Three Seconds

'The bullet when loaded is nearly ten centimeters long. But the part that is fired, the bit that remains if you discount the jacket, is three, maybe even three and a half centimeters, and this then hit and ripped through parts of the wall and continued out into the prison yard. And a projectile that slices through glass, human bone, and a thick concrete wall in that order will totally flatten out and look more or less like an old eighteenth-century coin.'

Grens and Sundkvist looked at the crater in the wall. They had both listened to Jacobson talking about a sound like a whiplash, the force had been unimaginable.

'It's out there somewhere. We haven't found it yet, but we will soon. I've got several police officers from Aspsa's district on their hands and knees in the gravel looking.'

Krantz walked over to the window where Hoffmann had stood. Red and white flags on the wall, the floor, the ceiling. More than Grens could remember from his visit during the night.

'I've had to make a kind of system. Red for bloodstains, white for remains. I've never worked with bodies that have been so totally blown apart.'

Sven studied the small flags, tried to understand what they actually signified, moved closer-he who normally avoided unmistakeable death.

'We're talking about an explosion and fragments of dead people. But there's something I don't understand.'

This time, Sven moved even closer. He wasn't frightened, didn't feel any discomfort. This wasn't death, he couldn't see it like that.

'Human tissue. Thousands of bits. This type of projectile rips bodies apart. Into big bits. It doesn't explode.'

People broken down into particles that were only centimeters away from Sven, they stopped being people then.

'So we're looking for something else. Something that exploded. Something that blows things into smithereens, not big bits.'

'Such as?'

'An explosive. I can't think of any other explanation.'

Ewert Grens saw the red and white flags, shards of glass, soot that blanketed everything.

'Explosive. What kind?'

Krantz made an irritation gesture with his arms.

'TNT. Nitroglycerine. C4. Semtex. Pentyl. Octogen. Dynamex Or something else. I don't know, Grens. We're still looking. But what I do know… it was definitely close to the bodies, maybe even directly on the skin.'

He nodded at the flags.

'Well… you understand.'

Red for bloodstains, white for remains.

'We also know that it was an explosive that generates extreme heat.' 'I see…'

'Enough heat to ignite the diesel in the barrel.'

'I can smell it.'

The forensic scientist gave a gentle kick to the barrel standing below the hole that had been a window the day before.

'It was the diesel that had been mixed with gas that caused all that god-awful smoke. You find barrels and cans of diesel oil in every workshop in every prison, fuel for the machines and any forklift trucks, and for cleaning the tools. But this barrel… it was standing very close to Hoffmann. And it had been moved there.'

Nils Krantz shook his head.

'Explosives. Poisonous smoke. It was no accident that the barrel was there, Ewert. Piet Hoffmann wanted to be certain.'

'Certain?'

'That he and one of the hostages would die.'

Grens turned off the engine and got out of the car. He waved at Sven to drive on ahead and started to walk over the fields in what was to be a fifteen-hundred-and-three-meter stroll from Aspsas prison to Aspsas church. The open areas of grass cleansed him of the lack of sleep and the stench of diesel oil, but not the feeling that had gripped him, which he didn't like and knew would stay with him until he understood what it was he couldn't see.

He should have worn other shoes.

The green that looked so soft from a distance was full of dips and clay and he had stumbled a couple of times, fallen heavily to the ground, his trousers stained green by the grass and brown by the earth by the time he finally stopped outside a side gate into the churchyard.

He turned around. The morning mist had evaporated and the gray walls were clear in the sunlight. He had stood here exactly twenty-four hours ago; he still hadn't made the decision about another person's death.

A handful of visitors were moving around between the headstones, flowers in their hands, spouses or children or friends who cared. Grens avoided their eyes but watched their hands as they dug in between the green bushes and wreaths, as if he was testing himself, but being by a grave that meant nothing didn't feel like anything either.

A plastic cordon was wound between the trees and some arbitrary poles. He pushed it down and stepped over it, raising his stiff leg high in the air. Four people were waiting at the heavy church door. Sven Sundkvist, two uniformed policemen from Aspsas district and an older man with a dog collar.

He held out his hand, took another hand.

'Gustaf Lindbeck. I'm the parish priest.'

The sort who pronounced Gustaf with a very dear f. Grens felt his mouth twitch. I should perhaps say Ewert with a very clear w.

'Grens, detective superintendent with city police.'

'Are you the one who's responsible for this?'

The parish priest tugged at the cordon.

'I'm leading the investigation, if that's what you mean.'

Ewert Grens pulled at the same tape.

'Is this a problem for you?'

'I've already had to cancel a christening and a marriage. I have a funeral in an hour. I just wanted to know whether it would be possible to go ahead.'

Grens looked at the church, at Sven, at the visitors on their knees in front of gravestones, watering plants in narrow beds.

'This is what we'll do.'

He tugged lightly at the tape until one of the temporary poles fell down.

'I need to look over parts of the ground floor again. That'll take about half an hour. In the meantime, you-and only you-can be there and prepare what you have to prepare. When we're done, we'll remove the cordon and the funeral party can come in. But, for investigation purposes, I'll keep the church tower cordoned off for another day. Does that sound like a reasonable solution?'

The priest nodded.

'I'm very grateful. Bur… one more thing. The passing bell should be rung in about an hour. Can we use the church bell?'

Ewert looked up at the tower and the heavy cast iron bell that hung in the middle.

'Yes, you can. The bell itself isn't cordoned off.'

They walked toward the now open door. The church bell. The churchyard was watching him. The passing bell. A year and a half had passed and he hadn't even chosen her gravestone.

The priest carried on straight ahead, into the cool and quiet church, whereas Grens and Sundkvist went right just inside the door. The chairs were still stacked up against the wall, the map folded out over the wooden altar near the only window in the vestibule.

'Sven?'Yes?'7 want to hear it again. Who he is. What he capable of' Ewert held the drawing of a prison.