Three Seconds

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 Västmannagatan 79. I’m pretty sure that he’ll still recommend that it’s scaled down. We don’t seem to be getting any further.’
    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 inthe 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.
    ‘Ewert?’
    ‘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?’
    She opened the file and took out a plastic sleeve that was at the back.
    ‘Two more things.’
    She pulled out two pieces of paper from the awkward plastic.
    ‘You asked me to get a record of all outgoing phone calls from Aspsås prison between eight forty-five and nine forty-five in the morning and one thirty and two thirty in the afternoon.’
    Neat columns of numbers to the left and first name and surname to the right.
    ‘Thirty-two calls. Even though restrictions had been placed on outgoing calls from the prison.’
    Hermansson ran down the long column of numbers with her finger.
    ‘I’ve cleared thirty of them. Eleven calls from staff to their family who were worried or to say that they would be home late. Eight calls to us, the police, to Aspsås district or City. Three calls to the Prison and Probation Service in Norrköping. Four calls to inmates’ families who were due to visit, to arrange new times. And …’
    She looked at the detective superintendent.
    ‘… four calls to the major newspapers’ hotlines.’
    Grens shook his head.
    ‘About the same frequency as usual. The hotline calls, I guess that was our colleagues?’
    Hermansson laughed briefly.
    ‘According to the chancellor of justice that question qualifies as investigation of sources. And that, I believe, Ewert, is a crime that carries a prison sentence.’
    ‘Colleagues, in other words.’
    She continued.
    ‘I’ve crossed them all out. So I have thirty qualified explanations.’
    She moved her finger to the numbers at the bottom.
    ‘That leaves two phone calls. One in the morning, at nine twenty-three, and one in the afternoon at twelve minutes past two. Calls from Aspsås prison to a contract phone registered at the Ericsson offices in Västberga.’
    The next plastic sleeve, handwritten notes from a note pad.
    ‘I followed the number up. According to Ericsson’s HR department, the phone is used by one of their employees called Zofia Hoffmann.’
    Grens spluttered.
    ‘Hoffmann.’
    ‘Married to a Piet Hoffmann.’
    She turned over the piece of paper. More handwriting.
    ‘I checked the personal details I was given. Zofia Hoffmann is registered as living in Stockrosvägen in Enskede. According to her