Three Seconds

had been opened, after the first
good morning
, were the difference between life and death; a well planned attack would always be carried out when the screws had disappeared into their room for a cup of coffee and a break – twenty minutes with no staff in the unit and the time when several of the many murders in prison had been carried out in recent years.
    ‘Good morning.’
    The screw had opened the door and looked in. Piet Hoffmann was sitting on the bed and stared at him without replying – it wasn’t how he felt, it was just something he said because the rules said he should.
    The screw prat didn’t give in, he would stand there and wait until he got an answer, confirmation that the prisoner was alive and that everything was as it should be.
    ‘Good morning. Now fucking leave me in peace.’
    The screw nodded and carried on, two cells at a time. This was when Hoffmann had to act. When the last door was opened it was too late.
    __________
    A sock round the handle, he pulled the door – that normally couldn’t be locked or closed completely from the inside – towards him, jamming it by forcing the fabric of the sock between the door and door frame.
     
    One second
.
    He put the simple wooden chair that normally stood by the wardrobe just inside the threshold, careful to make sure that it blocked the greater part of the doorway.
    One second
.
    The pillow and blanket and trousers were made to look like a body under the covers, the blue arm of his training jacket a continuation ofthe body. It wouldn’t fool anyone. But it was an illusion that would be given a fast double take.
    Half a second
.
    __________
    Both the screws disappeared down the corridor. All the cells were unlocked and open now and Piet Hoffmann positioned himself to the left of the door, with his back to the wall. They could come at any moment. If they had found out, if he had been exposed, death would strike immediately.
     
    He looked at the sock round the handle, the chair in front of the door, the pillows under the blanket.
    Two and a half seconds.
    His protection, his time to hit back.
    __________
    He was breathing heavily
     
    He would stand like this, waiting, for twenty minutes.
    It was his first morning in Aspsås prison.

There was someone standing in front of him. Two thin suit legs that had said something and were now waiting for an answer. He didn’t reply.
     
    ‘Grens? What are you doing?’
    Ewert Grens had fallen asleep on the floor behind the brown corduroy sofa with an investigation file on his stomach.
    ‘What about our meeting? It was you who wanted it this early. I assume that you’ve been here all night?’
    His back ached a bit. The floor had been harder this time.
    ‘That’s none of your business.’
    He rolled over and heaved himself up, using the arms of the sofa for support, and the world spun ever so slightly.
    ‘How are you?’
    ‘That’s none of your business either.’
    Lars Ågestam sat down on the sofa and waited while Ewert Grens went over to his desk. There was no love lost between them. In fact, they couldn’t stand each other. The young prosecutor and older detective superintendent came from different worlds and neither had any inclination to visit the other any more. Ågestam had tried at first, he had chatted and listened and watched until he realised it was pointless, Grens had decided to hate him and nothing would change that.
    ‘Västmannagatan 79. You wanted a report.’
    Lars Ågestam nodded.
    ‘I get the distinct feeling that you’re getting nowhere.’
    They weren’t getting anywhere. But he wouldn’t admit it. Not yet.
    Ewert Grens fully intended to keep hold of his resources, which Ågestam had the power to remove.
    ‘We’re working on several theories.’
    ‘Such as?’
    ‘I’m not prepared to say anything yet.’
    ‘I can’t imagine what you’ve got. If you did have something, you’d give it to me and then tell me to piss off. I don’t think you’ve got anything at all. I think it’s time to scale down the case.’
    ‘Scale down?’
    Lars Ågestam waved his skinny arm at the desk and the piles of ongoing investigations.
    ‘You’re not getting anywhere. The investigation is at a standstill. You know as well as I do, Grens, that it’s unreasonable to tie up so many resources when an investigator is having no success.’
    ‘I never give up on a murder.’
    They looked at each other. They came from different worlds.
    ‘So, what have you got then?’
    ‘You