stop until he found the ones who had protected it and then buried it.
'It's just a matter of time, Fredrik. An organization that gets hold of that kind of information and has the means will use them. It might take a bit more time when there's no contact with fellow prisoners, but the moment will come.'
The national police commissioner fingered the cigarette that wasn't lit.
It was so familiar. He would soon smell his fingertips, hold on to the forbidden pleasure a bit longer.
'But, if you want, we can… I mean, being locked away like that, in solitary confinement, it's a terrible place. No human contact. He should be moved back to the unit he came from, to the men he's gotten to know-if he's suffering down there, he should… well, he should be with other prisoners. On… humanitarian grounds.'
He paused as he normally did in front of the window in the chief warden's office and looked out over his universe: the big prison and the small town. He had never been particularly curious about what might be elsewhere, what could be seen from here was all he had ever wished for. The reflection of the sun made the window a mirror and he gingerly touched his cheek, nose, forehead. He felt tender, it was hard to see properly in the darkened glass, but looked like the blue around his eye was already changing shade.
He had misread him, a desperation that he hadn't recognized. 'Hello?'
The telephone on the desk had interrupted the feeling of his skin tightening.
'Lennart?'
He recognized the general director's voice.
'It's me.'
There was a faint crackling in the receiver, a mobile somewhere outdoors and a strong wind.
'It's about Hoffmann.'
'Okay.”
'He's to go back. To the unit he came from.'
The crackling was now nearly inaudible.
'Lennart?'
'What the hell are you saying?'
'He's to go back. First thing tomorrow morning at the latest.' 'There's a serious threat involved.'
'On humanitarian grounds.'
'He is not going back to that unit. He should not even be in the same prison. If he's going anywhere, it's away, express transport, to Kumla or Hall.' 'You're not going to express him anywhere.
'A prisoner who has been threatened is
The two bunches of tulips on his desk had started to open, the yellow petals like lit lamps in front of him.
'I was given an order to allow a late visit from a lawyer and I did it. I was given an order not to let a DS carry out an interview, and I did it. But this- I won't do it. If 0913 Hoffmann is sent back to the unit where he was threatened-'
'It's an order. Non-negotiable.'
Lennart Oscarsson bent down toward the yellow petals, wanted to smell something that was genuine. His cheek brushed against a flower and tightened again; it had been a powerful punch.
'I personally would have nothing against seeing him go to hell. I have my reasons. But as long as I'm head of this prison, it's not going to happen. That would only mean death and there have been enough murders in Swedish prisons in recent years, investigations that no one has seen and no one has heard of and bodies that are eventually hidden away as no one is actually that interested.'
The crackling again, whether it was the wind or labored breathing into a sensitive microphone.
'Lennart?'
It was breathing.
'You'll do it. Or you'll lose your post. You've got two hours.'
He was lying on the iron bed with his eyes shut.
He was officially condemned to ten years' imprisonment.
If those in the know denied it, if the people who had arranged a fake trial and produced a criminal record, if they denied it, there was no one else who could explain.
He wouldn't get out. He would be pursued to the death and no matter how much he ran and how long he managed to stay hidden, there was no one there on the other side of the wall who would open the door and help him out.
It was windy out in the prison yard, warm air rebounding off the concrete wall and coming back with even less oxygen. The prison's chief warden walked briskly and wiped his damp forehead with his shirt sleeve. The main door to solitary confinement was locked and he rattled through his keys. It wasn't often he visited the dismal corridor that was the temporary home of those who couldn't conform even with the country's most serious criminals.
'Martin.'
The wardens' room was just inside the door and he nodded to three of his employees, Martin Jacobson and two temporary wardens, youngsters whose names he hadn't learned yet.
'Martin, I'd like to talk to you for a moment.'
The two temps nodded; they had heard what he hadn't said and went out into the corridor, closing the door behind them.
'Hoffmann.'
'Cell 9. He's not looking good. He-'
'He's to go back. To G2. By tomorrow morning at the latest.'
The principal officer looked out into the empty corridor, heard the big ugly clock on the wall ticking, the second hand filling the room. 'Lennart?'
'You heard right.'
Martin Jacobson got up from the chair by the narrow desk that was largely used as a place to put cups, looked at his friend, colleague, boss. 'We've been working together here for… a good twenty years. We've been neighbors for almost as long. You are one of my only friends in here, and out there, one of the few people I ask over for a Sunday drink.' He tried to catch the eye of someone who wasn't there.
'Look at me, Lennart.'
'No questions.'
'Look at me!'
'I'm asking you, Martin, this time, no goddamn questions.'
The gray-haired man swallowed, in surprise, in anger.
'What's this all about?'
'No bloody questions.'
'He'll die.'
'Martin-'
'This goes against everything we know, everything we say, everything we do.'
'I'm going now. You've got an order. Do it.'
Lennart Oscarsson opened the door; he was already on his way out.
'He punched you, Lennart… is this personal?'
It tightened. And when he moved, every step ached, a shooting pain from his cheekbone down.
'Is it? Is it personal?'
'Just do as I ask.'
'No.'
'In that case, Martin, do as you are ordered!'
'I won't do it. Because it's wrong. If he's going to be moved back. then you're going to have to do it yourself.'
