CHAPTER 14

Figuerola got up at 5.00 on Wednesday morning and went for an unusually short run before she showered and dressed in black jeans, a white top, and a lightweight grey linen jacket. She made coffee and poured it into a thermos and then made sandwiches. She also strapped on a shoulder holster and took her Sig Sauer from the gun cabinet. Just after 6.00 she drove her white Saab 9-5 to Vittangigatan in Vällingby.

Mårtensson’s apartment was on the top floor of a three-storey building in the suburbs. The day before, she had assembled everything that could be found out about him in the public archives. He was unmarried, but that did not mean that he might not be living with someone. He had no black marks in police records, no great fortune, and did not seem to lead a fast life. He very seldom called in sick.

The one conspicuous thing about him was that he had licences for no fewer than sixteen weapons. Three of them were hunting rifles, the others were handguns of various types. As long as he had a licence, of course, there was no crime, but Figuerola harboured a deep scepticism about anyone who collected weapons on such a scale.

The Volvo with the registration beginning KAB was in the car park about thirty metres from where Figuerola herself parked. She poured black coffee into a paper cup and ate a lettuce and cheese baguette. Then she peeled an orange and sucked each segment to extinction.

At morning rounds, Salander was out of sorts and had a bad headache. She asked for a Tylenol, which she was immediately given.

After an hour the headache had grown worse. She rang for the nurse and asked for another Tylenol. That did not help either. By lunchtime she had such a headache that the nurse called Dr Endrin, who examined her patient briskly and prescribed a powerful painkiller.

Salander held the tablets under her tongue and spat them out as soon as she was alone.

At 2.00 in the afternoon she threw up. This recurred at around 3.00.

At 4.00 Jonasson came up to the ward just as Dr Endrin was about to go home. They conferred briefly.

“She feels sick and she has a strong headache. I gave her Dexofen. I don’t understand what’s going on with her. She’s been doing so well lately. It might be some sort of flu…”

“Does she have a fever?” asked Jonasson.

“No. She had 37.2 an hour ago.”

“I’m going to keep an eye on her overnight.”

“I’ll be going on holiday for three weeks,” Endrin said. “Either you or Svantesson will have to take over her case. But Svantesson hasn’t had much to do with her…”

“I’ll arrange to be her primary care doctor while you’re on holiday.”

“Good. If there’s a crisis and you need help, do call.”

They paid a short visit to Salander’s sickbed. She was lying with the sheet pulled up to the tip of her nose, and she looked miserable. Jonasson put his hand on her forehead and felt that it was damp.

“I think we’ll have to do a quick examination.”

He thanked Dr Endrin, and she left.

At 5.00 Jonasson discovered that Salander had developed a temperature of 37.8, which was noted on her chart. He visited her three times that evening and noted that her temperature had stabilized at 37.8 – too high, certainly, but not so high as to present a real problem. At 8.00 he ordered a cranial X-ray.

When the X-rays came through he studied them intently. He could not see anything remarkable, but he did observe that there was a barely visible darker area immediately adjacent to the bullet hole. He wrote a carefully worded and noncommittal comment on her chart: Radiological examination gives a basis for definitive conclusions but the condition of the patient has deteriorated steadily during the day. It cannot be ruled out that there is a minor bleed that is not visible on the images. The patient should be confined to bedrest and kept under strict observation until further notice.

Berger had received twenty-three emails by the time she arrived at S.M.P. at 6.30 on Wednesday morning.

One of them had the address [email protected]›. The text was short. A single word.

WHORE

She raised her index finger to delete the message. At the last moment she changed her mind. She went back to her inbox and opened the message that had arrived two days before. The sender was [email protected]›. So… two emails with the word “whore” and a phoney sender from the world of mass media. She created a new folder called [MediaFool] and saved both messages. Then she got busy on the morning memo.

Mårtensson left home at 7.40 that morning. He got into his Volvo and drove towards the city but turned off to go across Stora Essingen and Gröndal into Södermalm. He drove down Hornsgatan and across to Bellmansgatan via Brännkyrkagatan. He turned left on to Tavastgatan at the Bishop’s Arms pub and parked at the corner.

Just as Figuerola reached the Bishop’s Arms, a van pulled out and left a parking space on Bellmansgatan at the corner with Tavastgatan. From her ideal location at the top of the hill she had an unobstructed view. She could just see the back window of Mårtensson’s Volvo. Straight ahead of her, on the steep slope down towards Pryssgränd, was Bellmansgatan 1. She was looking at the building from the side, so she could not see the front door itself, but as soon as anyone came out on to the street, she would see them. She had no doubt that this particular address was the reason for Mårtensson’s being there. It was Blomkvist’s front door.

Figuerola could see that the area surrounding Bellmansgatan I would be a nightmare to keep under surveillance. The only spot from which the entrance door to the building could be observed directly was from the promenade and footbridge on upper Bellmansgatan near the Maria lift and the Laurinska building. There was nowhere there to park a car, and the watcher would stand exposed on the footbridge like a swallow perched on an old telephone wire in the country. The crossroads of Bellmansgatan and Tavastgatan, where Figuerola had parked, was basically the only place where she could sit in her car and have a view of the whole. She had been incredibly lucky. Yet it was not a particularly good place because any alert observer would see her in her car. But she did not want to leave the car and start walking around the area. She was too easily noticeable. In her role as undercover officer her looks worked against her.

Blomkvist emerged at 9.10. Figuerola noted the time. She saw him look up at the footbridge on upper Bellmansgatan. He started up the hill straight towards her.

She opened her handbag and unfolded a map of Stockholm which she placed on the passenger seat. Then she opened a notebook and took a pen from her jacket pocket. She pulled out her mobile and pretended to be talking, keeping her head bent so that the hand holding her telephone hid part of her face.

She saw Blomkvist glance down Tavastgatan. He knew he was being watched and he must have seen Mårtensson’s Volvo, but he kept walking without showing any interest in the car. Acts calm and cool. Somebody should have opened the car door and scared the shit out of him.

The next moment he passed Figuerola’s car. She was obviously trying to find an address on the map while she talked on the telephone, but she could sense Blomkvist looking at her as he passed. Suspicious of everything around him. She saw him in the wing mirror on the passenger side as he went on down towards Hornsgatan. She had seen him on T. V. a couple of times, but this was the first time she had seen him in person. He was wearing blue jeans, a T-shirt and a grey jacket. He carried a shoulder bag and he walked with a long, loose stride. A nice-looking man.

Mårtensson appeared at the corner by the Bishop’s Arms and watched Blomkvist go. He had a large sports bag over his shoulder and was just finishing a call on his mobile. Figuerola expected him to follow his quarry, but to her surprise he crossed the street right in front of her car and turned down the hill towards Blomkvist’s building. A second later a man in blue overalls passed her car and caught up with Mårtensson. Hello, where did you spring from?