Tuesday, July 15–
Thursday, July 17
Blomkvist flew from Melbourne to Alice Springs. After that he had to choose either to charter a plane or to rent a car for the remaining 250-mile trip north. He chose to go by car.
An unknown person with the biblical signature of Joshua, who was part of Plague’s or possibly Trinity’s mysterious international network, had left an envelope for him at the central information desk at Melbourne airport.
The number that Anita had called belonged to a place called Cochran Farm. It was a sheep station. An article pulled off the Internet gave a snapshot guide. Australia: population of 18 million; sheep farmers, 53,000; approx. 120 million head of sheep. The export of wool approx. 3.5 billion dollars annually. Australia exports 700 million tons of mutton and lamb, plus skins for clothing. Combined meat and wool production one of the country’s most
important industries . . .
Cochran Farm, founded 1891 by Jeremy Cochran, Australia’s fifth largest agricultural enterprise, approx 60,000 Merino sheep (wool considered especially fine). The station also raised cattle, pigs, and chickens. Cochran Farm had impressive annual exports to the U.S.A., Japan, China, and Europe.
The personal biographies were fascinating.
In 1972 Cochran Farm passed down from Raymond Cochran to Spencer Cochran, educ. Oxford. Spencer d. in 1994, and farm run by widow. Blomkvist found her in a blurry, low-resolution photograph downloaded from the Cochran Farm website. It showed a woman with short blonde hair, her face partially hidden, shearing a sheep.
According to Joshua’s note, the couple had married in Italy in 1971. Her name was Anita Cochran.
Blomkvist stopped overnight in a dried-up hole of a town with the hopeful name of Wannado. At the local pub he ate roast mutton and downed three pints along with some locals who all called him “mate.”
Last thing before he went to bed he called Berger in New York.
“I’m sorry, Ricky, but I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had time to call.” “What the hell is going on?” she exploded. “Christer called and told me
that Martin Vanger had been killed in a car accident.” “It’s a long story.”
“And why don’t you answer your telephone? I’ve been calling like crazy for two days.”
“It doesn’t work here.” “Where is here?”
“Right now I’m about one hundred twenty-five miles north of Alice Springs. In Australia, that is.”
Mikael had rarely managed to surprise Berger. This time she was silent for nearly ten seconds.
“And what are you doing in Australia? If I might ask.”
“I’m finishing up the job. I’ll be back in a few days. I just called to tell you that my work for Henrik Vanger is almost done.”
He arrived at Cochran Farm around noon the following day, to be told that Anita Cochran was at a sheep station near a place called Makawaka seventy- five miles farther west.
It was 4:00 in the afternoon by the time Mikael found his way there on dusty back roads. He stopped at a gate where some sheep ranchers were gathered around the hood of a Jeep having coffee. Blomkvist got out and explained that he was looking for Anita Cochran. They all turned towards a muscular young man, clearly the decision-maker of the group. He was bare chested and very brown except for the parts normally covered by his T-shirt. He was wearing a wide-brimmed hat.
“The boss is about eighteen miles off in that direction,” he said, pointing with his thumb.
He cast a sceptical glance at Blomkvist’s vehicle and said that it might not be such a good idea to go on in that Japanese toy car. Finally the tanned athlete said that he was heading that way and would drive Blomkvist in his Jeep. Blomkvist thanked him and took along his computer case.
The man introduced himself as Jeff and said that he was the “studs manager” at the station. Blomkvist asked him to explain what that meant. Jeff gave him a sidelong look and concluded that Blomkvist was not from these parts. He explained that a studs manager was rather the equivalent of a financial manager in a bank, although he administered sheep, and that a “station” was the Australian word for ranch.
They continued to converse as Jeff cheerfully steered the Jeep at about ten
kilometres an hour down into a ravine with a 20° slope. Blomkvist thanked his lucky stars that he had not attempted the drive in his rental car. He asked what was down in the ravine and was told that it was the pasture land for 700 head of sheep.
“As I understand it, Cochran Farm is one of the bigger ranches.”
“We’re one of the largest in all of Australia,” Jeff said with a certain pride in his voice. “We run about 9,000 sheep here in the Makawaka district, but we have stations in both New South Wales and Western Australia. We have 60,000 plus head.”
They came out from the ravine into a hilly but gentler landscape. Blomkvist suddenly heard shots. He saw sheep cadavers, big bonfires, and a dozen ranch hands. Several men seemed to be carrying rifles. They were apparently slaughtering sheep.
Involuntarily, he thought of the biblical sacrificial lambs.
Then he saw a woman with short blonde hair wearing jeans and a red-and- white checked shirt. Jeff stopped a few yards away from her.
“Hi, Boss. We’ve got a tourist,” he said.
Blomkvist got out of the Jeep and looked at her. She looked back with an inquisitive expression.
“Hi, Harriet. It’s been a long time,” he said in Swedish.
None of the men who worked for Anita Cochran understood what he said, but they all saw her reaction. She took a step back, looking shocked. The men saw her response, stopped their joking, and straightened up, ready to intervene against this odd stranger. Jeff’s friendliness suddenly evaporated and he advanced toward Blomkvist.
Blomkvist was keenly aware how vulnerable he was. A word from Anita Cochran and he would be done for.
Then the moment passed. Harriet Vanger waved her hand in a peaceful gesture and the men moved back. She came over to Blomkvist and met his gaze. Her face was sweaty and dirty. Her blonde hair had darker roots. Her face was older and thinner, but she had grown into the beautiful woman that her confirmation portrait had promised.
“Have we met before?” she said.
“Yes, we have. I am Mikael Blomkvist. You were my babysitter one summer when I was three years old. You were twelve or thirteen at the time.”
It took a few seconds for her puzzled expression to clear, and then he saw that she remembered. She looked surprised.
“What do you want?”
“Harriet, I’m not your enemy. I’m not here to make trouble for you. But I need to talk with you.”
She turned to Jeff and told him to take over, then signalled to Blomkvist to follow her. They walked a few hundred feet over to a group of white canvas
tents in a grove of trees. She motioned him to a camp stool at a rickety table and poured water into a basin. She rinsed her face, dried it, and went inside the tent to change her shirt. She got two beers out of a cooler.
“So. Talk.”
“Why are you shooting the sheep?”
“We have a contagious epidemic. Most of these sheep are probably healthy, but we can’t risk it spreading. We’re going to have to slaughter more than six hundred in the coming week. So I’m not in a very good mood.”
Blomkvist said: “Your brother crashed his car into a truck a few days ago.
He must have died instantaneously.” “I heard that.”
“From Anita, who called you.”
She scrutinised him for a long moment. Then she nodded. She knew that it was pointless to deny the fact.
“How did you find me?”
“We tapped Anita’s telephone.” Blomkvist did not think there was any reason to lie. “I saw your brother a few minutes before he died.”
Harriet Vanger frowned. He met her gaze. Then he took off the ridiculous scarf he was wearing, turned down his collar, and showed her the stripe left from the noose. It was still red and inflamed, and he would probably always have a scar to remind him of Martin Vanger.
“Your brother had hung me from a hook, but by the grace of God my partner arrived in time to stop him killing me.”
Harriet’s eyes suddenly burned.
“I think you’d better tell me the story from the beginning.”
It took more than an hour. He told her who he was and what he was working on. He described how he came to be given the assignment by Henrik Vanger. He explained how the police’s investigation had come to a dead end, and he told her of Henrik’s long investigation, and finally he told her how a photograph of her with friends in Järnvägsgatan in Hedestad had led to the uncovering of the sorrows behind the mystery of her disappearance and its appalling sequel, which had ended with Martin Vanger’s suicide.
As he talked, dusk set in. The men quit work for the day, fires were started, and pots began to simmer. Blomkvist noticed that Jeff stayed close to his boss and kept a watchful eye on him. The cook served them dinner. They each had another beer. When he was finished Harriet sat for a long time in silence.
At length she said: “I was so happy that my father was dead and the violence was over. It never occurred to me that Martin . . . I’m glad he’s dead.”
“I can understand that.”
“Your story doesn’t explain how you knew that I was alive.”
“After we realised what had happened, it wasn’t so difficult to work out the rest. To disappear, you needed help. Anita was your confidante and the only one you could even consider. You were friends, and she had spent the summer with you. You stayed out at your father’s cabin. If there was anyone you had confided in, it had to be her—and also she had just got her driver’s licence.”
Harriet looked at him with an unreadable expression.
“So now that you know I’m alive, what are you going to do?” “I have to tell Henrik. He deserves to know.”
“And then? You’re a journalist.”
“I’m not thinking of exposing you. I’ve already breached so many rules of professional conduct in this whole dismal mess that the Journalists Association would undoubtedly expel me if they knew about it.” He was trying to make light of it. “One more won’t make any difference, and I don’t want to make my old babysitter angry.”
She was not amused.
“How many people know the truth?”
“That you’re alive? Right now, you and me and Anita and my partner. Henrik’s lawyer knows about two-thirds of the story, but he still thinks you died in the sixties.”
Harriet Vanger seemed to be thinking something over. She stared out at the dark. Mikael once again had an uneasy feeling that he was in a vulnerable situation, and he reminded himself that Harriet Vanger’s own rifle was on a camp bed three paces away. Then he shook himself and stopped imagining things. He changed the subject.
“But how did you come to be a sheep farmer in Australia? I already know that Anita smuggled you off Hedeby Island, presumably in the boot of her car when the bridge re-opened the day after the accident.”
“Actually, I lay on the floor of the back seat with a blanket over me. But no-one was looking. I went to Anita when she arrived on the island and told her that I had to escape. You guessed right that I confided in her. She helped me, and she’s been a loyal friend all these years.”
“Why Australia?”
“I stayed in Anita’s room in Stockholm for a few weeks. Anita had her own money, which she generously lent me. She also gave me her passport. We looked almost exactly like each other, and all I had to do was dye my hair blonde. For four years I lived in a convent in Italy—I wasn’t a nun. There are convents where you can rent a room cheap, to have peace and quiet to think. Then I met Spencer Cochran. He was some years older; he’d just finished his degree in England and was hitchhiking around Europe. I fell in love. He did too. That’s all there was to it. ‘Anita’ Vanger married him in 1971. I’ve never had any regrets. He was a wonderful man. Very sadly, he died eight years ago,
and I became the owner of the station.”
“But your passport—surely someone should have discovered that there were two Anita Vangers?”
“No, why should they? A Swedish girl named Anita Vanger who’s married to Spencer Cochran. Whether she lives in London or Australia makes no difference. The one in London has been Spencer Cochran’s estranged wife. The one in Australia was his very much present wife. They don’t match up computer files between Canberra and London. Besides, I soon got an Australian passport under my married name. The arrangement functioned perfectly. The only thing that could have upset the story was if Anita herself wanted to get married. My marriage had to be registered in the Swedish national registration files.”
“But she never did.”
“She claims that she never found anyone. But I know that she did it for my sake. She’s been a true friend.”
“What was she doing in your room?”
“I wasn’t very rational that day. I was afraid of Martin, but as long as he was in Uppsala, I could push the problem out of my mind. Then there he was in Hedestad, and I realised that I’d never be safe the rest of my life. I went back and forth between wanting to tell Uncle Henrik and wanting to flee. When Henrik didn’t have time to talk to me, I just wandered restlessly around the village. Of course I know that the accident on the bridge overshadowed everything else for everyone, but not for me. I had my own problems, and I was hardly even aware of the accident. Everything seemed unreal. Then I ran into Anita, who was staying in a guest cottage in the compound with Gerda and Alexander. That was when I made up my mind. I stayed with her the whole time and didn’t dare go outside. But there was one thing I had to take with me—I had written down everything that happened in a diary, and I needed a few clothes. Anita got them for me.”
“I suppose she couldn’t resist the temptation to look out at the accident scene.” Blomkvist thought for a moment. “What I don’t understand is why you didn’t just go to Henrik, as you had intended.”
“Why do you think?”
“I really don’t know. Henrik would certainly have helped you. Martin would have been removed immediately—probably sent to Australia for some sort of therapy or treatment.”
“You haven’t understood what happened.”
Up to this point Blomkvist had only referred to Gottfried’s sexual assault on Martin, leaving Harriet’s role out of it.
“Gottfried molested Martin,” he said cautiously. “I suspect that he also molested you.”
 |
Harriet Vanger did not move a muscle. Then she took a deep breath and buried her face in her hands. It took five seconds before Jeff was beside her, asking if everything was all right. Harriet looked at him and gave him a faint smile. Then she astonished Blomkvist by standing up and giving her studs manager a hug and a kiss on the cheek. She turned to Blomkvist with her arm around Jeff’s shoulder.
“Jeff, this is Mikael, an old … friend from the past. He’s brought problems and bad news, but we’re not going to shoot the messenger. Mikael, this is Jeff Cochran, my oldest son. I also have another son and a daughter.”
Blomkvist stood up to shake hands with Jeff, saying that he was sorry to have brought bad news which had upset his mother. Harriet exchanged a few words with Jeff and then sent him away. She sat down again and seemed to have made a decision.
“No more lies. I accept that it’s all over. In some sense I’ve been waiting for this day since 1966. For years I was terrified that someone might come up to me and say my name. But you know what? All of a sudden I don’t care any more. My crime falls outside the statute of limitations. And I don’t give a shit what people think about me.”
“Crime?” said Mikael.
She gave him an urgent look, but he still didn’t understand what she was talking about.
“I was sixteen. I was scared. I was ashamed. I was desperate. I was all alone. The only ones who knew the truth were Anita and Martin. I had told Anita about the sexual assaults, but I didn’t have the courage to tell her that my father was also an insane killer of women. Anita had never known about that. But I did tell her about the crime that I committed myself. It was so horrible that when it came down to it, I didn’t dare tell Henrik. I prayed to God to forgive me. And I hid inside a convent for several years.”
“Harriet, your father was a rapist and a murderer. It wasn’t your fault.”
“I know that. My father molested me for a year. I did everything to avoid
… but he was my father and I couldn’t refuse to have anything to do with him without giving him some explanation. So I lied and played a role and tried to pretend that everything was OK. And I made sure that someone else was always around when I saw him. My mother knew what he was doing, of course, but she didn’t care.”
“Isabella knew?”
Harriet’s voice took on a new harshness.
“Of course she knew. Nothing ever happened in our family without Isabella knowing. But she ignored everything that was unpleasant or showed her in a bad light. My father could have raped me in the middle of the living room
right before her eyes and she wouldn’t have noticed. She was incapable of acknowledging that anything was wrong in her life or mine.”
“I’ve met her. She’s not my favourite in the family.”
“She’s been like that her whole life. I’ve often wondered about my parents’ relationship. I realised that they rarely or maybe never had sex with each other after I was born. My father had women, but for some strange reason he was afraid of Isabella. He stayed away from her, but he couldn’t get a divorce.”
“No-one does in the Vanger family.” She laughed for the first time.
“No, they don’t. But the point is that I couldn’t bring myself to say anything. The whole world would have found out. My schoolmates, all my relatives …”
“Harriet, I’m so sorry.”
“I was fourteen when he raped me the first time. And during the next year he would take me out to his cabin. Many times Martin came along. He forced both me and Martin to do things with him. And he held my arms while Martin
… had his way with me. When my father died, Martin was ready to take over his role. He expected me to become his lover and he thought it was perfectly natural for me to submit to him. At that time I no longer had any choice. I was forced to do what Martin said. I was rid of one tormentor only to land in the clutches of another, and the only thing I could do was to make sure there was never an occasion when I was alone with him …”
“Henrik would have …” “You still don’t understand.”
She raised her voice. Blomkvist saw that several of the men at the next tent were looking at him. She lowered her voice again and leaned towards him.
“All the cards are on the table. You’ll have to work out the rest.”
She stood up and got two more beers. When she came back, Mikael said a single word to her.
“Gottfried.” She nodded.
“On August 7, 1965, my father forced me to go out to his cabin. Henrik was away. My father was drinking, and he tried to force himself on me. But he couldn’t get it up and he flew into a drunken rage. He was always … rough and violent towards me when we were alone, but this time he crossed the line. He urinated on me. Then he started telling me what he was going to do to me. That night he told me about the women he had killed. He was bragging about it. He quoted from the Bible. This went on for an hour. I didn’t understand half of what he was saying, but I realised that he was totally, absolutely sick.”
She took a gulp of her beer.
“Sometime around midnight he had a fit. He was totally insane. We were
up in the sleeping loft. He put a T-shirt around my neck and pulled it as tight as he could. I blacked out. I don’t have the slightest doubt that he really was trying to kill me, and for the first time that night he managed to complete the rape.”
Harriet looked at Blomkvist. Her eyes entreated him to understand.
“But he was so drunk that somehow I managed to get away. I jumped down from the loft and fled. I was naked and I ran without thinking, and ended up on the jetty by the water. He came staggering after me.”
Blomkvist suddenly wished that she would not tell him anything more.
“I was strong enough to shove an old drunk into the water. I used an oar to hold him under until he wasn’t struggling any more. It didn’t take long.”
When she stopped, the silence was deafening.
“And when I looked up, there stood Martin. He looked terrified, but at the same time he was grinning. I don’t know how long he was outside the cabin, spying on us. From that moment I was at his mercy. He came up to me, grabbed me by the hair, and led me back to the cabin—to Gottfried’s bed. He tied me up and raped me while our father was still floating in the water. And I couldn’t even offer any resistance.”
Blomkvist closed his eyes. He was terribly ashamed and wished that he had left Harriet Vanger in peace. But her voice had taken on a new force.
“From that day on, I was in his power. I did what he told me to do. I felt paralysed, and the only thing that saved my sanity was that Isabella—or maybe it was Uncle Henrik—decided that Martin needed a change of scenery after his father’s tragic death, so she sent him to Uppsala. Of course this was because she knew what he was doing to me, and it was her way of solving the problem. You can bet that Martin was disappointed. During the next year he was home only for the Christmas holiday. I managed to keep away from him. I went with Henrik on a trip to Copenhagen between Christmas and New Year’s. And during the summer holiday, Anita was there. I confided in her, and she stayed with me the whole time, making sure that he didn’t come near me.”
“Until you saw him on Järnvägsgatan.”
“I was told that he wouldn’t be coming to the family gathering, that he was staying in Uppsala. But obviously he changed his mind, and suddenly there he was on the other side of the street, staring at me. He smiled at me. It felt like a hideous dream. I had murdered my father, and I realised that I would never be free of my brother. Up until then, I had thought about killing myself. I chose instead to flee.” She gave Blomkvist what was almost a look of relief. “It feels fantastic to tell the truth. So now you know.”
