Three Seconds

his room.
     
    Two cups of coffee and a cheese and ham roll from the vending machine in the corridor.
    He could still feel the force of the explosion and the smell of smoke and imagined breathing that vanished as he watched.
    He hadn’t had a choice.
    According to all the documentation, Piet Hoffmann was one of the few criminals who had the potential to actually do what he threatened. Ewert Grens went through the Prison and Probation Service documents, including psychopathic tests and sentences, read through his criminal record on the computer screen, five years, attempted murder and assault of a police officer, observations in the criminal intelligence database of a criminal who was KNOWN DANGEROUS ARMED .
    He had not had any choice
.
    He was about to turn off the computer and go back out into the corridor for another cheese and ham roll when he noticed something at the bottom of the screen, the first entry in Piet Hoffmann’s criminal record.
    Date last modified.
    Grens worked it out. Eighteen days ago.
    A sentence that was served ten years ago.
    He stayed in the room, pounding from wall to wall, from window to door, that feeling again that something was wrong, something didn’t fit.
    He dialled a number that he had long since learnt off by heart, data support, he had spent many a night swearing over the keys and symbols that seemed to have a mind of their own.
    A young male voice answered. They were always young and they were always male.
    ‘This is Grens. I need a bit of help.’
    ‘Detective superintendent? Just one moment.’
    Ewert Grens had on a couple of occasions walked through the whole building in order to see what they were explaining, which was why heknew 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 authorised. 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 judgement 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 bloody confidentiality clause?’
    ‘I’m afraid I can’t say any more.’
    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