Three Seconds

jobs from Wojtek International when there were state visits. And who had a licence for Polish-manufactured guns, for work purposes, despite having served a five-year sentence for aggravated assault. Guns which, according to the register, were already in the hands of the police. Seized two weeks ago.
    Ewert Grens got out of the lift on his way to the forensics unit.
    He had a name.
    Soon he would have more.
    __________
    Piet Hoffmann had sore knees when he got up off the toilet floor and listened to the silence. He had flushed twice more, listened again, but there were still no other sounds when he unlocked the door and went out into the corridor, making it look like he’d been sitting in there for a while, dicky tummy that took its time. He went over to the TV corner, shuffled a pack of cards, made it look like he was entertaining himself for a few minutes, while he sneaked a look over at the wardens’ office and the kitchen in order to locate the screws that ran around in the unit.
     
    Faces that were turned away, uniformed backs doing something. He held up his middle finger, that usually got them moving.
    Nothing. No one reacted, no one saw.
    The others still had an hour left of their afternoon stint in the classroom and workshop, the corridor was empty, the screws were some place else.
    Now.
    He walked towards the row of cells. A quick look back at nothing. He opened the door to number 2.
    The Greek’s cell.
    It looked the same, the same bloody bed and the same bloody wardrobe and chair and bedside table. It smelt different, stuffy, maybe sour, but it was just as fucking warm and the air he breathed was just as dusty. A photo of a child on the wall, a girl with long dark hair, another photo of a woman, his daughter’s mother, Hoffmann was convinced.
    If anyone opened the door.
    If anyone saw what he was holding in his hand right now, what he was about to do.
    He gave a start, just an instant – he mustn’t start to feel.
    Not many injections or snorts – thirteen or fourteen grams – but enough in here, enough for a new judgement and extended sentence and immediate removal to another prison.
    Thirteen or fourteen grams that had to be put somewhere up high.
    He tested the curtain rail, pulling it carefully; it came loose on the first attempt. A bit of tape round the plastic bag and it stayed in place against the wall. It was easy to lift the curtain rail back.
    He opened the door and had a last look round the room – he stopped at the photo on the wall. The girl was about five, she was standing on a lawn, and in the background some happy children were waving. They were all on their way somewhere, a school trip, rucksacks in their hands and yellow and red baseball caps on their heads.
    Her father wouldn’t be here when she came to visit next time.
    __________
    Ewert Grens bent forwards over the low workbench and the row of seven guns.
     
    Three Polish-manufactured Radom pistols and four hunting rifles.
    ‘In one gun cabinet?’
    ‘In two gun cabinets. Both approved.’
    ‘He had a licence for them?’
    ‘The very ones issued by City Police.’
    Grens was standing beside Nils Krantz in one of the forensic unit’s many rooms that look like a small laboratory with fume cupboards and microscopes and tins of chemical preparations. He lifted up one of the pistols, held the plastic covered weapon in his hand, weighed it in front of him in the air. He was absolutely certain – the dead man lying on the sitting room floor had been holding one like this in his hand.
    ‘Two weeks ago?’
    ‘Yes. An office in a flat on Vasagatan. Serious drug offence.’
    ‘And nothing?’
    ‘We’ve test-fired them all. None of them have been used for any other crime.’
    ‘And Västmannagatan 79?’
    ‘I know that you hoped you’d get another answer. But you’re not going to. None of these weapons have anything to do with the shooting.’
    Ewert Grens hit his hand hard on the piece of furniture that was closest.
    A metal cupboard that shuddered as the books and files fell to the floor.
    ‘I don’t get it.’
    He was about to hit the cupboard again when Krantz stood in his way to save it.
    Grens chose the wall instead – it didn’t shudder as much but made just as much noise.
    ‘Nils, I don’t bloody get it. This investigation … it’s like I’m standing on the sideline the whole time, watching. So, you seized all his weapons? Twenty days ago? Damn it, Nils, there’s something that’s not right. Don’t you