Anders Roslund - Three Seconds

Sterner held the copy crushed in his hand and then gave it to Grens.

"He'd chosen that place with great care. It's no coincidence that he went to the workshop and that window, in particular. He provoked us to fire. He knew that a good, well-trained marksman could shoot him if he had to.

He shook his head.

"He wanted to die."

The corridor of the intensive care unit at Danderyd hospital had yellow walls and a light blue floor. The nurses sent them friendly smiles and

Ewert Grens and Sven Sundkvist gave equally friendly smiles back. It was a quiet morning-they had both been there for work on many occasions before, often in the evening or weekend, injured people waking on beds in the harsh light of the corridor, which was empty now, as it normally was when alcohol, football matches, and snowy roads were not the order of the day.

They had driven there straight from Kungsingen and the Svea Life Guards, via Norrviken and Edsberg, through small and pleasant suburbs with big detached houses, which made Sven phone home to Anita and Jonas. They had had breakfast together and were about to go to their separate schools. He missed them.

The doctor was a young man, tall and thin, on the verge of skinny, with reserved eyes. He greeted them and showed them into a dark room with drawn curtains.

"He's got a severe concussion. I'll have to ask you to keep the room dark."

One single bed in the room.

A man in his sixties, graying hair, tired eyes, scratches and wounds on both his cheeks, a cut on his forehead that looked deep, his right arm in a sling.

He was found lying under a wall.

"My name is Johan Ferm. We met last night when you came in. I've got two policemen with me who would like to ask you some questions."

The fire and rescue service had searched the burned-out workshop for a long time before they heard faint sounds from underneath one of the piles of rubble. A naked and bruised prison officer with a broken collar bone, but a person who was still breathing.

"I've given them five minutes. Then I'll ask them to leave."

The gray-haired man pulled himself up, grimaced with pain and threw up in a bowl by the side of the bed.

"He is not allowed to move. Severe concussion. Your five minutes have already started."

Ewert Grens turned toward the young doctor.

"We'd prefer it if we could be left alone."

"I'm staying here. For medical reasons."

Grens stood by the window while Sven Sundkvist moved a stool from the sink to the bedside, making sure that his face was at about the same height as the injured prison warden's.

"You know Grens?"

Martin Jacobson nodded. He knew who Ewert Grens was, they had met several times; the detective superintendent regularly visited the place where he had chosen to work all his life.

"This is not an interview, Jacobson. We'll do that later, when you're well enough and we have more time. But we do need some information now." "Sorry?"

"This is not-"

"You'll have to speak louder. My eardrums burst in the explosion." Sven leaned forward and raised his voice.

"We've got a fairly good picture of what happened when you were taken hostage. Your colleagues have given us a detailed description of the shooting of a prisoner in solitary confinement."

The doctor tapped on Sven's shoulder.

`Ask short questions. That's all he can manage. Short answers. Otherwise you'll just be wasting your five minutes."

Sven considered turning around and telling the man in the white coat to shut up. But he didn't. He never snapped at people as it seldom helped the situation.

"First of all… can you remember any of what happened yesterday?" Jacobson was breathing heavily, he was in a lot of pain and struggled to find the words that disappeared in his seriously concussed brain.

"I remember everything. Until I lost consciousness. If I've understood correctly, a wall fell on me?"

"It fell down as a result of an explosion. But I want to know… what happened just before?"

"I don't know. I wasn't there."

"You weren't… there?"

"I was in another room, Hoffmann put me there, hands tied behind my back, somewhere at the back of the workshop, near the main door. He moved me there after we'd stripped. And after that I think we only had contact once. You're not going to die. That's what he said. Just before the explosion."

Sven looked at Ewert-they had both registered what the elderly guard had just said.

"Jacobson… do you think that Hoffmann moved you in order to… protect you?"

Martin Jacobson answered straight away.

"I'm sure that's why he did it. Despite everything that happened. •. I didn't feel threatened anymore."

Sven leaned even farther forward, it was important that Jacobson could hear.

"The explosion. I want to ask more about that. If you think back, can you remember anything that might explain it) And the incredible force of it?"

"No."

"Nothing at all?"

"I've thought about it. And of course, it was a workshop and there was diesel. That explains the smoke. But the actual explosion… nothing."

The color of Jacobson's face had changed from white to ashen gray and great drops of sweat were running from his hairline.

The doctor moved over to the bed.

"He can't deal with much more. Just one more question. Then I'll have to ask you to leave."

Sven nodded. The final question.

"Throughout the entire hostage drama, Hoffmann is silent. No communication. Except for right at the end. He's a dead man. We don't understand why. I want to know if you saw him communicating at any point? Or anything that might resemble communication? We don't understand his silence."

The warden who was lying in a hospital bed with a wounded ashen-gray face took a while to answer. Sven got the feeling that he was drifting off, and the doctor had indicated that he should stop when Jacobson raised an arm, he wanted to continue, he wanted to answer.

"He used the phone."

Jacobson looked at Sven, at Ewert.

"He used the phone. In the office at the back of the workshop. Twice."

Ewert Grens was driving to Aspsås and the large prison for the second time that morning.

They had paid for a cup of bitter tea and a white bread sandwich with meatballs and something purplish that Sven claimed was beetroot salad. They had sat in the cafe by the hospital entrance and eaten in silence, with Jacobson's answers to keep them company. According to the injured warden, Hoffmann had left the hostages on two occasions and gone into the workshop office. He kept them in full view through the glass partition wall while he lifted the receiver of the phone that sat on the desk and talked for about fifteen seconds each time. Once right at the start, Hoffmann had warned them not to move and had walked backward toward the office with the gun pointing at them, the other time just before the explosion. From his position behind the partition wall, the naked and bound guard had clearly seen him phoning again and saw that he was now very nervous, only a few seconds, but Jacobson was sure of it; a few moments of doubt and fear, maybe the only ones throughout the whole drama.

There were no empty spaces in the parking lot that had been peaceful only a few hours ago. Morning had woken one of Sweden's maximum security prisons. Ewert Grens parked on some grass near the wall and, while he waited for Sven Sundkvist, made a phone call to Hermansson, who for the third day was working on a report of the murder at Vdstmannagatan 79, which was to be delivered to the prosecutor that afternoon. He would then decide whether to downgrade the investigation.

"I want you to put it to one side for the moment."

"Ågestam was here yesterday. He wants it this afternoon." "Hermansson?"

"Yes?"