"TNT. Nitroglycerine. C4. Semtex. Pentyl. Octogen. Dynamex Or something else. I don't know, Grens. We're still looking. But what I do know… it was definitely close to the bodies, maybe even directly on the skin."
He nodded at the flags.
"Well… you understand."
Red for bloodstains, white for remains.
"We also know that it was an explosive that generates extreme heat." "I see…"
"Enough heat to ignite the diesel in the barrel."
"I can smell it."
The forensic scientist gave a gentle kick to the barrel standing below the hole that had been a window the day before.
"It was the diesel that had been mixed with gas that caused all that god-awful smoke. You find barrels and cans of diesel oil in every workshop in every prison, fuel for the machines and any forklift trucks, and for cleaning the tools. But this barrel… it was standing very close to Hoffmann. And it had been moved there."
Nils Krantz shook his head.
"Explosives. Poisonous smoke. It was no accident that the barrel was there, Ewert. Piet Hoffmann wanted to be certain."
"Certain?"
"That he and one of the hostages would die."
Grens turned off the engine and got out of the car. He waved at Sven to drive on ahead and started to walk over the fields in what was to be a fifteen-hundred-and-three-meter stroll from Aspsås prison to Aspsås church. The open areas of grass cleansed him of the lack of sleep and the stench of diesel oil, but not the feeling that had gripped him, which he didn't like and knew would stay with him until he understood what it was he couldn't see.
He should have worn other shoes.
The green that looked so soft from a distance was full of dips and clay and he had stumbled a couple of times, fallen heavily to the ground, his trousers stained green by the grass and brown by the earth by the time he finally stopped outside a side gate into the churchyard.
He turned around. The morning mist had evaporated and the gray walls were clear in the sunlight. He had stood here exactly twenty-four hours ago; he still hadn't made the decision about another person's death.
A handful of visitors were moving around between the headstones, flowers in their hands, spouses or children or friends who cared. Grens avoided their eyes but watched their hands as they dug in between the green bushes and wreaths, as if he was testing himself, but being by a grave that meant nothing didn't feel like anything either.
A plastic cordon was wound between the trees and some arbitrary poles. He pushed it down and stepped over it, raising his stiff leg high in the air. Four people were waiting at the heavy church door. Sven Sundkvist, two uniformed policemen from Aspsås district and an older man with a dog collar.
He held out his hand, took another hand.
"Gustaf Lindbeck. I'm the parish priest."
The sort who pronounced Gustaf with a very dear f. Grens felt his mouth twitch. I should perhaps say Ewert with a very clear w.
"Grens, detective superintendent with city police."
"Are you the one who's responsible for this?"
The parish priest tugged at the cordon.
"I'm leading the investigation, if that's what you mean."
Ewert Grens pulled at the same tape.
"Is this a problem for you?"
"I've already had to cancel a christening and a marriage. I have a funeral in an hour. I just wanted to know whether it would be possible to go ahead."
Grens looked at the church, at Sven, at the visitors on their knees in front of gravestones, watering plants in narrow beds.
"This is what we'll do."
He tugged lightly at the tape until one of the temporary poles fell down.
"I need to look over parts of the ground floor again. That'll take about half an hour. In the meantime, you-and only you-can be there and prepare what you have to prepare. When we're done, we'll remove the cordon and the funeral party can come in. But, for investigation purposes, I'll keep the church tower cordoned off for another day. Does that sound like a reasonable solution?"
The priest nodded.
"I'm very grateful. Bur… one more thing. The passing bell should be rung in about an hour. Can we use the church bell?"
Ewert looked up at the tower and the heavy cast iron bell that hung in the middle.
"Yes, you can. The bell itself isn't cordoned off."
They walked toward the now open door. The church bell. The churchyard was watching him. The passing bell. A year and a half had passed and he hadn't even chosen her gravestone.
The priest carried on straight ahead, into the cool and quiet church, whereas Grens and Sundkvist went right just inside the door. The chairs were still stacked up against the wall, the map folded out over the wooden altar near the only window in the vestibule.
"Sven?"Yes?"7 want to hear it again. Who he is. What he capable of" Ewert held the drawing of a prison.
"Extremely antisocial personality disorder. No ability to empathise." Slowly he folded it up.
"Significant characteristics include impulsiveness, aggression, lack of respect for own and others' safety, lack of conscience."
Map in his inner pocket, they wouldn't need it anymore.
"Ewert, give me a hand."
Sven had picked up and emptied six plastic cups emblazoned with the red and yellow Shell logo-a couple of hours of decisions about life and death based on the energy from bad coffee from the nearest gas station. He picked up one of the chairs and waited pointedly until Ewert took the next one. They left the room that would soon be a private gathering place for the bereaved and opened the door to the stairs up into the tower, a swift glance into the nave and the priest who was pushing a cart of bibles between two rows of pews. He saw them and raised his hand.
"Are you going up?"
"Yes."
"The passing bell… there's only twenty minutes to go."
"We'll be done by then."
They went up the stairs and the aluminum ladder and somehow it felt farther and higher than the day before. The door to the church tower balcony was open and creaked gently in the wind that played over the gravestones and grass. Grens was about to close it when he noticed the mark on the doorframe. The wood was newly splintered on a level with the door handle. It was obvious and he remembered that the first sniper had remarked that the door had been forced open. He poked the splintered wood with a pen-it hadn't even darkened yet, it couldn't have been that long ago.
The morning mist was clearing and the sky would soon be as blue as the day before. Aspsås prison was waiting under them like great lumps of gray, silent cement, walls and buildings that kept out dreams and laughter.
Ewert Grens went out onto the flimsy wooden structure.
"Sven, carry on reading."
A sniper had lain here twenty-four hours ago.
"There isn't anything else."
A gun aimed at a person's head.
"Read!"
"Shooting incident involving a police officer in Söderhamn, at a public space on the edge of the town, he hit-"
"That's enough."
He had made his decision.
His order was death.
The wind picked up. It felt good on his face, and for a while there was only the sun that warmed his pale cheeks and the birds flying way above his head, chasing what couldn't be seen. He held on to the low railing, a moment of dizziness, one single step would pitch him headlong. He looked at his feet and at a couple of dark round stains on the last wooden board, the one that stopped a few centimeters out from the railing. He touched them with his fingertips, smelled them. Gun grease, must have escaped from the gun barrel and would now forever discolor the floor of the balcony.
Ewert Grens knelt down, then lay so that his whole body was where the marksman had been. His elbows on the wooden floor, an imaginary gun in his hands, he aimed at the window that was no longer there, a hole surrounded by soot right up to the roof of the building called Block B.
"This was where he wa
s lying. When he was waiting for my order."
Ewert looked up at Sven.
"When he was waiting for me to ask him to kill."
He waved impatiently at his colleague.
"You lie down too. I want you to know what it feels like."
"I don't like heights. You know that."
"Sven, just lie down. The railing, it's enough, it'll protect you."
Sven Sundkvist crept gingerly out, going a bit farther so he didn't need to lie near Grens's heavy body. He hated heights, too much to lose if you fell, a fear that got stronger every year. He crept and wriggled and stretched
out his hand when he was sufficiently close, and clung on to the railing.
It was high. Ewert was breathing heavily. The wind was blowing.
Sven wrapped his fingers tighter around a cold iron railing and felt something coming loose; he was holding something in his hand. He pulled it back, even more came off, something black and rectangular, three or four centimeters long, a lead at one end.
"Ewers."
An outstretched hand.
"This was on the railing."
They both realized what it was.
A solar cell.
Painted black, the same color as the railing, the hand that had put it there did not want it to be seen.
Sven pulled carefully at the equally black lead. It came loose and he pulled harder, hauling in a round piece of metal, smaller than the first, barely a centimeter in diameter.
An electronic transmitter.
When I was watching him through the binoculars. I don't know, it was like he knew.
"A transmitter, a lead, a solar cell. Ewert… Sterner was right."
As if he knew that he was in range.
Sven held the lead, swinging it back and forth, forgot for a moment to be frightened of what was far below.
"Hoffmann heard every word that was said between you and the sniper."
Ewert Grens had been careful to close the door to his room.
Two cups of coffee and a cheese-and-ham roll from the vending machine in the corridor.
He could still feel the force of the explosion and the smell of smoke and imagined breathing that vanished as he watched.
He hadn't had a choice.
According to all the documentation, Piet Hoffmann was one of the few criminals who had the potential to actually do what he threatened. Ewert Grens went through the Prison and Probation Service documents, including psychopathic tests and sentences, read through his criminal record on the computer screen, five years, attempted murder and assault of a police officer, observations in the criminal intelligence database of a criminal who was KNOWN DANGEROUS ARMED.
He had not had any choice.
He was about to turn off the computer and go back out into the corridor for another cheese-and-ham roll when he noticed something at the bottom of the screen, the first entry in Piet Hoffmann's criminal record.
Date last modified.
Grens worked it out. Eighteen days ago.
A sentence that was served ten years ago.
He stayed in the room, pounding from wall to wall, from window to door, that feeling again that something was wrong, something didn't fit.
He dialed a number that he had long since learned off by heart, data support, he had spent many a night swearing over the keys and symbols that seemed to have a mind of their own.
A young male voice answered. They were always young and they were always male.
"This is Grens. I need a bit of help."
"Detective superintendent? Just one moment."
Ewert Grens had on a couple of occasions walked through the whole building in order to see what they were explaining, which was why he knew that what he heard while he waited, metal against metal, was the young male voice, just like all the others, disposing of an empty Coke can on one of the piles around his computer.
"I want to know who's changed an entry in someone's criminal record. Can you access that?"
"I'm sure I can. But that comes under the national court administration. You'll need to talk to their support team."
"But if I was to ask you? Now?"
The young voice opened a new can.
"Give me five minutes."
Four minutes and forty-five seconds later, Grens smiled at the receiver. "What have you got?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary. It was changed on one of the national court administration computers."
"By who?"
"Someone who's authorized. An Ulrika Danielsson. Do you want her number?"
He tramped around the room again, drank some cold coffee that was trying to stick to the bottom of the cup.
He remained standing up for the next phone call.
"Ulrika Danielsson."
"Grens, City Police in Stockholm."
"How can I help you?"
"It's about an investigation. 721018-0010. A judgment that's nearly ten years old."
"Right?"
'And according to the register it was modified recently. Exactly eighteen days ago."
"I see."
"By you."
He could hear her silence.
"I wanted to know why."
She was nervous. He was sure of it. Long pauses, deep breaths. "I'm afraid I can't comment on that."
"You can't comment?"
"Confidentiality clause."
"Which damn confidentiality clause?"
"I'm afraid I can't say anymore."
Grens didn't raise his voice, he lowered it-sometimes it worked even better.
"I want to know why you changed it. And what you changed." "I said that I can't comment."
"Ulrika… can I call you that, by the way?"
He didn't wait for the answer.
"Ulrika, I am a detective superintendent. I'm investigating a murder. And you work for the national court administration. You can claim the confidentiality clause as much as you like for hacks. But not for me."
I
"Now, you're going to answer me. Or I'll just get back to you, Ulrika, in a couple of days. That's as long as it takes to get a court order."
Deep breaths. She couldn't contain them any longer.
"Wilson."
"Wilson?"
"Your colleague. You'll have to ask him."
It was no longer just a feeling.
Something wasn't right.
He lay down on the brown corduroy sofa. Half an hour had passed and he had really tried, he had closed his eyes and relaxed and was even less likely to fall asleep than when he started.
I don't understand.
A prisoner in a workshop window kept getting in the way.
Why did you want to die?
A face in profile.
If you could hear, which Sterner is sure of if what we found in the church tower and what is now lying on my desk is a working transmitter, why the hell did you dodge your own death twice and then choose to face it the third time?
A person who had made sure he was visible the whole time.
Had you decided but didn't dare?
Where then did you get the courage to stand still and die?
And why did you make sure that after the shot you would be blown into a thousand pieces?
"Are you sleeping?"
Someone had knocked on the door and Hermansson popped her head round.
"Not really."
He sat up, happy to see her; he often was. She sat down beside him on the sofa, a file on her lap.
"I've finished the report about Västmannagatan 79. I'm pretty sure that he'll still recommend that it's scaled down. We don't seem to be getting any farther."
Grens sighed. "It feels… it feels very odd. If we close this… my third unsolved murder here."
"Third?"
"One at the start of the eighties, a body that was cut up into small pieces and found in the water near Kastellholmen by some fishermen pulling in a net. And then one a couple of winters ago, the woman in the hospital service passage, the one who was dragged from
the tunnel system, her face covered in big holes from rat bites."
He tapped the file. "Is it me who's getting worse, Hermansson? Or is it reality that's getting more complicated?"
Hermansson looked at her boss and smiled.
"Ewen?"
"Yes?"
"And exactly how long have you worked here?"
"You know that."
"How long?"
"Since… before you were born. Thirty-five years."
"And how many murders have you investigated?"
"The exact number, I assume?"
"Yes."
"Two hundred and thirteen."
"Two hundred and thirteen."
"Including this one."
She smiled again.
"Thirty-five years. Two hundred and thirteen murders. Of which three are unsolved!'
He didn't answer. It wasn't a question.
"One every twelve years, Ewert. I don't know how you measure things like that. But I'd say that's not too bad."
He glanced at her. Thought what he had often thought about. He knew already. If he had had a son, a daughter.
Kind of like her.
"There was something else?"
She opened the file and took out a plastic sleeve that was at the back. "Two more things."
She pulled out two pieces of paper from the awkward plastic.
"You asked me to get a record of all outgoing phone calls from Aspsås prison between eight forty-five and nine forty-five in the morning and one thirty and two thirty in the afternoon."
Near columns of numbers to the left and first name and last name to the right.
"Thirty-two calls. Even though restrictions had been placed on outgoing calls from the prison."
Hermansson ran down the long column of numbers with her finger.
"I've cleared thirty of them. Eleven calls from staff to their family who were worried or to say that they would be home late. Eight calls to us, the police, to Aspsås district or City. Three calls to the Prison and Probation Service in Norrkoping. Four calls to inmates' families who were due to visit, to arrange new times. And…"
She looked at the detective superintendent.
"… four calls to the major newspapers' hotlines."
Grens shook his head.
"About the same frequency as usual. The hotline calls, I guess that was our colleagues?"
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