Martin approached from behind and told him to put his hands on his back. He handcuffed him. Then he kicked Mikael in the crotch and punched him viciously and repeatedly.

What happened after that seemed like a nightmare. Martin swung between rationality and pure lunacy. For a time quite calm, the next instant he would be pacing back and forth like an animal in a cage. He kicked Blomkvist several times. All Blomkvist could do was try to protect his head and take the blows in the soft parts of his body.

For the first half hour Martin did not say a word, and he appeared to be incapable of any sort of communication. After that he seemed to recover control. He put a chain round Blomkvist’s neck, fastening it with a padlock to a metal eyelet on the floor. He left Blomkvist alone for about fifteen minutes. When he returned, he was carrying a litre bottle of water. He sat on a chair and looked at Blomkvist as he drank.

“Could I have some water?” Blomkvist said.

Martin leaned down and let him take a good long drink from the bottle. Blomkvist swallowed greedily.

“Thanks.”

“Still so polite, Kalle Blomkvist.”

“Why all the punching and kicking?” Blomkvist said.

“Because you make me very angry indeed. You deserve to be punished. Why didn’t you just go home? You were needed at Millennium. I was serious-we could have made it into a great magazine. We could have worked together for years.”

Blomkvist grimaced and tried to shift his body into a more comfortable position. He was defenceless. All he had was his voice.

“I assume you mean that the opportunity has passed,” Blomkvist said.

Martin Vanger laughed.

“I’m sorry, Mikael. But, of course, you know perfectly well that you’re going to die down here.”

Blomkvist nodded.

“How the hell did you find me, you and that anorexic spook that you dragged into this?”

“You lied about what you were doing on the day that Harriet disappeared. You were in Hedestad at the Children’s Day parade. You were photographed there, looking at Harriet.”

“Was that why you went to Norsjö?”

“To get the picture, yes. It was taken by a honeymoon couple who happened to be in Hedestad.”

He shook his head.

“That’s a crass lie,” Martin said.

Blomkvist thought hard: what to say to prevent or postpone his execution.

“Where’s the picture now?”

“The negative? It’s in a safe-deposit box at Handelsbanken here in Hedestad…You didn’t know that I have a safe-deposit box?” He lied easily. “There are copies in various places. In my computer and in the girl’s, on the server at Millennium, and on the server at Milton Security, where the girl works.”

Martin waited, trying to work out whether or not Blomkvist was bluffing.

“How much does the girl know?”

Blomkvist hesitated. Salander was right now his only hope of rescue. What would she think when she came home and found him not there? He had put the photograph of Martin Vanger wearing the padded jacket on the kitchen table. Would she make the connection? Would she sound the alarm? She is not going to call the police. The nightmare was that she would come to Martin Vanger’s house and ring the bell, demanding to know where Blomkvist was.

“Answer me,” Martin said, his voice ice-cold.

“I’m thinking. She knows almost as much as I do, maybe even a little more. Yes, I would reckon she knows more than I do. She’s bright. She’s the one who made the link to Lena Andersson.”

“ Lena Andersson?” Martin sounded perplexed.

“The girl you tortured and killed in Uppsala in 1966. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But for the first time he sounded shaken. It was the first time that anyone had made that connection-Lena Andersson was not included in Harriet’s date book.

“Martin,” Blomkvist said, making his voice as steady as he could. “It’s over. You can kill me, but it’s finished. Too many people know.”

Martin started pacing back and forth again.

I have to remember that he’s irrational. The cat. He could have brought the cat down here, but he went to the family crypt. Martin stopped.

“I think you’re lying. You and Salander are the only ones who know anything. You obviously haven’t talked to anyone, or the police would have been here by now. A nice little blaze in the guest cottage and the proof will be gone.”

“And if you’re wrong?”

“If I’m wrong, then it really is over. But I don’t think it is. I’ll bet that you’re bluffing. And what other choice do I have? I’ll give that some thought. It’s that anorexic little cunt who’s the weak link.”

“She went to Stockholm at lunchtime.”

Martin laughed.

“Bluff away, Mikael. She has been sitting in the archives at the Vanger Corporation offices all evening.”

Blomkvist’s heart skipped a beat. He knew. He’s known all along.

“That’s right. The plan was to visit the archive and then go to Stockholm,” Blomkvist said. “I didn’t know she stayed there so long.”

“Stop all this crap, Mikael. The archives manager rang to tell me that Dirch had let the girl stay there as late as she liked. Which means she’ll certainly be home. The night watchman is going to call me when she leaves.”

Martin Vanger bent down and went through Mikael’s pockets. He took the key.

“Smart of you to change the lock,” he said. “I’m going to take care of your girlfriend when she gets back.”

Blomkvist reminded himself that Martin was a negotiator experienced from many industrial battles. He had already seen through one bluff.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why all of this?” Blomkvist gestured vaguely at the space around him.

Martin bent down and put one hand under Blomkvist’s chin, lifting his head so their eyes met.

“Because it’s so easy,” he said. “Women disappear all the time. Nobody misses them. Immigrants. Whores from Russia. Thousands of people pass through Sweden every year.”

He let go of Blomkvist’s head and stood up.

Martin’s words hit Blomkvist like a punch in the face.

Christ Almighty. This is no historical mystery. Martin Vanger is murdering women today. And I wandered right into it…

“As it happens, I don’t have a guest right now. But it might amuse you to know that while you and Henrik sat around babbling this winter and spring, there was a girl down here. Irina from Belarus. While you sat and ate dinner with me, she was locked up in the cage down here. It was a pleasant evening as I remember, no?”

Martin perched on the table, letting his legs dangle. Blomkvist shut his eyes. He suddenly felt acid in his throat and he swallowed hard. The pain in his gut and in his ribs seemed to swell.

“What do you do with the bodies?”

“I have my boat at the dock right below here. I take them a long way out to sea. Unlike my father, I don’t leave traces. But he was smart too. He spread his victims out all over Sweden.”

The puzzle pieces were falling into place.

Gottfried Vanger. From 1949 until 1965. Then Martin Vanger, starting in 1966 in Uppsala.

“You admire your father.”

“He was the one who taught me. He initiated me when I was fourteen.”

“Uddevalla. Lea Persson.”

“Aren’t you clever? Yes, I was there. I only watched, but I was there.”

“1964. Sara Witt in Ronneby.”

“I was sixteen. It was the first time I had a woman. My father taught me. I was the one who strangled her.”