Anders Roslund - Three Seconds

Ewert Grens got up and went out into the corridor.

The feeling that the truth was laughing at him got stronger. He tried to catch it and it just slipped through his fingers.

He had spent two hours studying three personal ID numbers in the Police Authority's databases-page after page with lists of ARREST WARRANT INFORMATION, IDENTIFICATION INFORMATION, CRIMINAL RECORDS, INTELLIGENCE INFORMATION, PERSONAL HEALTH-and he had got a number of hits. All three had previous convictions, all three names were in the criminal intelligence database and suspects' register, they had all given fingerprints, two were in the DNA register and had been wanted at some point, and at least one of them was a previously confirmed gang member. Grens hadn't been entirely surprised, as more and more people moved in a gray zone where knowledge of crime was a prerequisite for knowing about security.

He walked a couple of doors down the corridor. He should perhaps have knocked, but seldom did.

"I need your help."

The room was considerably bigger than his and he didn't come here very often.

"How can I help you?"

It wasn't something they'd ever talked about. But in some way they had just agreed. In order to work together, they made sure they never met. "Västmannagatan."

Chief Superintendent Göransson has no piles of paper on his desk, no empty paper cups, no crumbs from artificial cakes from the vending machine. "Västmannagatan?"

So he can't understand where it's coming from; this feeling of discomfort, that there's no room.

"That says nothing to me."

"The killing. I'm investigating the last names and want to check them against the firearms register."

Göransson nodded, turned to his computer and logged on to the register which only a few authorized people had access to, for security reasons. "You're standing too close, Ewert."

The discomfort.

"What do you mean?"

It came from inside.

"Can you move back a couple of steps?"

Whatever it was that demanded more space.

Göransson was looking at a person he didn't like and who didn't like him, so they seldom got in each other's way. That was all there was to it. "Personal ID?"

"721018-0010. 660531-2559. 580219-3672."

Three personal ID numbers. Three names on the screen.

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

Västmannagatan.

Suddenly he understood.

"Göransson? Did you hear? I want everything."

That name.

"One of them has a license. For work, plus four hunting guns." "Guns for work?"

"Pistols."

"Make?"

"Radom."

"Caliber?"

"Nine millimeter."

The name that was still blinking on the screen.

"Damn it, Göransson. Damn it!"

The detective superintendent had gotten up quickly and was already halfway out the door.

"But we already have access to them, Ewert."

Grens stopped mid-step.

"What do you mean?"

"There's a memorandum here. All the weapons have been seized. Krantz has them, no doubt." " Why?"

"It doesn't say. You'll have to ask him."

The dull sound of a heavy body limping away down the corridor. Chief Superintendent Göransson didn't have the energy to fight the feeling that something was afoot, the dread that made him shrivel inside. He looked at the name on the screen for a long time.

Piet Hoffmann.

Ewert Grens would only have to press a few buttons and make a couple of phone calls to find the registered gun-owner's current domicile and then go to the small town with a big prison to the north of the city and he would question him until he got the answer he mustn't get.

What wasn't meant to happen had just happened.

Piet Hoffmann waited behind the locked toilet door until he was absolutely sure he was alone.

Elastic, spoon, plastic bag.

This was exactly how he had hidden drugs and syringes in Österåker. Lorentz had told him that it still worked despite the fact that it was so damn simple. Maybe that was why. No guard in any prison would search the actual toilet U-bend.

The cistern, the drains, the waste pipe under the sink, hiding places that you might as well forget these days. But the U-bend, after all these years, they still had no idea.

He put the elastic, the bent spoon, and the plastic bag full of amphetamine down on the filthy toilet floor. He attached the plastic bag to one end of the elastic and the spoon to the other, then got down on his knees beside the toilet bowl, holding the plastic bag in his hand and pushing it as far down the pipe as he could, stretching the elastic. His arm and sleeve were wet up to his shoulder when he flushed and the pressure of the water pushed the plastic bag even farther down the pipe, the bent spoon catching on the edge of the pipe. He waited, flushed again. The elastic should stretch even more and the plastic bag would be suspended at the other end somewhere far down the pipe.

You couldn't see the spoon that was hooked over the edge of the pipe, holding the plastic bag in place.

But it would be easy to get hold of next time.

Down on his knees, hand in the wet, carefully haul it in.

Ewert Grens had left Göransson and the Homicide offices, and the truth that he couldn't quite grasp wasn't laughing so loud now. Radom. For the first time since the preliminary investigation started he had a lead, a name. Nine millimeter. Someone who might be the link to an execution.

Pier Hoffmann.

A name he had never heard before.

But who owned a security firm that got official bodyguard jobs from Wojtek International when there were state visits. And who had a license for Polish-manufactured guns, for work purposes, despite having served a five-year sentence for aggravated assault. Guns which, according to the register, were already in the hands of the police. Seized two weeks ago.

Ewert Grens got out of the elevator on his way to the forensics unit.

He had a name.

Soon he would have more.

Piet Hoffmann had sore knees when he got up off the toiler floor and listened to the silence. He had flushed twice more, listened again, but there were still no other sounds when he unlocked the door and went out into the corridor, making it look like he'd been sitting in there for a while, dicky tummy that took its time. He went over to the TV corner, shuffled a pack of cards, made it look like he was entertaining himself for a few minutes, while he sneaked a look over at the wardens' office and the kitchen in order to locate the guards that ran around in the unit.

Faces that were turned away, uniformed backs doing something. He held up his middle finger, that usually got them moving.

Nothing. No one reacted, no one saw.

The others still had an hour left of their afternoon stint in the classroom and workshop, the corridor was empty, the screws were some place else. Now.

He walked toward the row of cells. A quick look back at nothing. He opened the door to number 2.

The Greek's cell.

It looked the same, the same damn bed and the same damn wardrobe and chair and bedside table. It smelled different, stuffy, maybe sour, but it was just as fucking warm and the air he breathed was just as dusty. A photo of a child on the wall, a girl with long dark hair, another photo of a woman, his daughter's mother, Hoffmann was convinced.

If anyone opened the door.

If anyone saw what he was holding in his hand right now, what he was about to do.

He gave a start, just an instant-he mustn't start to feel.

Not many injections or snorts-thirteen or fourteen grams-but enough in here, enough for a new judgment and extended sentence and immediate removal to another prison.

Thirteen or fourteen grams that had to be put somewhere up high.