Three Seconds

paper copies forming a pile, one at a time.
    ‘You’ll give it back?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Do you need help?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Sure?’
    ‘The door’s unlocked.’
    __________
    The sun had taken over the kitchen, the light which had a short while ago been aided by bright bulbs was now strong enough to stand alone and he didn’t notice when Ågestam switched off the lights.
     
    It was half past four, but the day had dawned.
    ‘Lars.’
    She was young and her hair was tangled. She had on a white dressing gown and white slippers and she was very tired.
    ‘I’m sorry. Did we wake you?’
    ‘Why aren’t you asleep?’
    ‘This is Ewert Grens and—’
    ‘I know who it is.’
    ‘I’ll be up in a while. We just need to finish up here.’
    She sighed, she didn’t weigh much, but her steps were heavier than even Grens’s as she went back upstairs to the bedroom.
    ‘Sorry, Ågestam.’
    ‘She’ll go back to sleep.’
    ‘She’s still upset, isn’t she?’
    ‘She believes you made an error of judgement. I do too.’
    ‘I apologised. Christ alive, it was five years ago now!’
    ‘Grens?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘You’re shouting again. Don’t wake the children.’
    Lars Ågestam emptied both cups into the sink, the stuff that was viscous and bitter and stuck to the bottom of the cup.
    ‘I don’t need any more tea.’
    He picked up the pile of three hundred and two newly printed pages.
    ‘Doesn’t matter what time it is. This … I’m not tired any more, Grens, I’m … angry. If I need anything it’s to calm down.’
    He opened one of the cupboards. On the top shelf, a bottle of Seagrams and suitably sized glasses.
    ‘What do you reckon, Grens?’
    Ågestam filled two glasses to the halfway mark.
    ‘It’s half four in the morning.’
    ‘That’s the way it goes, sometimes.’
    Another person.
    Ewert Grens gave a weak smile as Ågestam downed half of it.
    If he had had to guess, he would have guessed teetotaller ten out of ten times.
    Grens had a sip himself after a while. It was milder in taste than he had imagined, perfect for a kitchen, with pyjamas and dressing gown.
    ‘The truth we were never told, Ågestam.’
    He put a hand on the pile of papers.
    ‘I’m not sitting here because I enjoy watching you wake up. And not for your tea, either, not even the whisky. I came here because I’m certain that we can resolve this together.’
    Lars Ågestam flicked through the secret intelligence reports that he had not known existed until now.
    His neck was still red.
    He still kept running his hands back and forth through his hair.
    ‘Three hundred and two.’
    He paused every now and then, read something, then carried on leafing through, arbitrarily choosing which document to read next.
    ‘Two versions. One official. And one for police management.’
    He waved at the pile in front of him and poured another glass of whisky.
    ‘Do you realise, Grens? I could prosecute them all. I could prosecute every single police officer who has anything to do with this. For forging documents. For fake certificates. For provoking crimes. There’s enough here to merit a separate police unit at Aspsås.’
    He downed the glass and laughed.
    ‘And all these trials? What do you reckon, Grens? All these pleadings and interviews and judgements without the knowledge that the heads of the police authority were already party to!’
    He threw the pile down on the table. Some pages fell on the floor; he stood up and stamped on them.
    ‘You’ve just woken the children.’
    They hadn’t heard her coming – she stood in the doorway, in the white dressing gown but without the slippers.
    ‘Lars, you’ve got to calm down.’
    ‘I can’t.’
    ‘You’re frightening them.’
    Ågestam kissed her on both cheeks, he was already on his way to the children’s room.
    ‘Grens?’
    He turned on the bottom step of the stairs.
    ‘I’m going to spend the whole day on this.’
    ‘Monday morning. Or two tapes will be missing.’
    ‘I’ll get back to you by this evening at the latest.’
    ‘Monday morning. Then the wrong people will be finding out how bloody close I am.’
    ‘By tonight at the latest. That’s the best I can do. Is that OK?’
    ‘That’s OK.’
    The prosecutor paused, laughed again.
    ‘Grens, imagine! A separate police unit. A separate police unit at Aspsås!’

The coffee tasted different.
     
    He had poured out the first cup after a couple of mouthfuls. A fresh one from the machine in the corridor had