Three Seconds

the edges of the rectangular cover; the one who spoke Finnish over by the drilling machine and made small holes for every screw; and the one furthest away by the window who had a big scar from his throat to his cheek and was leaning over the barrel of diesel as he cleaned his tools.
    ‘Look at the floor. It’s bloody important that you’re thorough about it, scrub as hard as you damn well can, otherwise it smells.’
    Piet Hoffmann didn’t hear what the principal prick was saying. He had stopped by the barrel of diesel and the window. It was the one he had aimed at. He had lain on the church tower balcony holding an imaginary gun and shot at the window he selected exactly fifteen hundred and three metres away. It was a beautiful church and you got a clear view of the tower from here, as free a view as you got of the window from the tower.
    He turned round, back to the window, memorised the rectangular room that was divided by three thick, whitewashed concrete pillars, big enough for a person to stand behind and not be seen. He took a couple of steps forward towards the pillar that was nearest to the window and stood close by it. It was just as big as he thought – he could stand there and be completely hidden. He walked slowly back across the room, getting the feel of it, getting used to it, didn’t stop until he got to the room behind the glass wall that was an office for the prison wardens.
    ‘Good, Hoffmann, that room … it’s got to shine.’
    A small desk, some shelves, a dirty rug. There was a pair of scissors in the pen holder, a telephone on the wall, two drawers that were unlocked and mostly empty.
    It was a matter of time.
    If everything went wrong, if Paula was exposed, the more time he had, the more chance he had of surviving.
    The principal officer walked in front of him along the passage and under the prison yard to the administration building, four locked doors with four watchful cameras. They looked up into each one, nodded to the lens, then waited for central security to press one of their buttons and the click that told them that the door was open. It took them more than ten minutes to put a couple of hundred metres underground behind them.
    The first floor of the administration block was a narrow corridor with a view of the prison reception area. Every prisoner who was escorted in fresh from the chain, through security to reception, could be studied from the six offices and the poky meeting room. The governor and his administrative staff had seen him as he was led in yesterday, a priority prisoner with handcuffs and leg irons in Kronoberg remand clothes, with streaky fair hair and a salt-and-pepper two-week beard.
    ‘Are you following me, Hoffmann? You’ll be coming here every day. And when you leave, there won’t be a speck of dirt left behind. Will there? Loads of floors to be scrubbed, desks to be dusted, bins to be emptied and windows to be cleaned. Do you have a problem with that?’
    The rooms had institution-grey walls and floors and ceilings, as if the gloominess and hopelessness of the corridor spilled over into the offices. There were a few pots with green plants and a few circles of ceramic tiles on one of the walls, otherwise it was all dead, furniture and colours that did not tempt you to dare dream of anywhere else.
    ‘Perhaps we should introduce you. Get a move on.’
    The governor was in his fifties, a man who was as grey as his walls. It said Oscarsson on his door.
    ‘This is Hoffmann. He’s the new cleaner here from tomorrow.’
    The governor held out a hand that was soft, but with a firm grip.
    ‘Lennart Oscarsson. I want both bins emptied every day. The one under the table and the one over there by the visitors’ chairs. And if there are any unwashed glasses, take them with you.’
    It was a big room with windows that faced the fence and prison yard, but the same feeling as in all the others: a joyless institution, no room for anything private here, not even a family photo in a silver frame or a diploma on the walls. With one exception. On the desk, two bunches of flowers in crystal vases.
    ‘Tulips?’
    The principal officer went over to the desk and the long green stems with equally green buds. He held the white greeting cards in his hand while he read the message on both of them out loud.
    ‘With thanks for a successful partnership, Aspsås Business Association.’
    The governor arranged one of the bunches on his desk, twenty-five yellow tulips that