Three Seconds

insinuation.
    ‘I want an explanation.’
    A cough. That was all.
    ‘Pål, an explanation!’
    Another cough. And nothing more.
    ‘You call me at home late at night and order me to move a prisoner back to the unit where he was threatened, and no questions. You tell methat it has to happen by this morning at the latest. Right now, Pål, that prisoner has a loaded gun aimed at one of my employees. Explain the connection between your order and the hostage-taking. Or I’ll be forced to ask someone else the same questions.’
    __________
    It was warm in the security office that was part of the entrance to Aspsås prison and was called central security, just as it is in every prison in Sweden. The warden in a creased blue uniform, who was called Bergh, was sweating despite the fan on the table right behind him that made any loose paper and his thin fringe flutter. So he turned round and looked for the towel that hung in the space between the red and green buttons on the control panel and the sixteen TV monitors.
     
    Naked bodies.
    The resolution of the black-and-white image wasn’t great, and it flickered a bit, but he was sure.
    The picture on the screen closest to the towel showed two naked bodies on a floor and a man wearing prison-issue clothes holding something to their heads.
    __________
    He looked up at the beautiful blue sky. A few wispy clouds, a pleasant sun and a warm breeze. It was a lovely summer day. Apart from the sound of the sirens from the first police car, two uniformed officers in front, both from Aspsås police district.
     
    ‘Oscarsson …?’
    The governor of Aspsås prison was standing by the main gate in the asphalt car park, the concrete wall like an unpainted grey set behind him.
    ‘What the hell—’
    ‘He’s already shot someone.’
    ‘Oscarsson?’
    ‘And threatened to do it again.’
    They were in the front with the windows wound down: a young policewoman who Lennart Oscarsson had never seen before sitting beside a sergeant of about his own age, Rydén – they didn’t know each other, but knew of each other, one of the few policemen who had served in Aspsås for as long as Oscarsson had worked at the prison.
    They turned off the blue light and got out.
    ‘Who?’
    I’ve just come from the hospital unit. You can’t see him.
    ‘Piet Hoffmann. Thirty-six years old. Ten years for drugs offences. According to our records, extremely dangerous, classified psychopath, violent.’
    A sergeant from the Aspsås district who had been to the large prison enough times to know his way round.
    ‘I don’t understand. Block B. Solitary confinement. And armed?’
    He’s going back. To G2. By tomorrow morning at the latest
.
    ‘We don’t understand it either.’
    ‘But the gun? For Christ’s sake, Oscarsson … how? Where from—?’
    ‘I don’t know. I don’t
know
.’
    Rydén looked at the concrete wall, over it and at what he knew was the second floor and roof of Block B.
    ‘I need to know more. What kind of gun?’
    Lennart Oscarsson sighed.
    ‘According to the warden who was threatened – he was confused, in shock, but he described some kind of … miniature pistol.’
    ‘Pistol? Or revolver?’
    ‘What’s the difference?’
    ‘With a magazine? Or a rotating cylinder?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    Rydén’s gaze lingered on the roof of Block B.
    ‘A hostage taking. A violent, dangerous convict.’
    He shook his head.
    ‘We need a completely different kind of weapon. Different knowledge. We need policemen who are specially trained for this.’
    He went over to the car, a hand in through the open window. He could just reach the radio microphone.
    ‘I’ll contact the inspector on duty at the CCC. I’ll ask them to send the national task force.’
    __________
    The dirty floor was hard and cold against his bare lower leg.
     
    Martin Jacobson moved carefully, tried to rock his body back, pain pressing on his joints. Crumpled, bent forwards, hands behind their backs, they had been kneeling beside each other since they came intothe main workshop. He shot a look at the prisoner that was so close he could feel his breath. He couldn’t remember his name, it was seldom that those who were locked up in solitary confinement became individuals. Central European, he was sure of that, big, and his hate was tangible, there was bad blood between them, something old – when their eyes locked, he spat, sneered and Hoffmann had got tired of him screaming in a language that Jacobson