Blomkvist looked at Malm intently.

“What was that?”

“Oh, nothing serious. Erika has taken the job of editor-in-chief at Svenska Morgon-Posten. She finished at Millennium yesterday.”

It was several seconds before he could absorb the whole impact of the news. He sat there stunned, but did not doubt the truth of it.

“Why didn’t she tell anyone before?” he said at last.

“Because she wanted to tell you first, and you’ve been running around being unreachable for several weeks now, and because she probably thought you had your hands full with the Salander story. She obviously wanted to tell you first, so she couldn’t tell the rest of us, and time kept slipping by… And then she found herself with an unbearably guilty conscience and was feeling terrible. And not one of us had noticed a thing.”

Blomkvist shut his eyes. “Goddamnit,” he said.

“I know. Now it turns out that you’re the last one in the office to find out. I wanted to have the chance to tell you myself so that you’d understand what happened and not think anyone was doing anything behind your back.”

“No, I don’t think that. But, Jesus… it’s wonderful that she got the job, if she wants to work at S.M.P…. but what the hell are we going to do?”

“Malin’s going to be acting editor-in-chief starting with the next issue.”

“Eriksson?”

“Unless you want to be editor-in-chief…”

“Good God, no.”

“That’s what I thought. So Malin’s going to be editor-in-chief.”

“Have you appointed an assistant editor?”

“Henry. It’s four years he’s been with us. Hardly an apprentice any longer.”

“Do I have a say in this?”

“No,” Malm said.

Blomkvist gave a dry laugh. “Right. We’ll let it stand the way you’ve decided. Malin is tough, but she’s unsure of herself. Henry shoots from the hip a little too often. We’ll have to keep an eye on both of them.”

“Yes, we will.”

Blomkvist sat in silence, cradling his coffee. It would be damned empty without Berger, and he wasn’t sure how things would turn out at the magazine.

“I have to call Erika and-”

“No, better not.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s sleeping at the office. Go and wake her up or something.”

Blomkvist found Berger sound asleep on the sofa-bed in her office. She had been up until all hours emptying her desk and bookshelves of all personal belongings and sorting papers that she wanted to keep. She had filled five packing crates. He looked at her for a while from the doorway before he went in and sat down on the edge of the sofa and woke her.

“Why in heaven’s name don’t you go over to my place and sleep if you have to sleep on the job,” he said.

“Hi, Mikael,” she said.

“Christer told me.”

She started to say something, but he bent down and kissed her on the cheek.

“Are you livid?”

“Insanely,” he said.

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t turn it down. But it feels wrong, to leave all of you in the lurch in such a bad situation.”

“I’m hardly the person to criticize you for abandoning ship. I left you in the lurch in a situation that was much worse than this.”

“The two have nothing to do with each other. You took a break. I’m leaving for good and I didn’t tell anybody. I’m so sorry.”

Blomkvist gave her a wan smile.

“When it’s time, it’s time.” Then he added in English, “A woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do and all that crap.”

Berger smiled. Those were the words she had said to him when he moved to Hedeby. He reached out his hand and mussed her hair affectionately.

“I can understand why you’d want to quit this madhouse… but to be the head of Sweden ’s most turgid old-boy newspaper… that’s going to take some time to sink in.”

“There are quite a few girls working there nowadays.”

“Rubbish. Check the masthead. It’s status quo all the way. You must be a raving masochist. Shall we go and have some coffee?”

Berger sat up. “I have to know what happened in Göteborg.”

“I’m writing the story now,” Blomkvist said. “And there’s going to be war when we publish it. We’ll put it out in at the same time as the trial. I hope you’re not thinking of taking the story with you to S.M.P. The fact is I need you to write something on the Zalachenko story before you leave here.”

“Micke… I…”

“Your very last editorial. Write it whenever you like. It almost certainly won’t be published before the trial, whenever that might be.”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. What do you think it should be about?”

“Morality,” Blomkvist said. “And the story of why one of our colleagues was murdered because the government didn’t do its job fifteen years ago.”

Berger knew exactly what kind of editorial he wanted. She had been at the helm when Svensson was murdered, after all. She suddenly felt in a much better mood.

“O.K.,” she said. “My last editorial.”

By 1.00 on Saturday afternoon, Prosecutor Fransson in Södertälje had finished her deliberations. The burial ground in the woods in Nykvarn was a wretched mess, and the Violent Crimes Division had racked up a vast amount of overtime since Wednesday, when Paolo Roberto had fought his boxing match with Niedermann in the warehouse there. They were dealing with at least three murders with the bodies found buried on the property, along with the kidnapping and assault of Salander’s friend Miriam Wu, and on top of it all, arson.

The incident in Stallarholmen was connected with the discoveries at Nykvarn, and was actually located within the Strängnäs police district in Södermanland county. Carl-Magnus Lundin of the Svavelsjö Motorcycle Club was a key player in the whole thing, but he was in hospital in Södertälje with one foot in a cast and his jaw wired shut. Accordingly, all of these crimes came under county police jurisdiction, which meant that Stockholm would have the last word.

On Friday the court hearing was held. Lundin was formally charged in connection with Nykvarn. It had eventually been established that the warehouse was owned by the Medimport Company, which in turn was owned by one Anneli Karlsson, a 52-year-old cousin of Lundin who lived in Puerto Banús, Spain. She had no criminal record.

Fransson closed the folder that held all the preliminary investigation papers. These were still in the early stages and there would need to be another hundred pages of detailed work before they were ready to go to trial. But right now she had to make decisions on several matters. She looked up at her police colleagues.

“We have enough evidence to charge Lundin with participating in the kidnapping of Miriam Wu. Paolo Roberto has identified him as the man who drove the van. I’m also going to charge him with probable involvement in arson. We’ll hold back on charging him with the murders of the three individuals we dug up on the property, at least until each of them has been identified.”

The officers nodded. That was what they had been expecting.

“What’ll we do about Sonny Nieminen?”

Fransson leafed through to the section on Nieminen in the papers on her desk.

“This is a man with an impressive criminal history. Robbery, possession of illegal weapons, assault, G.B.H., manslaughter and drug crime. He was arrested with Lundin at Stallarholmen. I’m convinced that he’s involved, but we don’t have the evidence to persuade a court.”

“He says he’s never been to the Nykvarn warehouse and that he just happened to be out with Lundin on a motorcycle ride,” said the detective responsible for Stallarholmen on behalf of the Södertälje police. “He claims he had no idea what Lundin was up to in Stallarholmen.”

Fransson wondered whether she could somehow arrange to hand the entire business over to Prosecutor Ekström in Stockholm.