Anders Roslund: Three Seconds

He looked at the watch. Five to eight.

He would wait a little longer; it was the guards coming off duty and on their way home, he had to avoid them, they had seen his face. He stood waiting for fifteen minutes more, the dark substation and fifty-seven yellow and red and green lights around him.

Now.

Several of them, and at this time of day, it could only be the night shift. The ones that clocked in after lock-up, who never met the prisoners and therefore didn't know what they looked like.

His hearing was dramatically impaired but he was certain that they had passed. He unlocked the door, opened it, went out and closed it again.

Three wardens with their backs to him about twenty meters down the passage that linked Block G with central security. One was roughly his age, the others much younger and presumably newly qualified, on their way to one of their first workplaces. At the end of May Aspsås prison was always affected by the large influx of summer temps who, after a mere one-hour introduction and a two-day course, put on their uniforms and started to work.

They had stopped in front of one of the locked security doors that divided the passage up into smaller sections and he hurried to catch up. The older one was holding a set of keys and had just unlocked the door when he came up behind them.

"Can you wait for me, please?"

They turned around, looked at him, up and down.

"I'm a bit behind."

"On your way home?"

"Yes:"

The guard didn't sound like he suspected anything when he spoke; it had been a friendly question, between colleagues.

"You new?"

"So new that I haven't got my own keys yet."

"Less than two days then?"

"Started yesterday."

"Just like these TWO. Third day for you all tomorrow. Your first key day." He followed behind them.

They had seen him. They had spoken to him.

Now he was just one of four wardens walking together down a prison passage toward central security and the big gate there.

They parted at the stairs that went up to Block A and an eleven-hour shift. He wished them a good night and they looked with envy at their colleague who was about to go home for an evening off.

He stood in the middle of the reception area. There were three doors to choose from.

The first was diagonally opposite him-a visiting room for a woman or a friend or a policeman or a lawyer. It was there that Stefan Lygis had sat when he was told that there was an informant, a snitch in the organization, someone had whispered so someone must die.

The second one was directly behind him, the door that opened on to the corridor that ended in Block G. He almost laughed-he could walk back to his own cell dressed in uniform.

He looked at the third door.

The way past central security and the ever-watchful TV monitors and numbered switches that meant that all the locked doors in the prison could be opened from the large glass box.

There were two people sitting in there. At the front a fairly plump guard with a dark unkempt beard and a tie thrown over his shoulder. Behind him another, considerably slimmer, man with his back to the exit-he couldn't see his face but guessed he was around fifty and probably had some kind of senior position. He took a deep breath, stretched and tried to walk straight: the explosion that had taken both eardrums had also played havoc with his balance.

"Going home in your uniform? Already?"

"Sorry?"

The guard with the round face and sparse beard looked at him. "You're one of the new ones, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"And you're going home in your uniform already?"

"Just the way it worked."

The guard smiled-he was in no rush, some more empty words and the evening would be shorter.

"It's warm out. Darn nice evening."

"I'm sure it is."

"Going straight home?"

The guard leaned to one side and moved a small fan that was standing on the desk, fresh air in the stuffy room. It was easier to see the other man, the one who was thin and sitting on a chair at the back.

He recognized him.

"I think so."

"Someone waiting for you?"

Lennart Oscarsson.

The chief warden he had assaulted a few days ago in a cell in the voluntary isolation unit, a fist in the middle of his face.

"Not at home. But we're meeting again tomorrow. It's been a while." Oscarsson snapped shut the file and turned around.

He looked over at him.

He looked but didn't react.

"Not at home? I had one once, a family that is, but well, I don't know, it just, you know-"

"You'll have to excuse me."

"What?"

"I haven't got time."

His tie was still flung over his shoulder, there were bits of food on it, or maybe it was just wet and lying there to dry.

"Haven't got time? Who does have time?"

The guard pulled his beard, flared his nostrils, his eyes hurt.

"But by all means. Go. I'll open for you."

Two steps up to the metal detector.

Then two steps to the door that was opened from inside the glass box.

Piet Hoffmann turned around, nodded to the guard who was waving his hands around in irritation.

Lennart Oscarsson was still there, right behind him.

Their eyes met again.

He expected someone to start shouting, to come running.

But not a word, not a movement.

The man who was clean-shaven with cropped hair and wearing a warden's uniform when he disappeared out through the gate in the prison wall may have seemed familiar but he didn't have a name-the summer temps seldom did-this one smiled when his face was brushed by the warm wind. It was going to be a lovely evening.

Ewert Grens was sitting at his desk in front of a bookshelf with a hole that could not be filled, no matter how hard he tried, and the dust lay in straight lines no matter how often he wiped it away. He had been sitting there for nearly three hours. And he would continue to sit there until he had worked our whether what he had just seen was something he should be concerned about or whether it was just one of those moments that seemed to be important but that lost all significance if it wasn't shared with someone else.

The day had started with a beautiful morning.

He had slept on the brown corduroy sofa with the window to the courtyard open and had been woken by the first trucks on Bergsgatan. He had stood for a while looking up at the blue sky and gentle wind and then, with a coffee cup in each hand, had gone to the elevators and the remand jail a couple of floors up.

He couldn't resist it.

If you were there early enough and it was clear enough, at this time of day, for a few hours, you could walk along the obvious line cast by the sun in the corridor of the remand jail. This morning he had walked where the floor shone most, making sure to pass the cells where he knew they were in custody for the third day with full restrictions. Ågestam had been careful to ensure that they would wait for most of the statutory seventy-two hours and later that day Grens would attend the court proceedings for the issue of arrest warrants for a chief superintendent, a national police commissioner, and a state secretary from the Ministry of Justice.

The hole on the bookshelf It was as if it was growing.

It would continue to do so until he had made up his mind.

He had spent two days fast forwarding and rewinding tapes from the security cameras at Aspsås prison, frame by frame through locked doors and long passages and gray walls and barbed wire barriers back to those seconds that exploded with thick smoke and dead people. He had studied

Krantz's forensic reports and Errfors' autopsy report and all Sven's and Hermansson's interviews.