Anders Roslund - Three Seconds

Hurried steps down again. The prosecutor had a printer in his arms, linked it up to the laptop-they listened to three hundred two paper copies forming a pile, one at a time.

"You'll give it back?"

"Yes."

"Do you need help?"

"No."

"Sure?"

"The door's unlocked."

The sun had taken over the kitchen, the light which had a short while ago been aided by bright bulbs was now strong enough to stand alone and he didn't notice when Ågestam switched off the lights.

It was half past four, but the day had dawned.

"Lars:"

She was young and her hair was tangled. She had on a white robe and white slippers and she was very tired.

"I'm sorry. Did we wake you?"

"Why aren't you asleep?"

"This is Ewert Grens and-"

"I know who it is."

"I'll be up in a while. We just need to finish up here."

She sighed, she didn't weigh much, but her steps were heavier than even Grens's as she went back upstairs to the bedroom.

"Sorry, Ågestam."

"She'll go back to sleep."

"She's still upset, isn't she?"

"She believes you made an error of judgment. I do too."

"I apologized. Christ alive, it was five years ago now!"

"Grens?"

"Yes?"

"You're shouting again. Don't wake the children."

Lars Ågestam emptied both cups into the sink, the stuff that was viscous and bitter and stuck to the bottom of the cup.

"I don't need anymore tea."

He picked up the pile of three hundred two newly printed pages. "Doesn't matter what time it is. This… I'm not tired anymore, Grens, I'm… angry. If i need anything it's to calm down."

He opened one of the cupboards. On the top shelf, a bottle of Seagram's and suitably sized glasses.

"What do you think, Grens?"

Ågestam filled two glasses to the halfway mark.

"It's half past four in the morning."

"That's the way it goes, sometimes."

Another person.

Ewert Grens gave a weak smile as Ågestam downed half of it.

If he had had to guess, he would have guessed teetotaller ten out of ten times. Grens had a sip himself after a while. It was milder in taste than he had imagined, perfect for a kitchen, with pajamas and a robe.

"The truth we were never told, Ågestam."

He put a hand on the pile of papers.

"I'm not sitting here because I enjoy watching you wake up. And not for your tea, either, not even the whisky. I came here because I'm certain that we can resolve this together."

Lars Ågestam flicked through the secret intelligence reports that he had not known existed until now.

His neck was still red.

He still kept running his hands back and forth through his hair. "Three hundred and two."

He paused every now and then, read something, then continued leafing through, arbitrarily choosing which document to read next.

"Two versions. One official. And one for police management."

He waved at the pile in front of him and poured another glass of whisky.

"Do you realize, Grens? I could prosecute them all. I could prosecute every single police officer who has anything to do with this. For forging documents. For fake certificates. For provoking crimes. There's enough here to merit a separate police unit at Aspsås."

He downed the glass and laughed.

"And all these trials? What do you think, Grens? All these pleadings and interviews and judgments without the knowledge that the heads of the police authority were already party to!"

He threw the pile down on the table. Some pages fell on the floor; he stood up and stamped on them.

"You've just woken the children."

They hadn't heard her coming-she stood in the doorway, in the white robe but without the slippers.

"Lars, you've got to calm down."

"I can't."

"You're frightening them."

Ågestam kissed her on both cheeks. He was already on his way to the children's room.

"Grens?"

He turned on the bottom step of the stairs.

"I'm going to spend the whole day on this."

"Monday morning. Or two tapes will be missing."

"I'll get back to you by this evening at the latest."

"Monday morning. Then the wrong people will be finding out how damn close I am."

"By tonight at the latest. That's the best I can do. Is that okay?" "That's okay."

The prosecutor paused, laughed again.

"Grens, imagine! A separate police unit. A separate police unit at Aspsås!"

The coffee tasted different.

He had poured out the first cup after a couple of mouthfuls. A fresh one from the machine in the corridor had tasted the same. He was holding the third in his hand when he realized why.

It was like a film on his palate.

He had started the day with two whiskies in Ågestam's kitchen. He didn't normally do that. He didn't generally drink much spirits, it was years since he'd stopped drinking on his own.

Ewert Grens sat at his desk and felt strangely empty.

The First early birds had already come and passed his open door, but hadn't annoyed him, not even those who had tried to stop and say good morning.

He had released his anger.

He had driven from Ågestam, a few newspaper delivery boys, the odd cyclist, that was all-a city that was at its weariest just before five.

There had been plenty of room for guilt. The guilt that others had tried to lay on him. He had raged against it, tried to silence it when it sat beside him, chased it into the back seat. It had continued to nag him, forcing him to drive faster. He had been on his way to Göransson to offload it, then managed to control himself-he would confront them, but not yet, soon. He would meet the people who were truly responsible very soon. He had parked in Bergsgatan by the entrance to the police headquarters but had not gone directly to his office, he had taken the elevator up to Kronoberg remand and then on up to the roof and eight long, narrow cages. One hour of fresh air every day and twenty meters to move in, then jail. He had ordered the wardens on duty to call in two prisoners who, in ill-fitting prison clothes and separate cages, were standing looking out over the city and freedom, and then to leave their posts and go down two floors for an early morning coffee. Grens had waited until he was completely alone and then gone out into one of the small yards. He had looked at the sky through the criss-cross of bars and he had screamed, high above the sleeping buildings in the Stockholm dawn. For fifteen minutes he had held the stolen laptop with another reality in his hands and screamed louder than ever before, he had released his fury and it raced over the rooftops and evaporated somewhere above Vasastan, leaving him extremely hoarse, tired, almost spent.

The coffee still tasted odd. He put it to one side and sat down on the corduroy sofa, lay down after a while, closed his eyes while he searched for a face in the window of a prison workshop.

I don't get it.

Someone who chooses a life where each day is a potential death sentence. For the excitement? For some kind of romantic spy nonsense? For personal morals?

I'm not convinced. That sort of thing just sounds good.

For the money?

Ten thousand crappy kronor a month paid from reward money in order to avoid formal payrolls and to protect your identity?

Hardly.

Grens straightened the fabric on the arm of the sofa that was slightly too high; it was chafing his neck and made it difficult to relax.

I just don't get it.

You could commit whatever goddamn crime you wanted, you were outside the law, but only for as long as you were useful, until you became someone who could be spared.

You were an outlaw.

You knew it. You knew that's how it worked.

You had everything that I don't have, you had a wife, children, a home, you had something to lose.