Three Seconds

one more question. Then I’ll have to ask you to leave.’
    Sven nodded. The final question.
    ‘Throughout the entire hostage drama, Hoffmann is silent. No communication. Except for right at the end.
He’s a dead man
. We don’t understand why. I want to know if you saw him communicating at any point? Or anything that might resemble communication? We don’t understand his silence.’
    The warden who was lying in a hospital bed with a wounded ashen-grey face took a while to answer. Sven got the feeling that he was drifting off, and the doctor had indicated that he should stop when Jacobson raised an arm, he wanted to continue, he wanted to answer.
    ‘He used the phone.’
    Jacobson looked at Sven, at Ewert.
    ‘He used the phone. In the office at the back of the workshop. Twice.’
    __________
    Ewert Grens was driving to Aspsås and the large prison for the second time that morning.
     
    They had paid for a cup of bitter tea and a white bread sandwich with meatballs and something purplish that Sven claimed was beetroot salad. They had sat in the café by the hospital entrance and eaten in silence, with Jacobson’s answers to keep them company. According to the injured warden, Hoffmann had left the hostages on two occasions and gone into the workshop office. He kept them in full view through the glass partition wall while he lifted the receiver of the phone that sat on the desk and talked for about fifteen seconds each time. Once right at the start, Hoffmann had warned them not to move and had walked backwards towards the office with the gun pointing at them, the other time just before the explosion. From his position behind the partition wall, the naked and bound guard had clearly seen him phoning again and saw that he was now very nervous, only a few seconds, but Jacobson was sure of it; a few moments of doubt and fear, maybe the only ones throughout the whole drama.
    There were no empty spaces in the car park that had been peaceful only a few hours ago. Morning had woken one of Sweden’s maximum security prisons. Ewert Grens parked on some grass near the wall and, while he waited for Sven Sundkvist, made a phone call to Hermansson, who for the third day was working on a report of the murder at Västmannagatan 79, which was to be delivered to the prosecutor that afternoon. He would then decide whether to downgrade the investigation.
    ‘I want you to put it to one side for the moment.’
    ‘Ågestam was here yesterday. He wants it this afternoon.’
    ‘Hermansson?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Ågestam will get the report when you’ve finished it.
Put it to one side
. I want you to make a list of all outgoing calls from Aspsås prison between eight forty-five and nine forty-five in the morning and one-thirty and two-thirtyin the afternoon. Then I want you to check them. I want to know which ones we can forget and which ones might have been made from the workshop office.’
    He had expected her to protest.
    She didn’t.
    ‘Hoffmann?’
    ‘Hoffmann.’
    The prison yard was full of inmates – it was the morning break with spring sun and they sat in groups and looked up at the sky with cheeks that turned rosy. Grens had no wish to listen to sarcastic remarks from anyone he had previously investigated and questioned and so chose to go underground, via a concrete passageway that reminded him of another investigation. Neither Ewert Grens nor Sven Sundkvist said anything, but they were thinking about the same case, how they had walked side by side five years ago, a father who had killed his daughter’s murderer and then been given a long sentence himself, a case that often returned and niggled, with images that they had tried to forget for a long time. Some investigations did that.
    They came out of the passage and were struck by the silence, even in the stairwell of Block B. The annoying banging had stopped. They passed solitary confinement in B1 and the normal units in B2, which were all empty as the prisoners had been evacuated to Block K and would remain there as long as the building that still echoed from the explosion was a cordoned off crime scene and part of an investigation.
    Four forensic technicians were creeping around in different parts of the charred workshop and soot-licked walls that had once been white. The smell of diesel oil stuck to everything, a thick and sharp smell that reminded those there of how poisonous each breath had been only a day earlier. Nils Krantz left the remains of death,