Three Seconds

of his jacket began to chime.
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘Are you heading the investigation into the murder in Västmannagatan 79?’
    Ewert Grens was out of breath. He didn’t often take the stairs.
    ‘Who’s asking?’
    ‘Says who?’
    The voice was Danish, but easy to understand, probably from somewhere near Copenhagen, the part of Denmark that Grens had worked with most over the years.
    ‘Was it you or me who phoned?’
    ‘Apologies. Jacob Andersen, crime operations unit Copenhagen, or what you call homicide.’
    ‘And what do you want?’
    ‘To know whether you are leading the investigation into the murder in Västmannagatan 79?’
    ‘Who said it was a murder?’
    ‘I did. And it’s just possible that I know who the victim is.’
    Grens stopped on the last step, tried to catch his breath while he waited for the voice that had presented itself as a Danish policeman to continue.
    ‘Do you want me to call you back?’
    ‘Put the phone down.’
    Grens hurried to his room, found the file he was looking for in the third drawer of his desk. He leafed through it for a moment or two and then left it open in front of him as he dialled the switchboard of Copenhagen police and asked for Jacob Andersen from the crime operations unit.
    ‘Andersen.’ It was the same voice.
    ‘Put the phone down.’
    He called the switchboard again and asked to be transferred to Jacob Andersen’s mobile phone.
    ‘Andersen.’
    The same voice.
    ‘Open the window.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘If you want the question answered, then open the window.’
    He heard the voice put the phone down on the desk and fiddle for a while with a rusty window hook.
    ‘OK?’
    ‘What can you see?’
    ‘Hambrogade.’
    ‘Anything else?’
    ‘The water if I lean out far enough.’
    ‘Half of Copenhagen can see water.’
    ‘Langebro.’
    Grens had looked out of the window from the crime operations unit several times. He knew that it was the water by Langebro that was sparkling in the sun.
    ‘Where does Moelby sit?’
    ‘My boss?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘In the room opposite. He’s not here right now. Otherwise—’
    ‘And Christensen?’
    ‘There is no bloody Christensen here.’
    ‘Good. Good, Andersen. Now we can continue.’
    Grens waited, it was the Danish voice that had phoned him, so it was the one that should continue. He went over to his own window. Not much water to be seen in the dreary courtyard of the police headquarters.
    ‘I have reason to believe that the dead person worked for us. I’d like to see a photograph, if possible. Could you fax one to me?’
    Ewert Grens reached for a folder that was lying on his desk, checked that Krantz’s pictures were still there, the ones that had been taken in the flat, when the face still had skin.
    ‘You’ll get a photo in five minutes. I’ll wait for the call when you’ve had a look.’
    __________
    Erik Wilson enjoyed walking in the centre of Stockholm.
     
    Mad people, suits, beautiful women, pushers, prams, running clothes, dogs, bikes and the odd person who wasn’t going anywhere. Half past ten, mid-morning in the city. He had passed them all on the recently repaired pavement in the short distance from the police headquarters to Sankt Eriksplan. It was cooler here, easier to breathe; it had already been too warm in South Georgia, and in a few weeks it would be unbearable. He had left Newark International in the afternoon, just after five local time, and landed at Arlanda eight hours later, early in the morning. He must have slept a bit on the plane, fallen asleep despite the two old ladies in the seats in front who chatted incessantly, and the man in the seat beside him who coughed loudly every five minutes. As the taxi approached the city and the policeheadquarters at Kronoberg, he asked the driver to stop first at Västmannagatan 79, the address he had been given by Paula. Wilson showed his ID to the security guard at the door of the fourth floor flat, with blue and white tape criss-crossed over the doorway and a sign that said it was a secured crime scene, and then walked on his own through the abandoned rooms that not even a day earlier had witnessed a man being killed. He started by the large, dark patch on the carpet under the table in the sitting room. A life had seeped away just here. An overturned chair was lying by the edge of the patch, the stain of death. He peered at a hole in the ceiling and another hole in the closed kitchen door, obvious damage from the split bullet. Then he stood