Isabella's neighbour was Cecilia Vanger, the daughter of Harald.

"She was married once and lived in Hedestad, but she and her husband separated some twenty years ago. I own the house and offered to let her move in. She is a teacher, and in many ways she's the direct opposite of her father. I might add that she and her father speak to each other only when necessary."

"How old is she?"

"Born in 1946. So she was twenty when Harriet disappeared. And yes, she was one of the guests on the island that day. Cecilia may seem flighty, but in fact she's shrewder than most. Don't underestimate her. If anyone's going to ferret out what you're up to, she's the one. I might add that she's one of my relatives for whom I have the highest regard."

"Does that mean that you don't suspect her?"

"I wouldn't say that. I want you to ponder the matter without any constraints, regardless of what I think or believe."

The house closest to Cecilia's was also owned by Henrik Vanger, but it was leased to an elderly couple formerly part of the management team of the Vanger companies. They had moved to Hedeby Island in the eighties, so they had nothing to do with Harriet's disappearance. The next house was owned by Birger Vanger, Cecilia's brother. The house had been empty for many years since Birger moved to a modern house in Hedestad.

Most of the buildings lining the road were solid stone structures from the early twentieth century. The last house was of a different type, a modern, architect-designed home built of white brick with black window frames. It was in a beautiful situation, and Blomkvist could see that the view from the top floor must be magnificent, facing the sea to the east and Hedestad to the north.

"This is where Martin lives - Harriet's brother and the Vanger Corporation CEO. The parsonage used to be here, but that building was destroyed by a fire in the seventies, and Martin built this house in 1978 when he took over as CEO."

In the last building on the east side of the road lived Gerda Vanger, widow of Henrik's brother Greger, and her son, Alexander.

"Gerda is sickly. She suffers from rheumatism. Alexander owns a small share of the Vanger Corporation, but he runs a number of his own businesses, including restaurants. He usually spends a few months each year in Barbados, where he has invested a considerable sum in the tourist trade."

Between Gerda's and Henrik's houses was a plot of land with two smaller, empty buildings. They were used as guest houses for family members. On the other side of Henrik's house stood a private dwelling where another retired employee lived with his wife, but it was empty in the winter when the couple repaired to Spain.

They returned to the crossroads, and with that the tour was over. Dusk was beginning to fall. Blomkvist took the initiative.

"Henrik, I'll do what I've been hired to do. I'll write your autobiography, and I'll humour you by reading all the material about Harriet as carefully and critically as I can. I just want you to realise that I'm not a private detective."

"I expect nothing."

"Fine."

"I'm a night owl," Vanger said. "So I'm at your disposal any time after lunch. I'll arrange for you to have an office up here, and you can make use of it whenever you like."

"No, thank you. I have an office in the guest house, and that's where I'll do my work."

"As you wish."

"If I need to talk to you, we'll do it in your office, but I'm not going to start throwing questions at you tonight."

"I understand." The old man seemed improbably timid.

"It's going to take a couple of weeks to read through the papers. We'll work on two fronts. We'll meet for a few hours each day so that I can interview you and gather material for your biography. When I start having questions about Harriet which I need to discuss with you, I'll let you know."

"That sounds sensible."

"I'm going to require a free hand to do my work, and I won't have any set work hours."

"You decide for yourself how the work should be done."

"I suppose you're aware that I have to spend a couple of months in prison. I don't know exactly when, but I'm not going to appeal. It'll probably be sometime this year."

Vanger frowned. "That's unfortunate. We'll have to solve that problem when it comes up. You can always request a postponement."

"If it's permitted and I have enough material, I might be able to work on your book in prison. One more thing: I'm still part owner of Millennium and as of now it's a magazine in crisis. If something happens that requires my presence in Stockholm, I would have to drop what I'm doing and go there."

"I didn't take you on as a serf. I want you to do a thorough job on the assignment I've given you, but, of course, you can set your own schedule and do the work as you see fit. If you need to take some time off, feel free to do it, but if I find out that you're not doing the work, I'll consider that a breach of contract."

Vanger looked over towards the bridge. He was a gaunt man, and Blomkvist thought that he looked at that moment like a melancholy scarecrow.

"As far as Millennium is concerned, we ought to have a discussion about what kind of crisis it's in and whether I can help in some way."

"The best assistance you can offer is to give me Wennerstrom's head on a platter right here and now."

"Oh no, I'm not thinking of doing that." The old man gave Blomkvist a hard look. "The only reason you took this job was because I promised to expose Wennerstrom. If I give you the information now, you could stop work on the job whenever you felt like it. I'll give you the information a year from now."

"Henrik, forgive me for saying this, but I can't be sure that a year from now you'll be alive."

Vanger sighed and cast a thoughtful gaze over the fishing harbour.

"Fair enough. I'll talk to Frode and see if we can work something out. But as far as Millennium is concerned, I might be able to help in another way. As I understand it, the advertisers have begun to pull out."

"The advertisers are the immediate problem, but the crisis goes deeper than that. It's a matter of trust. It doesn't matter how many advertisers we have if no-one wants to buy the magazine."

"I realise that. I'm still on the board of directors of quite a large corporation, albeit in a passive role. We have to place advertisements somewhere. Let's discuss the matter at some stage. Would you like to have dinner..."

"No. I want to get settled, buy some groceries, and take a look around. Tomorrow I'll go to Hedestad and shop for winter clothes."

"Good idea."

"I'd like the files about Harriet to be moved over to my place."

"They need to be handled..."

"With great care - I understand."

Blomkvist returned to the guest house. His teeth were chattering by the time he got indoors. The thermometer outside the window said 5°F, and he couldn't remember ever feeling so cold as after that walk, which had lasted barely twenty minutes.

He spent an hour settling himself into what was to be his home for the coming year. He put his clothes in the wardrobe in the bedroom, his toiletries went in the bathroom cabinet. His second suitcase was actually a trunk on wheels. From it he took books, CDs and a CD player, notebooks, a Sanyo tape recorder, a Microtek scanner, a portable ink-jet printer, a Minolta digital camera, and a number of other items he regarded as essential kit for a year in exile.

He arranged the books and the CDs on the bookshelf in the office alongside two binders containing research material on Hans-Erik Wennerstrom. The material was useless, but he could not let it go. Somehow he had to turn those two folders into building blocks for his continuing career.

Finally he opened his shoulder bag and put his iBook on the desk in the office. Then he stopped and looked about him with a sheepish expression. The benefits of living in the countryside, forsooth. There was nowhere to plug in the broadband cable. He did not even have a telephone jack to connect an old dial-up modem.

Blomkvist called the Telia telephone company from his mobile. After a slight hassle, he managed to get someone to find the order that Vanger had placed for the guest house. He wanted to know whether the connection could handle ADSL and was told that it would be possible by way of a relay in Hedeby, and that it would take several days.

It was after 4:00 by the time Blomkvist was done. He put on a pair of thick socks and the borrowed boots and pulled on an extra sweater. At the front door he stopped short; he had been given no keys to the house, and his big-city instincts rebelled at the idea of leaving the front door unlocked. He went back to the kitchen and began opening drawers. Finally he found a key hanging from a nail in the pantry.

The temperature had dropped to -1°F. He walked briskly across the bridge and up the hill past the church. The Konsum store was conveniently located about three hundred yards away. He filled two paper bags to overflowing with supplies and then carried them home before returning across the bridge. This time he stopped at Susanne's Bridge Cafe. The woman behind the counter was in her fifties. He asked whether she was Susanne and then introduced himself by saying that he was undoubtedly going to be a regular customer. He was for the time being the only customer, and Susanne offered him coffee when he ordered sandwiches and bought a loaf of bread. He picked up a copy of the Hedestad Courier from the newspaper rack and sat at a table with a view of the bridge and the church, its facade now lit up. It looked like a Christmas card. It took him about four minutes to read the newspaper. The only news of interest was a brief item explaining that a local politician by the name of Birger Vanger (Liberal) was going to invest in "IT TechCent" - a technology development centre in Hedestad. Mikael sat there until the cafe closed at 6:00.

At 7:30 he called Berger, but was advised that the party at that number was not available. He sat on the kitchen bench and tried to read a novel which, according to the back cover text, was the sensational debut of a teenage feminist. The novel was about the author's attempt to get a handle on her sex life during a trip to Paris, and Blomkvist wondered whether he could be called a feminist if he wrote a novel about his own sex life in the voice of a high-school student. Probably not. He had bought the book because the publisher had hailed the first-time novelist as "a new Carina Rydberg." He quickly ascertained that this was not the case in either style or content. He put the book aside for a while and instead read a Hopalong Cassidy story in an issue of Rekordmagasinet from the mid-fifties.

Every half hour he heard the curt, muted clang of the church bell. Lights were visible in the windows at the home of the caretaker across the road, but Blomkvist could not see anyone inside the house. Harald Vanger's house was dark. Around 9:00 a car drove across the bridge and disappeared towards the point. At midnight the lights on the facade of the church were turned off. That was apparently the full extent of the entertainment in Hedeby on a Friday night in early January. It was eerily quiet.

He tried again to call Berger and got her voicemail, asking him to leave his name and a message. He did so and then turned off the light and went to bed. The last thing he thought about before he fell asleep was that he was going to run a high risk of going stir-crazy in Hedeby.

It was strange to awake to utter silence. Blomkvist passed from deep sleep to total alertness in a fraction of a second, and then lay still, listening. It was cold in the room. He turned his head and looked at his wristwatch on a stool next to the bed. It was 7:08 - he had never been much of a morning person, and it used to be hard for him to wake up without having at least two alarm clocks. Today he had woken all by himself, and he even felt rested.

He put some water on for coffee before getting into the shower. He was suddenly amused at his situation. Kalle Blomkvist - on a research trip in the back of beyond.

The shower head changed from scalding to ice-cold at the slightest touch. There was no morning paper on the kitchen table. The butter was frozen. There was no cheese slicer in the drawer of kitchen utensils. It was still pitch dark outside. The thermometer showed 6 below zero. It was Saturday.

The bus stop for Hedestad was over the road from Konsum, and Blomkvist started off his exile by carrying out his plan to go shopping in town. He got off the bus by the railway station and made a tour of the centre of town. Along the way he bought heavy winter boots, two pairs of long underwear, several flannel shirts, a proper thigh-length winter jacket, a warm cap, and lined gloves. At the electronics store he found a small portable TV with rabbit ears. The sales clerk assured him that he would at least be able to get SVT, the state TV channel, out at Hedeby, and Blomkvist promised to ask for his money back if that turned out not to be the case.

He stopped at the library to get himself a card and borrowed two mysteries by Elizabeth George. He bought pens and notebooks. He also bought a rucksack for carrying his new possessions.

Finally he bought a pack of cigarettes. He had stopped smoking ten years ago, but occasionally he would have a relapse. He stuck the pack in his jacket pocket without opening it. His last stop was the optician's, and there he bought contact lens solution and ordered new lenses.

By 2:00 he was back in Hedeby, and he was just removing the price tags from his new clothes when he heard the front door open. A blonde woman - perhaps in her fifties - knocked on the open kitchen door as she stepped across the threshold. She was carrying a sponge cake on a platter.

"Hello. I just wanted to come over to introduce myself. My name is Helena Nilsson, and I live across the road. I hear we're going to be neighbours."

They shook hands and he introduced himself.

"Oh yes, I've seen you on TV. It's going to be nice to see lights over here in the evening."