Man Som Hatar Kvinnor

Copyright © Stieg Larsson 2005

The work is first published by Norstedts, Sweden in 2005 and the text published by arrangement with Norstedts Agency

© Muradyan K.E., translation into Russian, 2015

© Edition in Russian, design. LLC "Publishing house" Eksmo ", 2015

The same scene is repeated from year to year. Today he turned eighty-two, and today, like many years in a row, a flower was delivered to him. He opened the package and put the gift wrapping aside. Then he picked up the phone and dialed the number of the former Criminal Police Commissioner who, after retiring, settled near Lake Silyan. They were not just the same age, but were also born on the same day, and this fact gave the situation a somewhat comic tone. The commissioner knew that around eleven in the morning, after the mail was delivered, he would definitely be called. He was drinking coffee. But this year the phone rang even earlier - already at half past ten.

The commissioner immediately picked up the phone and said hello.

“The mail has already been delivered,” he heard a familiar voice.

- And what is the flower this year?

- I don’t know yet what sort it is. But I hope that experts will be able to determine. It is white.

- And again, no letter?

- No, there is no letter. Only a flower. And the frame is the same as last time. Homemade.

- And the stamp?

- Stockholm.

- And the handwriting?

- As always, large block letters, straight and neat.

At this, the conversation ended itself, and they were silent for a little longer, each at his own end of the telephone line. The ex-commissioner leaned back in his chair and fired up his pipe. He understood that sharp tricky questions were no longer expected from him, the answers to which could clarify the situation or shed new light on the matter. Well, those times are long gone, and the conversation between two men of a very respectable age was more like a ritual associated with a riddle, to the solution of which, except for them, no one else in the whole world showed any interest.

In the official catalog of plants in Latin, the flower was called Leptospermum (Myrtaceae) rubinette... It was a nondescript twig of a heather-like shrub, about twelve centimeters high, with small leaves and a white flower of five petals two centimeters long.

This representative of the flora was native to the Australian bush and mountainous areas, where it formed dense bushy thickets. In Australia it was known as Desert Snow ... Later, an expert from the Uppsala Botanical Garden will clarify that this plant is rarely grown in Sweden. In her reference, the botanist claimed that it is combined into one family with Rosenmyrten and is often confused with its more widespread related species - Leptospermum scoparium- which is typical of New Zealand. The difference, according to the expert, is that the rubinette there are several microscopic pink dots on the tips of the petals, which give the flower a delicate pinkish tint.

Generally rubinette was an extremely unassuming flower and had no commercial value. It lacked any medicinal or hallucinogenic properties, it was not suitable for food, could not be used as a spice or used in the manufacture of vegetable dyes. True, the aborigines - the indigenous population of Australia, considered it sacred, but only together with the entire territory of Ayers Rock and its flora. Thus, we can say that the only reason for the existence of this work of nature was to delight others with its discreet beauty.

And a botanist from Uppsala noted that if for Australia Desert Snow is a rather exotic plant, then for Scandinavia it is completely a wonder. She herself did not see a single specimen, but from a conversation with colleagues she knew about attempts to breed it in one of the gardens of Gothenburg, and it is possible that gardeners and amateur botanists grow it in different places for their own whim in greenhouses. It takes a lot of effort to breed it in Sweden, as it needs a mild, dry climate and needs to be kept indoors during the winter months. It does not take root on lime soil, and water must flow to it from below, directly to the root - in other words, it requires super-delicate handling.

The fact that the flower is a rarity in Sweden could theoretically make it easier to find out the origin of this specimen, but in practice this task turned out to be simply hopeless. There are no catalogs and no licenses to browse and study. Nobody knew how many gardeners in general tried to breed this capricious plant. The number of hobbyists with access to seeds or seedlings could range from a few hobbyists to a few hundred. They could buy seeds themselves or receive them by mail from anywhere in Europe, from some other gardener or from a botanical garden. Who could have sworn that the flower was not delivered directly from Australia? In other words, hardly anyone would undertake to identify one or two gardeners among the millions of Swedes who have a greenhouse in the garden or a flowerpot in the living room window.

Of course, this is just one of the many mysterious flowers that invariably arrived by November 1st in a thick postal envelope. The flowers changed every time, but they were all beautiful and usually exotic. As always, the flower was dried, carefully attached to drawing paper, and inserted into a simple glass frame measuring sixteen by twenty-nine centimeters.

This mysterious story with flowers has not yet leaked into the media and became public, only a limited circle of initiates knew about it. Thirty years ago, the annually arriving flowers were subjected to careful research - they were studied in the state laboratory of forensic examination; the package was handled by criminologists and graphologists, criminal police investigators, as well as relatives and friends of the addressee. Now only three were involved in this drama: the aged hero of the occasion, the retired policeman - and, of course, the anonymous sender of the gift. Since at least the first two characters were already at such an advanced age that it was time for them to prepare for the inevitable finale, the circle of interested persons could soon become fatally narrowed.

The veteran of the police has seen a lot in his lifetime. He will forever remember his first case, when he was required to put a violent and drunk electrician behind bars, until he harmed himself or someone else. Throughout his life, he has arrested poachers, husbands who mistreated their wives, crooks, car thieves and drunk drivers. He has met burglars, robbers, drug dealers, rapists and at least one more or less crazy demolition man.

He participated in the investigation of nine murders. In five cases, the killer himself called the police and, filled with remorse, confessed that he had taken the life of his wife, brother, or someone else close to him. In three cases, the perpetrators had to be tracked down: two of these atrocities were solved a few days later, and one - two years later, thanks to the involvement of the state criminal police.

During the investigation of the ninth murder, the police managed to figure out the culprit, but the evidence was so inconclusive that the prosecutor had to drop his charges. And after a while the case, to the displeasure of the commissioner, was closed - due to the expiration of the statute of limitations. On the whole, however, he could look back with satisfaction on the years he had lived and on his impressive career - and, it would seem, feel quite comfortable.

Stig Larsson

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

The same scene is repeated from year to year. Today he turned eighty-two, and today, like many years in a row, a flower was delivered to him. He opened the package and put the gift wrapping aside. Then he picked up the phone and dialed the number of the former Criminal Police Commissioner who, after retiring, settled near Lake Silyan. They were not just the same age, but were also born on the same day, and this fact gave the situation a somewhat comic tone. The commissioner knew that around eleven in the morning, after the mail was delivered, he would definitely be called. He was drinking coffee. But this year the phone rang even earlier - already at half past ten.

The commissioner immediately picked up the phone and said hello.

“The mail has already been delivered,” he heard a familiar voice.

- And what is the flower this year?

- I don’t know yet what sort it is. But I hope that experts will be able to determine. It is white.

- And again, no letter?

- No, there is no letter. Only a flower. And the frame is the same as last time. Homemade.

- And the stamp?

- Stockholm.

- And the handwriting?

- As always, large block letters, straight and neat.

At this, the conversation ended itself, and they were silent for a little longer, each at his own end of the telephone line. The ex-commissioner leaned back in his chair and fired up his pipe. He understood that sharp tricky questions were no longer expected from him, the answers to which could clarify the situation or shed new light on the matter. Well, those times are long gone, and the conversation between two men of a very respectable age was more like a ritual associated with a riddle, to the solution of which, except for them, no one else in the whole world showed any interest.

In the official catalog of plants in Latin, the flower was called Leptospermum (Myrtaceae) rubinette... It was a nondescript twig of a heather-like shrub, about twelve centimeters high, with small leaves and a white flower of five petals two centimeters long.

This representative of the flora was native to the Australian bush and mountainous areas, where it formed dense bushy thickets. In Australia it was known as Desert Snow ... Later, an expert from the Uppsala Botanical Garden will clarify that this plant is rarely grown in Sweden. In her reference, the botanist claimed that it is combined into one family with Rosenmyrten and is often confused with its more widespread related species - Leptospermum scoparium- which is typical of New Zealand. The difference, according to the expert, is that the rubinette there are several microscopic pink dots on the tips of the petals, which give the flower a delicate pinkish tint.

Generally rubinette was an extremely unassuming flower and had no commercial value. It lacked any medicinal or hallucinogenic properties, it was not suitable for food, could not be used as a spice or used in the manufacture of vegetable dyes. True, the aborigines - the indigenous population of Australia, considered it sacred, but only together with the entire territory of Ayers Rock and its flora. Thus, we can say that the only reason for the existence of this work of nature was to delight others with its discreet beauty.

And a botanist from Uppsala noted that if for Australia Desert Snow is a rather exotic plant, then for Scandinavia it is completely a wonder. She herself did not see a single specimen, but from a conversation with colleagues she knew about attempts to breed it in one of the gardens of Gothenburg, and it is possible that gardeners and amateur botanists grow it in different places for their own whim in greenhouses. It takes a lot of effort to breed it in Sweden, as it needs a mild, dry climate and needs to be kept indoors during the winter months. It does not take root on lime soil, and water must flow to it from below, directly to the root - in other words, it requires super-delicate handling.

The fact that the flower is a rarity in Sweden could theoretically make it easier to find out the origin of this specimen, but in practice this task turned out to be simply hopeless. There are no catalogs and no licenses to browse and study. Nobody knew how many gardeners in general tried to breed this capricious plant. The number of hobbyists with access to seeds or seedlings could range from a few hobbyists to a few hundred. They could buy seeds themselves or receive them by mail from anywhere in Europe, from some other gardener or from a botanical garden. Who could have sworn that the flower was not delivered directly from Australia? In other words, hardly anyone would undertake to identify one or two gardeners among the millions of Swedes who have a greenhouse in the garden or a flowerpot in the living room window.

Of course, this is just one of the many mysterious flowers that invariably arrived by November 1st in a thick postal envelope. The flowers changed every time, but they were all beautiful and usually exotic. As always, the flower was dried, carefully attached to drawing paper, and inserted into a simple glass frame measuring sixteen by twenty-nine centimeters.

This mysterious story with flowers has not yet leaked into the media and became public, only a limited circle of initiates knew about it. Thirty years ago, the annually arriving flowers were subjected to careful research - they were studied in the state laboratory of forensic examination; the package was handled by criminologists and graphologists, criminal police investigators, as well as relatives and friends of the addressee. Now only three were involved in this drama: the aged hero of the occasion, the retired policeman - and, of course, the anonymous sender of the gift. Since at least the first two characters were already at such an advanced age that it was time for them to prepare for the inevitable finale, the circle of interested persons could soon become fatally narrowed.

The veteran of the police has seen a lot in his lifetime. He will forever remember his first case, when he was required to put a violent and drunk electrician behind bars, until he harmed himself or someone else. Throughout his life, he has arrested poachers, husbands who mistreated their wives, crooks, car thieves and drunk drivers. He has met burglars, robbers, drug dealers, rapists and at least one more or less crazy demolition man.

He participated in the investigation of nine murders. In five cases, the killer himself called the police and, filled with remorse, confessed that he had taken the life of his wife, brother, or someone else close to him. In three cases, the perpetrators had to be tracked down: two of these atrocities were solved a few days later, and one - two years later, thanks to the involvement of the state criminal police.

During the investigation of the ninth murder, the police managed to figure out the culprit, but the evidence was so inconclusive that the prosecutor had to drop his charges. And after a while the case, to the displeasure of the commissioner, was closed - due to the expiration of the statute of limitations. On the whole, however, he could look back with satisfaction on the years he had lived and on his impressive career - and, it would seem, feel quite comfortable.

But the fact of the matter is that he was not happy.

The Commissioner was haunted by the story of the dried flowers; she, like a splinter, entered his heart - he never solved this criminal riddle, although he devoted a lot of time to her. And this failure infuriated him. And before retirement, and after, he thought about this matter for thousands of hours, without any exaggeration. But he could not even say with certainty whether there was a crime in principle, and this made the situation even more hopeless.

Both interlocutors knew that the person who framed the flower under the glass wore gloves and did not leave fingerprints. They knew that tracking down the sender was unrealistic: there was simply no clue to investigate. The frame could be bought at a photo studio or in a stationery store anywhere in the world. No evidence. The postmark changed: most often it was Stockholm, three times - London, twice Paris and Copenhagen, once Madrid, once - Bonn, and once there was a completely mysterious version - Pensacola, USA. If the capitals mentioned were well known, then the name of Pensacola said nothing to the commissioner, and he had to look for this city in the atlas.

After they said goodbye, the eighty-two-year-old hero of the occasion sat for a while, looking at a beautiful but useless Australian flower, the name of which he did not yet know. Then he glanced at the wall above the desk. There, in glazed frames, hung forty-three dried flowers - four rows of ten each, and one unfinished row with four plants. The top row was missing one frame - seat number nine was empty. Desert Snow will become number forty-four.

However, now something has happened that has never happened in previous years. The old commissar suddenly burst into tears. He himself was surprised by this unexpected explosion of emotions, which happened for the first time in the past nearly forty years.

18% of women in Sweden have been threatened by men at least once.

The trial inevitably came to an end, and with it all this pretentious talking shop. He did not doubt for a second that he would be judged. The written verdict was given to him on Friday at ten in the morning, and now he only had to answer the closing questions of reporters waiting in the corridor outside the doors of the district court.

Seeing them in the doorway, Mikael Blomkvist slowed down slightly for a second. He was not at all eager to enter into a discussion with them regarding the sentence he had just passed, but it seems that there is no escape from questions. And he, like no one else, understood that they would certainly be asked and that they would have to be answered.

This is what it means to be a criminal, he thought. "This is how it feels to be on the other side of the microphone."

Mikael tensed, but then straightened up and forced himself to smile. The reporters smiled back and nodded at him friendly and even somewhat embarrassed.

- Where are you from? Well, let's take a look ... Aftonbladet, Expresssen, Telegraph Agency, TV-4 TV channel ... Where are you from? .. Ah-ah-ah, Dagens Industri. I must have already become a celebrity, - he stated.

“Throw us a duck, Kalle Blomkvist,” a reporter from one of the evening papers said to him.

His full name was Karl Mikael Blomkvist, and when he heard the baby's nickname, he, as always, could hardly restrain himself from falling out. Twenty years ago, when he was just twenty-three years old and he was an aspiring journalist who got his first summer temporary job, Mikael Blomkvist unexpectedly exposed a gang that had carried out five raids on banks in two years. Judging by the handwriting of these daring crimes, in all cases the same robbers were operating: they usually drove into small towns and purposefully robbed one or two banks in a row. The criminals used latex masks from Disney films, and the police, without straining their imaginations too much, christened them the Kalle Anki gang.

However, in the newspapers they were called the Bear Gang, since the robbers twice acted in cold blood and cruelty, fired warning shots and threatened passers-by or simply curious, without fear of harming others.

They made a sixth attack on a bank in the province of Esterötland in the middle of summer. A local radio reporter accidentally ended up at a bank during a robbery and reacted in full compliance with the professional code. As soon as the robbers left the scene of the crime, he went to a pay phone and reported everything live.

And Mikael Blomkvist just for a few days came with a girl he knew to rest and settled in her parents' summer house in the vicinity of Katrineholm. Why exactly at that moment he turned on the radio, Mikael could not say, even when he was later interrogated by the police, but upon hearing this news, he immediately remembered a company of four guys who lived in a dacha two or three hundred meters away. He met them a few days ago, when he and a friend, deciding to buy ice cream, were passing by this site, and the guys were playing badminton there.

Mikael saw four fair-haired, well-trained young men with muscled muscles and shorts. They played under the scorching sun with some kind of aggressive energy - as if it was not just a pastime, and, perhaps, that's why they caught Blomkvist's attention.

Inexplicably, for some reason he began to suspect them of robbing a bank. Mikael walked in that direction and sat down on the hillock. From here he could clearly see the house, which looked empty at the moment. About forty minutes later a Volvo car with the whole company was parked on the site. The guys seemed to be in a great hurry, and each of them was carrying a gym bag. In theory, this could well mean that they just went somewhere to swim. But one of them returned to the car and pulled out an object, which he hastily covered with a jacket. Mikael, even from a relatively distant distance, was able to determine that this was the good old AK-4, one of those with which he recently, while doing military service, did not part for a whole year. So he called the police and shared his thoughts. After that, for three days, the house was tightly cordoned off by the police; of course, representatives of the press also came in large numbers here, who closely followed what was happening. Since Mikael was in the thick of things, one of the evening papers paid him a pretty decent jackpot for reporting from the scene. Even their headquarters, set up in a mobile home on wheels, the police placed in the courtyard of the house where Mikael lived.

After the "bears" were caught, Mikael became a real star. So for the career of a young journalist, this crime drama came in handy. Of course, a fly in the ointment was also mixed with the barrel of honey - one of the two evening newspapers could not resist the temptation and titled the report only "Kalle Blomkvist unmasks the criminals." The author of the mocking article, an authoritative columnist, at least a dozen times compared Mikael to a young detective - a hero invented by Astrid Lindgren.

To top it all off, the newspaper posted a not very good blurry photo in which Mikael stood with his mouth half open and his pointing finger raised and, it seems, was giving some instructions to a policeman in uniform. In fact, he was just showing the way to the country toilet.

Throughout his life, Mikael Blomkvist never called himself Karl or signed an article with the name Karl Blomkvist. But what did it matter now? After all, since then, fellow journalists have nicknamed him Kalle Blomkvist, which did not please him at all, and they pronounced this name, albeit friendly, but with some mockery. With all due respect to Astrid Lindgren - and Mikael loved her books very much - he hated his nickname. Several years passed, he became a famous and recognized journalist, and this name began to be forgotten. But still, when someone nearby called the name of Kalle Blomkvist, he could hardly contain himself.

Mikael smiled amiably at the reporter from the evening paper.

- Think of something yourself. You are a lot to compose all sorts of things.

He spoke without dislike. Mikael was more or less familiar with everyone present here, and his worst ill-wishers preferred not to come here at all. He used to work with one of the reporters, and a few years ago he almost picked up Tu, from TV-4 at a party.

“Well, they asked you a decent rustle,” said the guy from the Dagens Industri newspaper, young, obviously from the corps of freelance correspondents.

“Actually, yes,” Mikael admitted.

What to do, sometimes lying and pretending does not work.

- So what, how do you feel?

Neither Mikael nor the older journalists could contain a smile, despite the fact that the situation was clearly not conducive to humor. Mikael glanced at the TV-4 journalist.

"How do you feel?"

"Serious journalists" have always argued that this is the only question that untalented sports reporters can ask a breathless athlete after the finish.

But Mikael pulled himself together.

“Of course, I can only regret that the court did not come to other conclusions,” he replied, hiding under the guise of officialdom.

“Three months in prison and compensation of one hundred and fifty thousand crowns is a tangible blow,” said “Ta, from TV-4”.

- What can you do, I have to go through it.

- Will you ask Wennerström for forgiveness? Will you shake his hand?

- Hardly. I have not changed my mind about the moral side of the business that Mr. Wennerström is doing.

- So you still claim that he is a scoundrel? - the representative of "Dagens Industry" immediately roused himself.

After such a question, a scandalous article with a catchy headline could appear in the newspaper. Mikael might well have fallen into a trap, but the reporter too helpfully brought the microphone to him, and he picked up the danger signal.

A few minutes ago, the court ruled that Mikael Blomkvist had infringed the honor and dignity of the financier Hans Erik Wennerström. The indictment was for libel. The trial was over, and Mikael was not going to appeal the verdict. But what if he imprudently repeats his accusations right here on the steps of the town hall?

Mikael decided that he should not tempt fate, so he did not answer right away.

“I thought I had good reason to publish the information I had obtained. But the court rejected my arguments, and, of course, I must come to terms with the results of the trial. Now we in the editorial office will analyze the verdict, and then decide what to do next. That's all I can say.

- And you, by chance, have not forgotten that a journalist is obliged to rely on facts? “Ta, from the TV-4 channel” asked rather sharply.

It was pointless to unlock. Previously, they were considered good friends with her. Now her face remained unperturbed, but Mikael thought that disappointment and detachment appeared in her gaze.

Blomkvist continued to answer questions for several more painful minutes. The question literally hung in the air: how could he write an article that was not supported by evidence and had no facts on hand? But none of the reporters dared to ask this question. Perhaps they just didn't want to corner him. All journalists present, with the exception of a trainee from Dagens Industry, were hardened newspaper wolves. And everything that happened before their eyes seemed mystic.

The representative of the TV-4 channel detained Mikael in front of the entrance to the town hall, where she asked her questions separately from everyone else, standing in front of the camera. She behaved quite correctly, contrary to his expectations. In the end, she managed to get him to talk, to the delight of all the reporters gathered here. This story, of course, will take up whole strips, you can't go anywhere. Still, Blomkvist understood that for the media, everything that happened to him was not the most important event of the year.

Having grabbed the coveted prey, the reporters went to their editorial offices.

Mikael wanted to walk a little, but the December day turned out to be windy, and he was already completely frozen, communicating with colleagues. He was already left alone on the steps of the town hall, when he accidentally caught William Borg with his eyes. He got out of the car in which he was while Mikael talked to reporters. Their gazes met and William smiled.

- Wow, how lucky I am! I came here to see you with this paper in hand.

Mikael didn't answer. She and William Borg had known each other for fifteen years - once worked together as freelancers in the economics department of one of the morning newspapers. It was then that they disliked each other.

Mikael considered Borg a mediocre reporter and a repulsive, petty and vindictive type who pestered those around him with flat jokes and did not speak too respectfully about more successful and experienced journalists. However, it seemed that he especially disliked experienced journalists. They never found a common language, after the first quarrel, further skirmishes followed, and over time, their mutual hostility became irresistible.

From time to time Mikael did clash with William Borg, but in the late 1990s, they became real enemies. Blomkvist wrote a book on economic journalism, where he often quoted his colleagues. More often than not, he cited excerpts from the mass of mediocre articles signed by the Borg. According to Mikael, he turned up his nose too much, misinterpreted the vast majority of facts and immensely praised the dot-comas, which soon took the path of bankruptcy. And Borg, it seems, was dissatisfied with the work of Mikael, and at one of the chance meetings in one of the restaurants in the Söder area, they almost got into a fight. Around the same time, William left journalism and now worked in a PR agency of one of the firms. There he received a much higher salary than before, and the firm was in the sphere of interests of the magnate Hans Erik Wennerström.

They stared at each other, and then Mikael turned and walked away. Only the Borg is capable of this - to come to the town hall only in order to make a malicious laugh at him.

Mikael did not even have time to walk a few steps, when bus number 40 stopped in front of him. And he hastily climbed into it in order to quickly leave this place.

Blomkvist got out at Friedhemsplan and stood pensively at the bus stop, still holding the sentence in his hand. Finally, he decided to go to Cafe Anna, which was located at the entrance to the police station garage.

Mikael ordered a latte and a sandwich, and half a minute later the radio began broadcasting the day's news. The story about him and his sentence was put in third place, after the news of a suicide bomber in Jerusalem and reports that the government had set up a commission to check information about a new cartel in the construction industry.

Millennium journalist Mikael Blomkvist was sentenced Friday morning to three months in prison for malicious libel against entrepreneur Hans Erik Wennerström. In a highly publicized article published this year about the so-called "Minos" scam, Blomkvist unsubstantiated that Wennerström had invested public funds intended for investment in Poland's industry in the arms trade. Mikael Blomkvist was also ordered to pay one hundred and fifty thousand crowns in compensation. Wennerström's lawyer Bertil Kamnermarker said that his client was satisfied with the outcome of the trial.

"Without a doubt, the article contains gross slander," the lawyer said.

The verdict was no less than twenty-six pages long. It stated the objective reasons why Mikael was found guilty of fifteen cases of defamatory fabrications against businessman Hans Erik Wennerström. Blomkvist estimated that each of the points of the sentence cost him ten thousand crowns and six days in prison, not counting legal costs and attorney fees. He could not even think about what the final result would result in, but he also noted that it could be even worse: the court nevertheless acquitted him on seven counts.

As he read the formulations, he had increasingly heavy and unpleasant sensations in his stomach.

This surprised him. After all, Mikael knew from the very beginning of the trial that he would be condemned, unless, of course, some miracle happened. By that time, there was no longer any doubt, and all that was left was to come to terms with this thought. Almost indifferently, Blomkvist served two days at the court hearings, and then, also without much emotion, waited eleven days while the court formulated the text he was now holding in his hands. Only now, when it was all over, did he feel a hell of a discomfort.

Mikael took a bite of the sandwich, but the piece simply did not go down his throat. It became difficult for him to chew and swallow, and he pushed the food aside.

For the first time he, Mikael Blomkvist, was recognized as a criminal; before that, he had never been a suspect and had not been prosecuted. True, the sentence could be called relatively lenient. He did not commit such a serious crime - after all, he was not accused of armed robbery, not of murder or rape. However, the financial blow to his personal budget was quite tangible. Millennium was not one of the prosperous publications with unlimited income - the magazine teetered on the brink of collapse. True, for the sake of justice it should be admitted: the verdict did not become for him a complete and final catastrophe. The problem was that Mikael was a co-owner of Millennium, being both the author of the articles and the managing editor. Not too prudent, of course. And Blomkvist was going to pay the amount of moral damage in one hundred and fifty thousand crowns from his own pocket. This is practically all that he managed to accumulate. The magazine intended to cover legal costs. So it's still not that hopeless.

Mikael even thought about selling him the apartment, but such a decision would lead to disaster. In the late eighties, when he had a steady job and a relatively stable income, he began looking for a home. He went through a lot of apartments for sale, but he did not like any of them, until finally he was offered an attic of sixty-five square meters at the very beginning of Belmansgatan. The previous owner began to equip it under a kopeck piece, but then got a job in some Internet company abroad. So Mikael was able to buy housing with unfinished repairs and started redevelopment inexpensively.

He rejected the job of an interior designer and finished it all himself. I invested in the decoration of the bathroom and kitchen, but did not change everything else. He did not rearrange the parquet or erect partitions as originally planned, but simply looped the boards on the attic floor, painted the raw walls with whitewash, and disguised the most unsightly places with watercolors by Emmanuel Bernstone.

As a result, it turned out not an apartment of several rooms, but one large studio: the sleeping area is located behind the bookshelves, and the dining room, combined with the living room, is located near a small kitchenette and a bar counter. The room had two dormers and one end window overlooking the Riddarfjerden Bay, overlooking the rooftops of Gamla Stan. From here the water surface near the Gateway and the town hall were visible. By today's standards, he did not even have to dream of buying such an apartment, and he really wanted to keep it.

Stig Lapson

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo

This was repeated from year to year, like a ritual. Today the person to whom the flower was intended is eighty-two. When, as usual, the flower arrived, he opened the package and set the gift wrapper aside. Then he picked up the phone and dialed the number of the former Criminal Police Commissioner who, after retirement, settled near Lake Siljan in Dalarna [Dalarna is a province of Sweden. (Ed.)] They were not only the same age, but were born on the same day, which gave the situation a somewhat ironic tone. The commissioner, who knew that after the delivery of the mail, at about eleven o'clock in the morning, they would certainly call him, sat and drank coffee while waiting for the conversation. This year the phone rang at half past ten. He answered immediately and immediately greeted the interlocutor.

They delivered him, they told him.

And what is this year?

I don't know what kind of flower it is. It will be necessary to give it to specialists to determine. He's white.

And of course no letter?

Yes. Only a flower. The frame is the same as last year. Homemade.

And the stamp?

Stockholm.

As always, large block letters, straight and neat.

That was the end of the topic, and they sat in silence for a while, each on his own end of the telephone line. The retired commissioner leaned back in his chair and lit his pipe. He understood perfectly well that they no longer expected sharp, reasonable questions from him that could clarify the situation or shed new light on the matter. These times are long past, and the conversation between two aged men was rather in the nature of a ritual associated with a riddle, to the solution of which, except for them, no one else in the whole world showed the slightest interest.

In Latin, the plant was called Leptospermum (Myrtaceae) rubinette. It was an unattractive twig of a heather-like shrub, about twelve centimeters high, with small leaves and a white five-petal flower two centimeters long.

This representative of the flora came from the Australian bush and mountainous regions, where it could form powerful bushy thickets. In Australia it was called Desert Snow. [Desert Snow (English). (Approx. Transl.)] Later, an expert lady from the Uppsala Botanical Garden will report that this is an unusual plant, rarely grown in Sweden. In her help, the botanist wrote that it is combined into one family with Rosenmyrten [Leptospermum (sw.). (Approx. Transl.)] and is often confused with the more widespread related species, Leptospermum scoparium, which grows abundantly in New Zealand. The difference, according to the expert, was that the rubinette has a few microscopic pink dots on the tips of the petals, which give the flower a slightly pinkish tint.

All in all, rubinette was a surprisingly unpretentious flower with no commercial value. It lacked any medicinal properties or the ability to induce hallucinations, it was not suitable for food, could not be used as a spice or used in the manufacture of vegetable dyes. True, the indigenous population of Australia, the aborigines, considered it sacred, but only at the same time with the entire territory of Ayers Rock [Rock massif in Australia. (Ed.)] and all of its flora. Thus, we can say that the only reason for the existence of a flower was to delight others with its bizarre beauty.

In her reference, a botanist from Uppsala noted that if Desert Snow is a rather unusual plant for Australia, then for Scandinavia it is simply a rarity. She herself did not see a single specimen, but from a conversation with colleagues she knew about attempts to cultivate this plant in one of the gardens of Gothenburg, and it is possible that gardeners and amateur botanists grow it in different places for their own pleasure in greenhouses. It is difficult to breed in Sweden because it requires a mild, dry climate and must be kept indoors during the winter months. It does not take root on limestone soil, and water must flow to it from below, directly to the root - in short, you need to be able to handle it.

The fact that a flower is a rarity in Sweden should, in theory, make it easier to find the origin of this particular specimen, but in practice this task turned out to be impossible. No catalogs to explore, no licenses to browse. No one knew how many gardeners in general tried to breed such a whimsical plant: the number of enthusiasts who had access to seeds or seedlings could range from a few to several hundred. They had the opportunity to buy seeds themselves or receive them by mail from anywhere in Europe, from some other gardener or from a botanical garden. It could also not be ruled out that the flower was brought directly from Australia. In other words, it looked hopeless to find out exactly these gardeners among the millions of Swedes who have a greenhouse in the garden or a flowerpot in the living room window.

It was just one of a string of mysterious flowers that always arrived on November 1st in a sealed mailing envelope. The types of flowers changed annually, but they could all be considered beautiful and, as a rule, relatively rare. As always, the flower was dried, neatly attached to the drawing paper, and inserted into a simple glass frame measuring twenty-nine by sixteen centimeters.

The mysterious story with flowers never became known to the media or the public, only a limited circle knew about it. Three decades ago, the annually arriving flowers were subjected to close scrutiny - they were examined in the state forensic laboratory, fingerprint experts and graphologists, criminal police investigators, as well as relatives and friends of the addressee were engaged in sending. Now there are only three characters left in the drama: an aged newborn, a retired policeman and, of course, the unknown sender of the gift. Since at least the first two were already at such a venerable age that it was just time for them to prepare for the inevitable, the circle of interested persons could soon narrow down even more.

The retired police officer was a seasoned veteran. He perfectly remembered his first case, when he was required to put a violent and heavily drunk substation worker in prison before he hurt himself or anyone else. Throughout his career, the veteran police officer has imprisoned poachers, husbands, wife abusers, crooks, hijackers and drunk drivers. He has met burglars, robbers, drug dealers, rapists and at least one more or less insane burglar-demolition man. He participated in the investigation of nine murders. In five cases, the killer himself called the police and, full of remorse, confessed that he had taken the life of his wife, brother, or someone else close to him. In three cases, the perpetrators had to be traced: two of these crimes were solved a few days later, and one - two years later, with the help of the state criminal police.

During the investigation of the ninth murder, the police managed to find out who the culprit was, but the evidence was so weak that the prosecutor decided not to move the case. And after a while, to the commissioner's chagrin, it was closed after the statute of limitations. But on the whole, he could look back with satisfaction at the impressive career behind him and, it would seem, feel quite satisfied with everything he did.

But he just was not satisfied.

The "case of dried flowers" worried the Commissioner like a splinter — he never solved this riddle, although he devoted most of his time to it, and this failure unnerved him. Both before retirement and after, he thought about this case for thousands of hours, without exaggeration, but he could not even say with certainty whether a crime had been committed at all, and this made the situation doubly ridiculous.

Both interlocutors knew that the person who framed the flower under glass used gloves and left no fingerprints anywhere. They did not doubt that it would be impossible to track down the sender: there was simply no clue for the investigation. The frame could be bought at a photo studio or stationery store anywhere in the world. The postmark changed: most often it was Stockholm, but three times was London, twice Paris and Copenhagen, once Madrid, one - Bonn, and once there was a completely mysterious version - Pensacola, USA. If these capitals were well known, then the name of Pensacola did not tell the commissioner so much that he had to look for this city according to the atlas.

When they said goodbye, the eighty-two-year-old newborn sat for a while, looking at a beautiful, but ordinary Australian flower, the name of which he did not yet know. Then he looked up at the wall above the desk. There, in glass frames, hung forty-three of his dried brothers - four rows of ten each and one unfinished row with four pictures. In the top row, one frame was missing - space number nine gaped empty. Desert Snow will become number forty-four.

However, for the first time something happened that had never happened in previous years. All of a sudden, the old man burst into tears. He himself was surprised by this unexpected surge of emotions, which manifested itself for the first time in nearly forty years.

18% of women in Sweden have been threatened by a man at least once

The trial had come to an inevitable end, and everything that could be said had already been said. He never doubted that he would be judged. The written verdict was issued at ten Friday morning, leaving only the final questions of reporters waiting in the corridor outside the District Court door.

Mikael Blomkvist saw them in the doorway and slowed down slightly. He did not want to discuss the sentence he had just received, but questions were inevitable; he, like no one else, understood that they would certainly be asked and that it was impossible not to answer them.

This is how it feels to be a criminal, he thought. "This is what it means to stand on the other side of the microphone."

He was embarrassed, but he straightened up and tried to smile. The reporters smiled back and nodded at him, friendly and somewhat embarrassed.

Let's see ... Aftonbladet, Expresssen, The Telegraph Agency, Channel 4 TV and ... where are you from? .. Oh, Dagens Industry. [Names of major Swedish daily newspapers. (Approx. Transl.)] I must have become a star, - stated Mikael Blomkvist.

Throw us a material, Kalle Blomkvist, asked a reporter for one of the evening papers.

Hearing the diminutive version of his name, Karl Mikael Blomkvist, as always, made an effort not to roll his eyes. Twenty years ago, when he was twenty-three and just starting out as a journalist, first getting a temporary job for the summer, Mikael Blomkvist accidentally uncovered a gang that had committed five high-profile bank robberies in two years. The handwriting of these crimes made it clear that in all cases the same people were operating: they used to enter small towns and purposefully rob one or two banks at a time. The criminals used latex masks from the Walt Disney world, and the police, following quite understandable logic, dubbed them the Kalle Anki gang. [“Kalle Anka” is the Swedish version of the English “Donald Duck”. (Approx. Transl.)] However, the newspapers renamed it the Bear Gang, as the robbers on two occasions acted violently, fired warning shots and threatened passers-by or curious people without fear of harming others. And this was already much more serious.

The sixth attack took place on a bank in the province of Österjötland in the midst of the summer season. A local radio reporter happened to be in the hall during a robbery and behaved in full accordance with the job description. As soon as the robbers left the scene of the crime, he went to a pay phone and broke the news live.

Mikael Blomkvist at that time came with his acquaintance to the dacha of her parents in the vicinity of Katrineholm for several days. Why he turned on the radio, Mikael could not say, even when he was later asked by the police, but after listening to the news, he immediately thought of a company of four guys who lived in a dacha two or three hundred meters away. Mikael had seen them a few days earlier, when, having decided to buy ice cream, he and his girlfriend walked past this site, and the guys played badminton there.

He saw four fair-haired young men, well-trained, well-muscled, dressed in shorts. Under the scorching sun, they played with concentration and energy, as if they didn’t just play out of boredom. Mikael found this unusual, and perhaps that's why he paid special attention to them. There was no reasonable reason to suspect them of robbing the bank, but he took a walk in that direction and sat down on the hillock. From here he could clearly see the house, which looked empty at the moment. About forty minutes later a Volvo car drove into the station with the whole company. The guys seemed to be in a hurry, and each of them was carrying a gym bag. In itself, this could well mean that they just went somewhere to swim. However, one of them returned to the car and took out an object, which he hastily covered with a sports jacket. But Mikael, even from a fairly large distance, was able to determine that this was a good old Kalashnikov assault rifle, exactly the same with which he had not parted with the military service for a whole year. So he called the police and told about his observations. After that, for three days the dacha was tightly cordoned off by the police, and the press closely followed what was happening. Mikael was in the heart of the action, for which he received an increased fee from one of the two evening newspapers. Even their headquarters, set up in a mobile home on wheels, the police placed in the courtyard of the dacha where Mikael lived.

The capture of the Bear Gang made Mikael a star, which greatly helped the career of the young journalist. But the pleasure was spoiled by the fact that the second of the two evening papers could not resist the temptation to accompany the text with the headline "Kalle Blomkvist Solves the Case." The joking article, written by an experienced journalist, contained a dozen analogies with the young detective invented by Astrid Lindgren. [A. Lindgren has several stories about the super-detective Kalle Blomkvist. (Approx. Transl.)] To top it all off, the newspaper provided the material with a photograph in which Mikael stood with his mouth parted and his index finger raised and seemed to be giving instructions to a police officer in uniform. In fact, he showed the way to the country toilet.

Throughout his life, Mikael Blomkvist never once called himself Karl or signed articles with the name Karl Blomkvist, but this no longer played any role. Since then, fellow journalists have nicknamed him Kalle Blomkvist, which did not please him at all, and they pronounced it, albeit friendly, but also partly mocking. With all due respect to Astrid Lindgren - Mikael loved her books very much - he hated his nickname. It took several years and much more significant journalistic merits for it to begin to be forgotten, but when someone nearby pronounced the name, he still jerked.

So he smiled calmly and looked into the eyes of the representative of the evening newspaper.

Well, think of something. You’re always great at writing articles.

The reporter spoke without dislike. Mikael was more or less familiar with everyone here, and his worst critics preferred not to come. He used to work with one of the reporters, and several years ago he almost managed to hook up “Tu, from TV-4” at a party.

You were given a good thrashing there, ”said a spokesman for the Dagens Industry newspaper, a young, clearly freelance correspondent.

In general, yes, - admitted Mikael.

It was difficult for him to argue otherwise.

How do you feel?

Despite the seriousness of the situation, neither Mikael nor the older journalists, having heard this question, could not help smiling. Mikael exchanged a knowing look with a TV-4 representative.

"How do you feel?"

"Serious journalists" at all times argued that this is the only question that "stupid sports reporters" are able to ask after the finish to "out of breath athlete".

But then he again became serious and replied with a completely duty phrase:

Naturally, I can only regret that the court did not come to a different conclusion.

Three months in prison and compensation of one hundred and fifty thousand kroons - this is tangible, - said "Ta, from the TV-4 channel."

I can handle it.

Are you ready to ask Wennerström for forgiveness? Shake his hand?

No, hardly. My opinion on the moral side of Mr. Wennerström's commercial activities has not undergone significant changes.

So you're still claiming that he is a scoundrel? - immediately followed by a question from "Dagens Industry".

This question threatened to lead to the emergence of a "material" with a fatal headline, and Mikael could have fallen into this trap, but the reporter was too hasty to substitute the microphone, and he caught the signal of danger. He hesitated for a few seconds before answering.

The court has just ruled that Mikael Blomkvist had infringed the honor and dignity of the financier Hans Erik Wennerström. He was convicted of libel. The trial was over, and he was not going to appeal the verdict. And what happens if he inadvertently repeats his statements right on the steps of the town hall?

Mikael decided it was not worth checking it out.

I thought I had good reason to publish the information I had. The court considered otherwise, and I, of course, must come to terms with the results of the trial. Now we in the editorial office will thoroughly discuss the verdict, and then decide what to do. I have nothing more to add.

But you have forgotten that a journalist is obliged to back up his statements with evidence, "Ta, from TV-4 channel remarked rather sharply.

It was pointless to deny this. Previously, they were considered good friends with her. Now the girl's face remained calm, but Mikael thought that he caught in her gaze disappointment and aloofness.

Mikael Blomkvist continued answering questions for a few more agonizing minutes. There was literally bewilderment in the air of the audience: how could Mikael write an article completely devoid of foundation? But none of the reporters asked about this, perhaps they were too embarrassed for a colleague. The journalists present, with the exception of the freelancer from Dagens Industry, had a wealth of professional experience, and for the veterans, what happened seemed incomprehensible. The representative of the TV-4 channel put Mikael in front of the entrance to the town hall and asked her questions separately, in front of the camera. She was nicer than he deserved, and the result was enough "material" to satisfy all the reporters. His story, of course, will be reflected in the headlines - this is inevitable - but he forced himself to remember that for the media this is still not the main event of the year.

Having got what they wanted, the reporters went to their offices.

Mikael intended to walk, but this December day turned out to be windy, and he was already freezing during the interview. Still standing on the steps of the town hall, he looked up to see William Borg getting out of the car he sat in while the reporters worked. Their gazes met and William Borg grinned.

It was worth coming here if only to see you with this paper in your hands.

Mikael didn't answer. She and William Borg had known each other for fifteen years. They once worked as freelance reporters for the economics department of one of the morning newspapers. It was then that they developed a mutual enmity that remained for life. In the eyes of Mikael, Borg was a lousy reporter and a heavy, petty vindictive man who pestered those around him with stupid jokes and disparagingly spoke about older and therefore more experienced journalists. He especially seemed to dislike old women journalists. The first quarrel was followed by further squabbles, and gradually their professional rivalry took on the character of personal hostility.

Millennium (ru) - 1

Prologue

Friday 1st November
This was repeated from year to year, like a ritual. Today the person to whom the flower was intended is eighty-two. When, as usual, the flower arrived, he opened the package and set the gift wrapper aside. Then he picked up the phone and dialed the number of the former Criminal Police Commissioner who, after retirement, settled near Lake Siljan in Dalarna. They were not only the same age, but were also born on the same day, which gave the situation a somewhat ironic tone. The commissioner, who knew that after the delivery of the mail, at about eleven o'clock in the morning, they would certainly call him, sat and drank coffee while waiting for the conversation. This year the phone rang at half past ten. He answered immediately and immediately greeted the interlocutor.
“They delivered him,” he was told.
- And what is this year?
“I don’t know what kind of flower it is. It will be necessary to give it to specialists to determine. He's white.
- And of course, no letter?
- Yes. Only a flower. The frame is the same as last year. Homemade.
- And the stamp?
- Stockholm.
- Handwriting?
- As always, large block letters, straight and neat.
That was the end of the topic, and they sat in silence for a while, each on his own end of the telephone line. The retired commissioner leaned back in his chair and lit his pipe. He understood perfectly well that they no longer expected sharp, reasonable questions from him that could clarify the situation or shed new light on the matter. These times are long past, and the conversation between two aged men was rather in the nature of a ritual associated with a riddle, to the solution of which, except for them, no one else in the whole world showed the slightest interest.

In Latin, the plant was called Leptospermum (Myrtaceae) rubinette. It was an unattractive twig of a heather-like shrub, about twelve centimeters high, with small leaves and a white five-petal flower two centimeters long.
This representative of the flora came from the Australian bush and mountainous regions, where it could form powerful bushy thickets. In Australia, it was called Desert Snow. Later, an expert lady from the Uppsala Botanical Garden will report that this is an unusual plant, rarely grown in Sweden. In her reference, the botanist wrote that it is a common family with Rosenmyrten and is often confused with the more widespread related species, Leptospermum scoparium, which grows in abundance in New Zealand. The difference, according to the expert, was that the rubinette has a few microscopic pink dots on the tips of the petals, which give the flower a slightly pinkish tint.
All in all, rubinette was a surprisingly unpretentious flower with no commercial value. It lacked any medicinal properties or the ability to induce hallucinations, it was not suitable for food, could not be used as a spice or used in the manufacture of vegetable dyes. True, the indigenous population of Australia, the aborigines, considered it sacred, but only at the same time with the entire territory of Ayers Rock and all its flora. Thus, we can say that the only reason for the existence of a flower was to delight others with its bizarre beauty.
In her reference, a botanist from Uppsala noted that if Desert Snow is a rather unusual plant for Australia, then for Scandinavia it is simply a rarity. She herself did not see a single specimen, but from a conversation with colleagues she knew about attempts to cultivate this plant in one of the gardens of Gothenburg, and it is possible that gardeners and amateur botanists grow it in different places for their own pleasure in greenhouses. It is difficult to breed in Sweden because it requires a mild, dry climate and must be kept indoors during the winter months.

Man Som Hatar Kvinnor

Copyright © Stieg Larsson 2005

The work is first published by Norstedts, Sweden in 2005 and the text published by arrangement with Norstedts Agency

© Muradyan K.E., translation into Russian, 2015

© Edition in Russian, design. LLC "Publishing house" Eksmo ", 2015

* * *

Prologue
Friday 1st November

The same scene is repeated from year to year. Today he turned eighty-two, and today, like many years in a row, a flower was delivered to him. He opened the package and put the gift wrapping aside. Then he picked up the phone and dialed the number of the former Criminal Police Commissioner who, after retiring, settled near Lake Silyan 1
Silyan is a crater lake in Swedish Dalarna County, a picturesque and popular holiday destination.

They were not just the same age, but were also born on the same day, and this fact gave the situation a somewhat comic tone. The commissioner knew that around eleven in the morning, after the mail was delivered, he would definitely be called. He was drinking coffee. But this year the phone rang even earlier - already at half past ten.

The commissioner immediately picked up the phone and said hello.

“The mail has already been delivered,” he heard a familiar voice.

- And what is the flower this year?

- I don’t know yet what sort it is. But I hope that experts will be able to determine. It is white.

- And again, no letter?

- No, there is no letter. Only a flower. And the frame is the same as last time. Homemade.

- And the stamp?

- Stockholm.

- And the handwriting?

- As always, large block letters, straight and neat.

At this, the conversation ended itself, and they were silent for a little longer, each at his own end of the telephone line. The ex-commissioner leaned back in his chair and fired up his pipe. He understood that sharp tricky questions were no longer expected from him, the answers to which could clarify the situation or shed new light on the matter. Well, those times are long gone, and the conversation between two men of a very respectable age was more like a ritual associated with a riddle, to the solution of which, except for them, no one else in the whole world showed any interest.

In the official catalog of plants in Latin, the flower was called Leptospermum (Myrtaceae) rubinette... It was a nondescript twig of a heather-like shrub, about twelve centimeters high, with small leaves and a white flower of five petals two centimeters long.

This flora was native to the Australian bush and mountainous regions, where it formed dense bushy thickets.

In Australia it was known as Desert Snow2
Desert snow ( english).

Later, an expert from the Uppsala Botanical Garden will clarify that this plant is rarely grown in Sweden. In her reference, the botanist claimed that it is combined into one family with Rosenmyrten and is often confused with its more widespread related species - Leptospermum scoparium- which is typical of New Zealand. The difference, according to the expert, is that the rubinette there are several microscopic pink dots on the tips of the petals, which give the flower a delicate pinkish tint.

Generally rubinette was an extremely unassuming flower and had no commercial value. It lacked any medicinal or hallucinogenic properties, it was not suitable for food, could not be used as a spice or used in the manufacture of vegetable dyes. True, the aborigines - the indigenous population of Australia, considered it sacred, but only together with the entire territory of Ayers Rock 3
Formed about 680 million years ago in Australia, a massive orange-brown oval rock.

And her flora. Thus, we can say that the only reason for the existence of this work of nature was to delight others with its discreet beauty.

And a botanist from Uppsala noted that if for Australia Desert Snow is a rather exotic plant, then for Scandinavia it is completely a wonder. She herself did not see a single specimen, but from a conversation with colleagues she knew about attempts to breed it in one of the gardens of Gothenburg, and it is possible that gardeners and amateur botanists grow it in different places for their own whim in greenhouses. It takes a lot of effort to breed it in Sweden, as it needs a mild, dry climate and needs to be kept indoors during the winter months. It does not take root on lime soil, and water must flow to it from below, directly to the root - in other words, it requires super-delicate handling.

The fact that the flower is a rarity in Sweden could theoretically make it easier to find out the origin of this specimen, but in practice this task turned out to be simply hopeless. There are no catalogs and no licenses to browse and study. Nobody knew how many gardeners in general tried to breed this capricious plant. The number of hobbyists with access to seeds or seedlings could range from a few hobbyists to a few hundred. They could buy seeds themselves or receive them by mail from anywhere in Europe, from some other gardener or from a botanical garden. Who could have sworn that the flower was not delivered directly from Australia? In other words, hardly anyone would undertake to identify one or two gardeners among the millions of Swedes who have a greenhouse in the garden or a flowerpot in the living room window.

Of course, this is just one of the many mysterious flowers that invariably arrived by November 1st in a thick postal envelope. The flowers changed every time, but they were all beautiful and usually exotic. As always, the flower was dried, carefully attached to drawing paper, and inserted into a simple glass frame measuring sixteen by twenty-nine centimeters.

This mysterious story with flowers has not yet leaked into the media and became public, only a limited circle of initiates knew about it. Thirty years ago, the annually arriving flowers were subjected to careful research - they were studied in the state laboratory of forensic examination; the package was handled by criminologists and graphologists, criminal police investigators, as well as relatives and friends of the addressee. Now only three were involved in this drama: the aged hero of the occasion, the retired policeman - and, of course, the anonymous sender of the gift. Since at least the first two characters were already at such an advanced age that it was time for them to prepare for the inevitable finale, the circle of interested persons could soon become fatally narrowed.

The veteran of the police has seen a lot in his lifetime. He will forever remember his first case, when he was required to put a violent and drunk electrician behind bars, until he harmed himself or someone else. Throughout his life, he has arrested poachers, husbands who mistreated their wives, crooks, car thieves and drunk drivers. He has met burglars, robbers, drug dealers, rapists and at least one more or less crazy demolition man.

He participated in the investigation of nine murders. In five cases, the killer himself called the police and, filled with remorse, confessed that he had taken the life of his wife, brother, or someone else close to him. In three cases, the perpetrators had to be tracked down: two of these atrocities were solved a few days later, and one - two years later, thanks to the involvement of the state criminal police.

During the investigation of the ninth murder, the police managed to figure out the culprit, but the evidence was so inconclusive that the prosecutor had to drop his charges. And after a while the case, to the displeasure of the commissioner, was closed - due to the expiration of the statute of limitations. On the whole, however, he could look back with satisfaction on the years he had lived and on his impressive career - and, it would seem, feel quite comfortable.

But the fact of the matter is that he was not happy.

The Commissioner was haunted by the story of the dried flowers; she, like a splinter, entered his heart - he never solved this criminal riddle, although he devoted a lot of time to her. And this failure infuriated him. And before retirement, and after, he thought about this matter for thousands of hours, without any exaggeration. But he could not even say with certainty whether there was a crime in principle, and this made the situation even more hopeless.

Both interlocutors knew that the person who framed the flower under the glass wore gloves and did not leave fingerprints. They knew that tracking down the sender was unrealistic: there was simply no clue to investigate. The frame could be bought at a photo studio or in a stationery store anywhere in the world. No evidence. The postmark changed: most often it showed Stockholm, three times - London, twice Paris and Copenhagen, once Madrid, once - Bonn, and once a completely mysterious version - Pensacola 4
The administrative center of Escambia County, the westernmost county in Florida.

USA. If the capitals mentioned were well known, then the name of Pensacola did not say anything to the commissioner, and he had to look for this city in the atlas.

After they said goodbye, the eighty-two-year-old hero of the occasion sat for a while, looking at a beautiful but useless Australian flower, the name of which he did not yet know. Then he glanced at the wall above the desk. There, in glazed frames, hung forty-three dried flowers - four rows of ten each, and one unfinished row with four plants. The top row was missing one frame - seat number nine was empty. Desert Snow will become number forty-four.

However, now something has happened that has never happened in previous years. The old commissar suddenly burst into tears. He himself was surprised by this unexpected explosion of emotions, which happened for the first time in the past nearly forty years.

Part 1
Stimulus
December 20 - January 3

18% of women in Sweden have been threatened by men at least once.

Chapter 1
Friday 20 December

The trial inevitably came to an end, and with it all this pretentious talking shop. He did not doubt for a second that he would be judged. The written verdict was given to him on Friday at ten in the morning, and now he only had to answer the closing questions of reporters waiting in the corridor outside the doors of the district court.

Seeing them in the doorway, Mikael Blomkvist slowed down slightly for a second. He was not at all eager to enter into a discussion with them regarding the sentence he had just passed, but it seems that there is no escape from questions. And he, like no one else, understood that they would certainly be asked and that they would have to be answered.

This is what it means to be a criminal, he thought. "This is how it feels to be on the other side of the microphone."

Mikael tensed, but then straightened up and forced himself to smile. The reporters smiled back and nodded at him friendly and even somewhat embarrassed.

- Where are you from? Let's take a look ... Aftonbladet, Expresssen, Telegraph Agency, TV channel? 4 ... Where are you from? .. Huh? Huh? Ah, Dagens Industry 5
The titles of the leading Swedish newspapers.

I must have already become a celebrity, - he stated.

“Throw us a duck, Kalle Blomkvist,” a reporter from one of the evening papers said to him.

His full name was Karl Mikael Blomkvist, and when he heard the baby's nickname, he, as always, could hardly restrain himself from breaking. Twenty years ago, when he was just twenty-three years old and he was an aspiring journalist who got his first summer temporary job, Mikael Blomkvist unexpectedly exposed a gang that had carried out five raids on banks in two years. Judging by the handwriting of these daring crimes, in all cases the same robbers were operating: they usually drove into small towns and purposefully robbed one or two banks in a row. The criminals used latex masks from Disney films, and the police, without straining their imaginations too much, christened them the Kalle Anki gang. 6
Kalle Anka is a Swedish version of the Disney cartoon character, Donald Duck's duckling.

However, in the newspapers they were called the Bear Gang, since the robbers twice acted in cold blood and cruelty, fired warning shots and threatened passers-by or simply curious, without fear of harming others.

They made a sixth attack on a bank in the province of Esterötland in the middle of summer. A local radio reporter accidentally ended up at a bank during a robbery and reacted in full compliance with the professional code. As soon as the robbers left the scene of the crime, he went to a pay phone and reported everything live.

And Mikael Blomkvist just for a few days came with a girl he knew to rest and settled in her parents' summer house in the vicinity of Katrineholm. Why exactly at that moment he turned on the radio, Mikael could not say, even when he was later interrogated by the police, but upon hearing this news, he immediately remembered a company of four guys who lived in a dacha two or three hundred meters away. He met them a few days ago, when he and a friend, deciding to buy ice cream, were passing by this site, and the guys were playing badminton there.

Mikael saw four fair-haired, well-trained young men with muscled muscles and shorts. They played under the scorching sun with some kind of aggressive energy - as if it was not just a pastime, and, perhaps, that's why they caught Blomkvist's attention.

Inexplicably, but for some reason he began to suspect them of robbing a bank. Mikael walked in that direction and sat down on the hillock. From here he could clearly see the house, which looked empty at the moment. About forty minutes later a Volvo car with the whole company was parked on the site. The guys seemed to be in a great hurry, and each of them was carrying a gym bag. In theory, this could well mean that they just went somewhere to swim. But one of them returned to the car and pulled out an object, which he hastily covered with a jacket. Mikael, even from a relatively distant distance, was able to determine that it was the good old "AK? 4" 7
"AK? 4" is an automatic assault rifle, licensed version of the German HK G3, \u200b\u200bwhich has been in service with the Swedish army since the 1960s.

Of those with which he recently, passing military service, did not part for a whole year. So he called the police and shared his thoughts. After that, for three days, the house was tightly cordoned off by the police; of course, representatives of the press also came in large numbers here, who closely followed what was happening. Since Mikael was in the thick of things, one of the evening papers paid him a pretty decent jackpot for reporting from the scene. Even their headquarters, set up in a mobile home on wheels, the police placed in the courtyard of the house where Mikael lived.

After the "bears" were caught, Mikael became a real star. So for the career of a young journalist, this crime drama came in handy. Of course, a fly in the ointment was also mixed with the barrel of honey - one of the two evening newspapers could not resist the temptation and titled the report only as "Kalle Blomkvist exposes the criminals." 8
The hero of Astrid Lindgren's book "The Adventures of Kalle Blomkvist" is the boy Kalle, who dreamed of becoming a detective.

To top it all off, the newspaper posted a not very good blurry photo in which Mikael stood with his mouth half open and his pointing finger raised and, it seems, was giving some instructions to a policeman in uniform. In fact, he was just showing the way to the country toilet.

Throughout his life, Mikael Blomkvist never called himself Karl or signed an article with the name Karl Blomkvist. But what did it matter now? After all, since then, fellow journalists have nicknamed him Kalle Blomkvist, which did not please him at all, and they pronounced this name, albeit friendly, but with some mockery. With all due respect to Astrid Lindgren - and Mikael loved her books very much - he hated his nickname. Several years passed, he became a famous and recognized journalist, and this name began to be forgotten. But still, when someone nearby called the name of Kalle Blomkvist, he could hardly contain himself.

Mikael smiled amiably at the reporter from the evening paper.

- Think of something yourself. You are a lot to compose all sorts of things.

He spoke without dislike. Mikael was more or less familiar with everyone present, and his worst ill-wishers preferred not to come here at all. He used to work with one of the reporters, and "Tu, from the TV channel? 4" a few years ago he almost picked up at a party.

“Well, they asked you a decent rustle,” said the guy from the Dagens Industri newspaper, young, obviously from the corps of freelance correspondents.

“Actually, yes,” Mikael admitted.

What to do, sometimes lying and pretending does not work.

- So what, how do you feel?

Neither Mikael nor the older journalists could contain a smile, despite the fact that the situation was clearly not conducive to humor. Mikael glanced at the journalist from TV channel 4.

"How do you feel?"

"Serious journalists" have always argued that this is the only question that untalented sports reporters can ask a breathless athlete after the finish.

But Mikael pulled himself together.

“Of course, I can only regret that the court did not come to other conclusions,” he replied, hiding under the guise of officialdom.

“Three months in prison and compensation of one hundred and fifty thousand crowns is a tangible blow,” said “That, from TV channel? 4”.

- What can you do, I have to go through it.

- Will you ask Wennerström for forgiveness? Will you shake his hand?

- Hardly. I have not changed my mind about the moral side of the business that Mr. Wennerström is doing.

- So you still claim that he is a scoundrel? - the representative of "Dagens Industry" immediately roused himself.

After such a question, a scandalous article with a catchy headline could appear in the newspaper. Mikael might well have fallen into a trap, but the reporter too helpfully brought the microphone to him, and he picked up the danger signal.

A few minutes ago, the court ruled that Mikael Blomkvist had infringed the honor and dignity of the financier Hans Erik Wennerström. The indictment was for libel. The trial was over, and Mikael was not going to appeal the verdict. But what if he imprudently repeats his accusations right here on the steps of the town hall?

Mikael decided that he should not tempt fate, so he did not answer right away.

“I thought I had good reason to publish the information I had obtained. But the court rejected my arguments, and, of course, I must come to terms with the results of the trial. Now we in the editorial office will analyze the verdict, and then decide what to do next. That's all I can say.

- And you, by chance, have not forgotten that a journalist is obliged to rely on facts? - quite sharply asked "Ta, from the TV channel? 4".

It was pointless to unlock. Previously, they were considered good friends with her. Now her face remained unperturbed, but Mikael thought that disappointment and detachment appeared in her gaze.

Blomkvist continued to answer questions for several more painful minutes. The question literally hung in the air: how could he write an article that was not supported by evidence and had no facts on hand? But none of the reporters dared to ask this question. Perhaps they just didn't want to corner him. All journalists present, with the exception of a trainee from Dagens Industry, were hardened newspaper wolves. And everything that happened before their eyes seemed mystic.

A representative of TV channel 4 detained Mikael in front of the entrance to the town hall, where she asked her questions separately from everyone else, standing in front of the camera. She behaved quite correctly, contrary to his expectations. In the end, she managed to get him to talk, to the delight of all the reporters gathered here. This story, of course, will take up whole strips, you can't go anywhere. Still, Blomkvist understood that for the media, everything that happened to him was not the most important event of the year.

Having grabbed the coveted prey, the reporters went to their editorial offices.

Mikael wanted to walk a little, but the December day turned out to be windy, and he was already completely frozen, communicating with colleagues. He was already left alone on the steps of the town hall, when he accidentally caught William Borg with his eyes. He got out of the car in which he was while Mikael talked to reporters. Their gazes met and William smiled.

- Wow, how lucky I am! I came here to see you with this paper in hand.

Mikael didn't answer. She and William Borg had known each other for fifteen years - once worked together as freelancers in the economics department of one of the morning newspapers. It was then that they disliked each other.

Mikael considered Borg a mediocre reporter and a repulsive, petty and vindictive type who pestered those around him with flat jokes and did not speak too respectfully about more successful and experienced journalists. However, it seemed that he especially disliked experienced journalists. They never found a common language, after the first quarrel, further skirmishes followed, and over time, their mutual hostility became irresistible.

From time to time, Mikael did clash with William Borg, but in the late 1990s they became real enemies. Blomkvist wrote a book on economic journalism, where he often quoted his colleagues. More often than not, he cited excerpts from the mass of mediocre articles signed by the Borg. According to Mikael, he turned up his nose too much, misinterpreted the vast majority of facts and praised dot-coms immensely 9
Companies doing business on the Internet.

Soon they took the path of bankruptcy. And Borg, it seems, was dissatisfied with the work of Mikael, and at one of the chance meetings in one of the restaurants in the Söder area, they almost got into a fight. Around the same time, William left journalism and now worked in a PR agency of one of the firms. There he received a much higher salary than before, and the company was in the sphere of interests of the magnate Hans Erik Wennerström.