Three Seconds

part payment for his most pressing debts. This time, it was going to be put to different use. Four books with a total of forty-two grams of 30 percent manufactured amphetamine was his weapon for squashing the competition and taking over himself.

Books, Blossom.

Small amounts, but he didn't need more right now. The tricks he had learned over the years were foolproof and wouldn't be discovered by prison routines.

Back then, he'd been sent to Osteraker as soon as he'd come back from his first secure leave. Someone had tipped the guards off about drugs up his ass or in his belly, and he'd been put in the dry cell, with glass walls, a bunk to lie on and a toilet that was a closed system… that was it. He had stayed there for a week, naked twenty- four/seven, three guards watching him when he went for a dump, checking his shit, eyes staring at him through the glass as he slept, always without a blanket, an ass that couldn't be covered.

He had had no choice then, what with the debts and threats, he became just another dry celler. But now, he had a choice.

Every day in every prison, every waking hour was about drugs: how to get them in, and how to use them without it being discovered by the regular urine tests. A relative who came to visit was also a relative who could be forced to smuggle in some urine, their own, urine that was clean and would test negative. Once, in his first few weeks in Osteraker, some mouthy Serb got his girlfriend to piss into a couple of mugs, the content of which was then sold for a great deal of money. None of them tested positive, despite the fact that more than half of them were under the influence, but the tests did show something else, and that was That every man in the unit was pregnant.

Don Juan, The Odyssey, My Life's Writings, French Landscape.

He emptied them one after the other, stopping every now and then when he heard steps passing his cell door or sounds that were unfamiliar-fortytwo grams of amphetamine in four books that not many people chose to read.

Two books left. Nineteenth Century Stockholm and The Marionettes. He left them on the bed, untouched, texts that he hoped he would never need to read.

He looked at the yellowish-white substance that people killed for. Every gram would cost more in here.

Here demand was greater than supply. Here the risk of being caught was greater in a locked cell than when you were free. Here the judgment inside would be harsher than outside; the same amount would always give you a longer sentence.

Piet Hoffmann divided up the forty-two grams of amphetamine into three plastic bags. He would keep one himself for the Greek in Cell 2 and put the other two out for collection, for Block H where the two other major suppliers were, on the top and bottom floor. Three plastic bags with fourteen grams that would knock out all the competition in one go.

The spoons from the kitchen were still in one of his trouser pockets.

He took them out and felt them, then pressed them hard against the edge of the steel bunk until they were both bent to nearly right angles like two hooks; he checked them, they would do. His blue jogging pants with the Prison and Probation Service logo were lying on his bed. With the knife he cut the waistband, pulled the elastic out and then cut it again into two lengths.

The cell door ajar, he waited-the corridor was empty.

The bathroom was fifteen fast steps away.

He closed the door behind him, went into the toilet cubicle furthest to the right and made sure that the door was properly locked.

Ewert Grens had gone to get another plastic cup of black coffee and bought yet another crumbly almond slice with sickly icing on top. The handwritten list of seven names had acquired several more brown stains, but it was still legible and it would stay where it was on the table by the sofa until they had all been investigated and struck off one by one.

They had three days.

One of those handwritten, coffee-stained names held the key to keeping open the investigation into an execution carried our during the day at a rented flat in the middle of Stockholm. Or else, in three days, it would be scaled down to one of the thirty-seven preliminary investigations in thin files on his desk and would probably never amount to much more than that. There was always a new murder case, or an assault that would gobble up all the resources for a week or two until it was solved or left on a forgotten pile.

He studied the names. Maciej Bosacki, Piet Hoffmann, Karl Lager. All owners of security firms, which, like all other security firms, installed alarm systems, sold flak jackets, gave courses in self-defense, offered bodyguard services. But these three had all been used by Wojtek Security International in connection with Polish state visits. Official jobs with official invoices. Nothing strange about that, really. But it piqued his curiosity. Sometimes what was official concealed what was unofficial and he was looking for things that couldn't be seen, if they existed at all- links to another Wojtek, the real organization, the one that bought and sold drugs, weapons, people.

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. 'Vastmannagatan.'

Chief Superintendent Goransson has no piles of paper on his desk, no empty paper cups, no crumbs from artificial cakes from the vending machine. 'Vastmannagatan?'

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.'

Goransson 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.

Goransson 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.'

Vastmannagatan.

Suddenly he understood.

'Goransson? Did you hear? I want everything.'

That name.

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