Three Seconds

put it in an empty glass. He drew twenty millilitres of water into a syringe and then squirted it into the glass and onto the powder which dissolved into a clear but viscous fluid. He nodded, satisfied. It had dissolved quickly. It had turned into a clear fluid. It was amphetamine and it was as strong as the seller had promised.
    ‘Tidaholm. Four years. That’s right, isn’t it?’
    It had all looked professional, but it still didn’t feel right.
    Piet Hoffmann pulled the plate of capsules over in front of him, waiting for an answer.
    ‘Ninety-seven to two thousand. Only in for three. Got out early for good behaviour.’
    ‘Which section?’ Hoffmann studied the buyer’s face.
    No twitching, no blinking, no other sign of nerves.
    He spoke Swedish with a slight accent, maybe a neighbouring country. Piet guessed Danish, possibly Norwegian. The buyer stood up suddenly, an irritated hand slightly too close to Piet’s face. Everything still looked good, but it was too late. You noticed that sort of thing. He should have got pissed off much earlier, swiped that hand in front of his face right at the start:
don’t you trust me, you bastard.
    ‘You’ve seen the judgement already, haven’t you?’
    Now it was as if he was
playing
irritated.
    ‘I repeat,
which section
?’
    ‘C. Ninety-seven to ninety-nine.’
    ‘C. Where?’
    He was already too late.
    ‘What the fuck are you getting at?’
    ‘
Where?
’
    ‘Just C, the sections don’t
have
numbers at Tidaholm.’
    He smiled.
    Piet Hoffmann smiled back.
    ‘Who else was there?’
    ‘That’ll fucking do, OK?’
    The buyer was talking in a loud voice, so he would sound even more irritated, even more insulted.
    Hoffmann could hear something else.
    Something that sounded like uncertainty.
    ‘Do you want to get on with business or not? I was under the impression that you’d asked me here because you wanted to sell me something.’
    ‘
Who else was there?
’
    ‘Skåne. Mio. Josef Libanon. Virtanen. The Count. How many names do you want?’
    ‘Who else?’
    The buyer was still standing up, and he took a step towards Hoffmann. ‘I’m going to stop this right now.’
    He stood very close, the silver on his wrist and fingers flashing as he held his hand up in front of Piet Hoffmann’s face.
    ‘No more. That’s enough. It’s up to you whether we carry on with this or not.’
    ‘Josef Libanon was deported for life and then disappeared when he landed in Beirut three and a half months ago. Virtanen has been put away in a maximum security psychiatric unit for the past few years, unreachable and dribbling due to chronic psychosis. Mio is buried—’
    The two men in expensive suits with shaved heads had heard the raised voices and opened the kitchen door.
    Hoffmann waved his arm at them to indicate that they should stay put.
    ‘Mio is buried in a sandpit near Ålstäket in Värmdö, two holes in the back of his head.’
    There were now three people speaking a foreign language in the room.
    Piet Hoffmann caught the buyer looking around, looking for a way out.
    ‘Josef Libanon, Virtanen, Mio. I’ll carry on: Skåne, totally pickled. He won’t remember whether he did time in Tidaholm or Kumla, or even Hall for that matter. And as for the Count … the wardens in Härnösand remand cut him down from where he was hanging with oneof the sheets round his neck. Your five names. You chose them well. As none of them can confirm that you did time there.’
    One of the men in dark suits, the one called Mariusz, stepped forward with a gun in his hand, a black Polish-made Radom, which looked new as he held it to the buyer’s head. Piet Hoffmann
utspokój si ę do diabla
shouted at Mariusz; he shouted
utspokój si ę do diabla
several times, Mariusz had better
utspokój si ę do diabla
take it easy, no fucking guns to anyone’s temple.
    Thumb on the decocking lever, Mariusz pulled it back, laughed and lowered the gun. Hoffmann carried on talking in Swedish.
    ‘Do you know who Frank Stein is?’
    Hoffmann studied the buyer. His eyes should be irritated, insulted, even furious by now.
    They were stressed and frightened and the silver-clad arm was trying to hide it.
    ‘You know that I do.’
    ‘Good. Who is he?’
    ‘C. Tidaholm. A sixth name. Satisfied?’
    Piet Hoffmann picked his mobile phone up from the table.
    ‘Then maybe you’d like to speak to him? Since you did time together?’
    He held the telephone out in front of him, photographed the eyes that were