Anders Roslund - Three Seconds

He knocked, waited.

"Yes?"

The prison governor didn't recognize him from yesterday.

"Hoffmann. I'm here to do the cleaning, I thought-"

"You'll have to wait. Until I'm ready. Clean the other rooms in the meantime."

"I have."

Lennart Oscarsson had already closed the door. But Piet Hoffmann had seen what he wanted to see over his shoulder. The desk and the vases of tulips. The buds that had started to open.

He sat down on a chair near the door, with one hand on the cart. He looked over at the door at shorter and shorter intervals. He was starting to get impatient, it was all in place, now all he needed to do was take the second step.

Knock out all existing players.

Take over.

"You there."

The door was open. Oscarsson was looking at him.

"It's fine to go in now."

Oscarsson was on his way to the neighboring office, a woman who according to the sign on her door was something to do with finance. Piet Hoffmann nodded and went in, positioned the cart by the desk and waited. One minute, two minutes. Oscarsson had still not come back, his voice intertwined with the woman's when they laughed at something.

He leaned forward toward the bouquets. The buds had opened enough, not completely open, but enough for fingers to pluck out the cut-down, knotted condoms that contained three grams of chemical amphetamine, made with flower fertiliser rather than acetone in a factory in Siedlce, hence the strong smell of tulips.

Piet Hoffmann emptied fifteen buds in one go, dropped the condoms into the black garbage bag on his cart, listened to the voices in the next room.

He smiled.

He would soon have completed Wojtek's first delivery to the closed market.

Göransson had drunk two glasses of mineral water and had painstakingly chewed each ice cube, a crunching sound that was not nice to listen to.

"I don't understand, Fredrik. Burn who?"

"Hoffmann."

The national police commissioner found it difficult to sit still. He had felt it already when his colleague had walked straight into the room: something that he couldn't put his finger on had barged its way in.

"Would you like coffee?"

"Cigarette."

"But you only smoke in the evening."

"Not today, I don't."

The packet of cigarettes was unopened and lying at the back of the bottom drawer of his desk.

"It's been there for about two years. I don't know if you can smoke them anymore, but it was never my intention to offer them to anyone. They were just meant to be there after every cup of coffee, when there's a yawning hole in your stomach, just as proof that I hadn't started again."

He opened the window as the first puff of smoke drifted over the desk, "I think it's better if we keep it closed."

The national police commissioner looked at the man who was drawing hard on the cigarette and was right, so he closed the window again and breathed in a smell that was so familiar.

"I don't think you understand-we haven't got much time. Grens will sit down opposite him and listen to the consequences of a meeting we should never have had. Grens will-"

"Fredrik?"

"Yes?"

"You're here. And I'm listening. Just calm yourself down now and give me the full picture."

Fredrik Göransson smoked until there was nothing left to smoke, stubbed out the cigarette, lit a new one and smoked it halfway down. He went back to the sinking feeling by the coffee machine and a detective superintendent who was following up a name that had popped up on the periphery of an investigation-someone who had worked for the official Wojtek and who, according to the authorities' records, had been convicted of aggravated assault and still been given a gun license, a name that was now serving a long sentence for drug offenses and tomorrow morning would be questioned in connection with a murder at Västmannagatan 79.

"Ewert Grens."

"Yes."

"Siw Malmkvist?"

"That's the one."

"The sort who doesn't give up."

The sort that never gives up.

"It'll be a disaster. Do you hear, Kristian, a disaster?"

"It won't be a disaster."

"Grens doesn't let go. Once he's questioned Hoffmann. it'll be us, the ones who legitimized all this, protected him."

The national police commissioner didn't say anything, didn't break out in a sweat, but he now understood the anxiety that had entered the room, the kind of anxiety that had to be chased off immediately so that it couldn't grow.

"Wait a moment."

He got up from the sofa and went to the phone, flipped to the back of a black diary and then after a while dialed the number he had been looking for.

The ringing tone when he got through was louder than normal and could even be heard from where Göransson was sitting on the sofa… three rings four rings five rings… until a deep man's voice answered and the national police commissioner pulled the mouthpiece in closer.

"pal? It's Kristian. Are you alone?"

The deep voice was a bit too far away, just a faint murmur, but the national police commissioner looked satisfied, gave a brief nod.

"I need your help. We have a mutual problem."

Piet Hoffmann stood in front of the first locked security door in the passage between the administration block and Block G. The camera moved, central security changing the angle and zooming in on a bearded face of around thirty-five that was studied on the monitor, perhaps also compared with a photo in the prison files, a prisoner who had arrived a couple of days ago and was still just one of a whole host of criminals who had been given long sentences.

He had been careful when emptying the trash to make sure that the contents lay on top of the big trash liner on the cleaning cart, so that anyone passing who looked into it would see crumpled-up envelopes and empty plastic cups, not fifty condoms and one hundred fifty grams of amphetamine. He had used the forty-two grams that were in the four library books to knock out the three main dealers in the prison and would now use what had been hidden in the buds of fifty yellow tulips for the first sales from the prison's new dealer. In a few hours, all the prisoners in all the units would know that plenty of chemical drugs were now being sold and distributed by a new prisoner called Piet Hoffmann somewhere in Block G. He wasn't going to sell more than two grams to any of them first time round, no matter how much they begged or threatened; Wojtek's maiden fix had to be divided between seventy-five imprisoned drug addicts-their first debt with a ruler who would definitely demand it back. He would sell more in a few days once he had taken over the two prison wardens in Block F who were paid by the Greek to regularly smuggle in large amounts.

The clicking sound, central security had finished checking him and opened the door for a few seconds. Hoffmann went through, turned right up the first side passage and stopped after a few long strides, about two and a half meters in. A five-meter blind spot between two cameras. He looked around, no one coming from Block H, no one leaving the administration block.

He rummaged around in the trash bag until he had fished out fifty condoms and emptied the contents into a black plastic bag on the hard floor. A small teaspoon from one of the cups in the governor's office held exactly two grams if the powder was level; he divided up the drug into seventy-five small piles.

He worked fast but meticulously, ripping the small white bags into strips and wrapping the two-gram piles in plastic; seventy-five portions at the bottom of the big trash can liner covered by the contents of the admin cans.

"We said eight g, didn't we?"

He had heard him coming, a druggie's steps, feet dragging on concrete. He knew that he would stand there and fawn.

"Eight, that's right isn't it? We said eight?"