Nieminen drove away all thought of Salander. It was an unpleasant subject. In the cell at Södertälje police station he had played the scene over and over in his head: how he and Lundin had arrived at Advokat Bjurman’s summer house and found Salander apparently just leaving.

Events had been rapid and unpredictable. He had ridden over there with Lundin to burn the damned summer cabin down. On the instructions of that goddamned blond monster. And then they had stumbled upon that bitch Salander – all alone, 1.5 metres tall, thin as a stick. Nieminen wondered how much she actually weighed. And then everything had gone to hell; had exploded in a brief orgy of violence neither of them was prepared for.

Objectively, he could describe the chain of events. Salander had a canister of Mace, which she sprayed in Lundin’s face. Lundin should have been ready, but he wasn’t. She kicked him twice, and you don’t need a lot of muscle to fracture a jaw. She took him by surprise. That could be explained.

But then she took him too, Sonny Nieminen, a man who well-trained men would avoid getting into a fight with. She moved so fast. He hadn’t been able to pull his gun. She had taken him out easily, as if brushing off a mosquito. It was humiliating. She had a taser. She had…

He could not remember a thing when he came to. Lundin had been shot in the foot and then the police showed up. After some palaver over jurisdiction between Strängnäs and Södertälje, he fetched up in the cells in Södertälje. Plus she had stolen Magge’s Harley. She had cut the badge out of his leather jacket – the very symbol that made people step aside in the queue at the bar, that gave him a status that was beyond most people’s wildest dreams. She had humiliated him.

Nieminen was boiling over. He had kept his mouth shut through the entire series of police interrogations. He would never be able to tell anyone what had happened in Stallarholmen. Until that moment Salander had meant nothing to him. She was a little side project that Lundin was messing around with… again commissioned by that bloody Niedermann. Now he hated her with a fury that astonished him. Usually he was cool and analytical, but he knew that some time in the future he would have to pay her back and erase the shame. But first he had to get a grip on the chaos that Svavelsjö M.C. had landed in because of Salander and Niedermann.

Nieminen took the two remaining Polish guns, loaded them, and handed one to Waltari.

“Have we got a plan?”

“We’re going to drive over and have a talk with Niedermann. He isn’t one of us, and he doesn’t have a criminal record. I don’t know how he’s going to react if they catch him, but if he talks he could send us all to the slammer. We’d be sent down so fast it’d make your head spin.”

“You mean we should…”

Nieminen had already decided that Niedermann had to be got rid of, but he knew that it would be a bad idea to frighten off Waltari before they were in place.

“I don’t know. We’ll see what he has in mind. If he’s planning to get out of the country as fast as hell then we could help him on his way. But as long as he risks being busted, he’s a threat to us.”

The lights were out at Göransson’s place when Nieminen and Waltari drove up in the twilight. That was not a good sign. They sat in the car and waited.

“Maybe they’re out,” Waltari said.

“Right. They went to the bar with Niedermann,” Nieminen said, opening the car door.

The front door was unlocked. Nieminen switched on an overhead light. They went from room to room. The house was well kept and neat, which was probably because of her, whatever-her-name-was, the woman Göransson lived with.

They found Göransson and his girlfriend in the basement, stuffed into a laundry room.

Nieminen bent down and looked at the bodies. He reached out a finger to touch the woman whose name he could not remember. She was ice-cold and stiff. That meant they had been dead maybe twenty-four hours.

Nieminen did not need the help of a pathologist to work out how they had died. Her neck had been broken when her head was turned 180 degrees. She was dressed in a T-shirt and jeans and had no other injuries that Nieminen could see.

Göransson, on the other hand, wore only his underpants. He had been beaten, had blood and bruises all over his body. His arms were bent in impossible directions, like twisted tree limbs. The battering he had been subjected to could only be defined as torture. He had been killed, as far as Nieminen could judge, by a single blow to the neck. His larynx was rammed deep into his throat.

Nieminen went up the stairs and out of the front door. Waltari followed him. Nieminen walked the fifty metres to the barn. He flipped the hasp and opened the door.

He found a dark-blue 1991 Renault.

“What kind of car does Göransson have?” Nieminen said.

“He drove a Saab.”

Nieminen nodded. He fished some keys out of his jacket pocket and opened a door at the far end of the barn. One quick look around told him that they were there too late. The heavy weapons cabinet stood wide open.

Nieminen grimaced. “About 800,000 kronor,” he said.

“What?”

“Svavelsjö M.C. had about 800,000 kronor stashed in this cabinet. It was our treasury.”

Only three people knew where Svavelsjö M.C. kept the cash that was waiting to be invested and laundered. Göransson, Lundin, and Nieminen. Niedermann was on the run. He needed cash. He knew that Göransson was the one who handled the money.

Nieminen shut the door and walked slowly away from the barn. His mind was spinning as he tried to digest the catastrophe. Part of Svavelsjö M.C.’s assets were in the form of bonds that he could access, and some of their investments could be reconstructed with Lundin’s help. But a large part of them had been listed only in Göransson’s head, unless he had given clear instructions to Lundin. Which Nieminen doubted – Lundin had never been clever with money. Nieminen estimated that Svavelsjö M.C. had lost upwards of 60 per cent of its assets with Göransson’s death. It was a devastating blow. Above all they needed the cash to take care of day-to-day expenses.

“What do we do now?” Waltari said.

“We’ll go and tip off the police about what happened here.”

“Tip off the police?”

“Yes, damn it. My prints are all over the house. I want Göransson and his bitch to be found as soon as possible, so that forensics can work out that they died while I was still locked up.”

“I get it.”

“Good. Go and find Benny. I want to talk to him. If he’s still alive, that is. And then we’ll track down Niedermann. We’ll need every contact we have in the clubs all over Scandinavia to keep their eyes peeled. I want that bastard’s head on a platter. He’s probably riding around in Göransson’s Saab. Find out the registration number.”

When Salander woke up it was 2.00 on Saturday afternoon and a doctor was poking at her.

“Good morning,” he said. “My name is Benny Svantesson. I’m a doctor. Are you in pain?”

“Yes,” Salander said.

“I’ll make sure you get some painkillers in a minute. But first I’d like to examine you.”

He squeezed and poked and fingered her lacerated body. Salander was extremely aggravated by the time he had finished, but she held back; she was exhausted and decided it would be better to keep quiet than tarnish her stay at Sahlgrenska with a fight.

“How am I doing?” she said.

“You’ll pull through,” the doctor said and made some notes before he stood up. This was not very informative.

After he left, a nurse came in and helped Salander with a bedpan. Then she was allowed to go back to sleep.

Zalachenko, alias Karl Axel Bodin, was given a liquid lunch. Even small movements of his facial muscles caused sharp pains in his jaw and cheekbone, and chewing was out of the question. During surgery the night before, two titanium screws had been fixed into his jawbone.