"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 behavior."

"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 neighboring 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 judgment 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, okay?"

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?"

"Skane. 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 toward Hoffmann. "I'm going to stop this right now."