fantasies which even children of a very young age can have… Almost as if they were watching a horror film on television.”