Three Seconds

He had explained that he would continue his journey in a few hours.

He said that he was on his way south because he needed immediate assistance with an investigation.

Erik Wilson had asked what it was about-they seldom talked to each other when they met in the corridors of the police headquarters in Kungsholmen, why should they do so here, seven thousand kilometers away? Sundkvist hadn't answered, and instead had repeatedly asked when and where until Wilson had suggested the only lunch restaurant that he knew, somewhere where you could sit without being seen, without being heard.

It was a pleasant place on the corner of San Marco Boulevard and Philips Street, quiet in spite of every table being taken and dark in spite of the sun blasting on the roofs, walls, and windows. Sven Sundkvist looked around. Men dressed in suits and ties who glanced at each other on the sly as they gave their best arguments accompanied by grilled fish; negotiations that involved European wine and mobile phones on the white tablecloth. Waiters who were invisible, but were by the table the moment a plate was empty or a napkin fell to the floor. The smell of food blended with candles and the scent of red and yellow roses.

He had been traveling for seventeen hours. Ewert had phoned just as Anita had turned off the light and snuggled up to him, her soft shoulder and breasts against his back, the first deep breaths on his neck as thoughts slowly evaporated and could not be caught no matter how hard he tried. Anita had avoided saying anything when he packed his bag and avoided looking at him when he tried to catch her eye. He understood her. Ewert Grens had for so long been part of their bedroom, someone who lived in his own time bubble and therefore didn't realize that others had their own too. Sven didn't have the strength to talk to him about it, to put down limits, but understood that Anita had to do just that sometimes in order to cope.

The taxi from the airport was one of the ones without air conditioning and the heat had been as unexpected as it was forceful. He had traveled in clothes made for the Swedish spring and landed in a place near Florida's beaches with full summer heat. He walked toward the entrance of the restaurant and drank some mineral water that tasted of chemical additives. They had had offices on the same corridor for ten years and had worked together on several investigations, but all the same, he didn't know him. Erik Wilson was not someone you went out and had a beer with or maybe it was Sven you didn't do that with, or maybe they were just too different. Sven, who loved his life in a terraced house with Anita and Jonas, Wilson who scorned it. Now they were going to meet, tolerate each other, one asking for information and one with no intention of giving it.

He was tall, considerably taller than Sven, and even taller when he stood on his toes to scan all the guests in the restaurant. He seemed satisfied and sat down at the table at the back of the exclusive premises.

'I'm a bit late.'

'I'm glad you're here.'

The waiter appeared from nowhere, a glass of mineral water for each of them, two slices of lemon.

I've got one minute.

When he realizes why I'm here, one minute more to convince him he should stay.

Sven moved the white candle and silver candlestick and put a laptop down between them. He opened a program that contained several sound files, pressed a symbol that looked like a long dash, a couple of sentences, exactly seven seconds.

'We have to make him more dangerous. He will have committed some serious crimes. He'll be given a long sentence.'

Erik Wilson's face.

It showed nothing.

Sven tried to catch his eye. If he was surprised to hear his own voice, if he felt uncomfortable, it didn't show, not even in his eyes.

Another snippet, a single sentence, five seconds.

'He'll only be able to operate freely from his cell if he gets respect.'

'Do you want to hear more? You see… it's quite a long, interesting meeting. And I… I've got all of it here.'

Wilson's voice was still controlled when he rose, as were his eyes, emotions that must not be shown.

'Nice to meet you.'

Now.

This was the minute.

He was already on his way out.

Sven opened the third sound file.

'Before I leave, I'd like you to summarize exactly what you are guaranteeing me.

'You perhaps think that you know what you are hearing?'

Erik Wilson was already walking away, he was halfway ro the door, that was why Sven almost shouted what he said next.

'I don't think you do. That's the voice of a dead man.'

The guests in glossy suits hadn't understood what he said. But they had all stopped talking, put down their cutlery, looked at the person who had blemished their discretion.

'The voice of a man who two days ago stood in the window of a prison workshop window with a gun to a prison warden's head.'

Wilson had reached the bar that was to the right of the door when he stopped.

'The voice of a man who was shot on the order of our colleague, Ewert Grens.'

He turned around.

'What the hell are you talking about?'

'I'm talking about Paula.'

He looked at Sven, hesitated.

'Because that's what you call him, isn't it?'

A step forward.

A step away from the door.

'Sundkvist, why the hell-'

Sven lowered his voice, Wilson listened, he wasn't going anywhere.

'I'm saying that he was eliminated. That you and Grens were both involved. That you are an accessory to legitimate murder.'

Ewert Grens got up, an empty plastic cup in the trash, a half-eaten cinnamon bun from the shelf behind his desk gone in two bites.

He was restless, time was running out. He prowled between the ugly sofa and the window with a view over the Kronoberg courtyard.

Sven should have started his meeting with Wilson by now. He should have started the interview, to demand answers.

Grens sighed.

Erik Wilson was crucial.

One of the voices was dead. Grens would wait for three of them, they would listen, but only when he wanted them to.

Wilson was the fifth voice.

The one that could confirm that the meeting really did take place, that the recording was genuine.

'Have you got a minute?'

A blond fringe, swept to one side, and a pair of round glasses leaned around the door.

Lars Agestam had exchanged his pajamas and robe for a gray suit and gray tie.

'Well, have you?'

Grens nodded and Agestam followed the large body that limped over the linoleum to the sofa and sat down where the fabric was worn and shiny. It had been a long night. Grens, whisky and the county commissioner's computer in his kitchen. They had for the first time spoken to each other without mutual loathing. Ewert Grens had even used his first name. Lars. Lars, he had said. They had just then, just there, been almost close and Grens had tried to show it.

Lars Agestam leaned back in the sofa, folded.

He wasn't tense.