Three Seconds

Ewert Grens had on a couple of occasions walked through the whole building in order to see what they were explaining, which was why he knew that what he heard while he waited, metal against metal, was the young male voice, just like all the others, disposing of an empty Coke can on one of the piles around his computer.

'I want to know who's changed an entry in someone's criminal record. Can you access that?'

'I'm sure I can. But that comes under the national court administration. You'll need to talk to their support team.'

'But if I was to ask you? Now?'

The young voice opened a new can.

'Give me five minutes.'

Four minutes and forty-five seconds later, Grens smiled at the receiver. 'What have you got?'

'Nothing out of the ordinary. It was changed on one of the national court administration computers.'

'By who?'

'Someone who's authorized. An Ulrika Danielsson. Do you want her number?'

He tramped around the room again, drank some cold coffee that was trying to stick to the bottom of the cup.

He remained standing up for the next phone call.

'Ulrika Danielsson.'

'Grens, City Police in Stockholm.'

'How can I help you?'

'It's about an investigation. 721018-0010. A judgment that's nearly ten years old.'

'Right?'

'And according to the register it was modified recently. Exactly eighteen days ago.'

'I see.'

'By you.'

He could hear her silence.

'I wanted to know why.'

She was nervous. He was sure of it. Long pauses, deep breaths. 'I'm afraid I can't comment on that.'

'You can't comment?'

'Confidentiality clause.'

'Which damn confidentiality clause?'

'I'm afraid I can't say anymore.'

Grens didn't raise his voice, he lowered it-sometimes it worked even better.

'I want to know why you changed it. And what you changed.' 'I said that I can't comment.'

'Ulrika… can I call you that, by the way?'

He didn't wait for the answer.

'Ulrika, I am a detective superintendent. I'm investigating a murder. And you work for the national court administration. You can claim the confidentiality clause as much as you like for hacks. But not for me.'

I

'Now, you're going to answer me. Or I'll just get back to you, Ulrika, in a couple of days. That's as long as it takes to get a court order.'

Deep breaths. She couldn't contain them any longer.

'Wilson.'

'Wilson?'

'Your colleague. You'll have to ask him.'

It was no longer just a feeling.

Something wasn't right.

He lay down on the brown corduroy sofa. Half an hour had passed and he had really tried, he had closed his eyes and relaxed and was even less likely to fall asleep than when he started.

I don't understand.

A prisoner in a workshop window kept getting in the way.

Why did you want to die?

A face in profile.

If you could hear, which Sterner is sure of if what we found in the church tower and what is now lying on my desk is a working transmitter, why the hell did you dodge your own death twice and then choose to face it the third time?

A person who had made sure he was visible the whole time.

Had you decided but didn't dare?

Where then did you get the courage to stand still and die?

And why did you make sure that after the shot you would be blown into a thousand pieces?

'Are you sleeping?'

Someone had knocked on the door and Hermansson popped her head round.

'Not really.'

He sat up, happy to see her; he often was. She sat down beside him on the sofa, a file on her lap.

'I've finished the report about Vastmannagatan 79. I'm pretty sure that he'll still recommend that it's scaled down. We don't seem to be getting any farther.'

Grens sighed. 'It feels… it feels very odd. If we close this… my third unsolved murder here.'

'Third?'

'One at the start of the eighties, a body that was cut up into small pieces and found in the water near Kastellholmen by some fishermen pulling in a net. And then one a couple of winters ago, the woman in the hospital service passage, the one who was dragged from the tunnel system, her face covered in big holes from rat bites.'

He tapped the file. 'Is it me who's getting worse, Hermansson? Or is it reality that's getting more complicated?'

Hermansson looked at her boss and smiled.

'Ewen?'

'Yes?'

'And exactly how long have you worked here?'

'You know that.'

'How long?'

'Since… before you were born. Thirty-five years.'

'And how many murders have you investigated?'

'The exact number, I assume?'

'Yes.'

'Two hundred and thirteen.'

'Two hundred and thirteen.'

'Including this one.'

She smiled again.

'Thirty-five years. Two hundred and thirteen murders. Of which three are unsolved!'

He didn't answer. It wasn't a question.

'One every twelve years, Ewert. I don't know how you measure things like that. But I'd say that's not too bad.'

He glanced at her. Thought what he had often thought about. He knew already. If he had had a son, a daughter.

Kind of like her.

'There was something else?'