Three Seconds

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-metre stroll from Aspsås prison to Aspsås 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 round. The morning mist had evaporated and the grey 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 Aspsås 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 clear 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. But … 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 towards 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?’ ‘I want to hear it again. Who he is. What he’s capable of.’
    Ewert held the drawing of a prison.
    ‘Extremely antisocial personality disorder. No ability to empathise.’
    Slowly he folded it up.
    ‘Significant characteristics include impulsiveness, aggression, lack of respect for own and others’ safety, lack of conscience.’
    Map in his inner pocket, they wouldn’t need it any more.
    ‘Ewert, give me a hand.’
    Sven had picked up and emptied six plastic cups emblazoned with the red and yellow Shell logo – a couple of hours of decisions about life and death based on the energy