Clinch by Martin Holmén Read Free Book Online

style of Kaiser Wilhelm or the King. His well-tailored suit almost exactly matches the colour of his moustache. His necktie is slightly droopy. He removes his gold-rimmed spectacles and gets out a white handkerchief. In silence, he polishes every millimetre of the lenses. His handkerchief is embroidered with a red monogram but I can’t see what it says.
    Someone yells on the other side of the wall and a few muted thuds can be heard. Quick footsteps sound up and down the corridor outside. A bloke starts groaning.
    The man makes eye contact and nods, with a smile. For an instant, the tips of his moustache seem to point directly up. I smile back and grunt.
    ‘My name is Alvar Berglund, I’m a detective chief inspector. We have a few questions for you.’
    Berglund puts on his spectacles. I wheeze. Berglund produces a fountain pen and a notebook from a briefcase and arranges these items in front of himself. First he puts the pen on top of the book, then he changes his mind and puts it to the right of it, before excusing himself and swiftly leaving the room.
    My chair scrapes across the floor as I push it against the wall to my left. I lean my head on the yellow-painted surface, closing my eyes and trying to cross my arms over my chest. The handcuffs cut into my skin. I breathe heavily with my mouth open.
    Suddenly my heart leaps. I open my eyes.
    The damned gold lighter. Engraved and everything. It’s still in my trouser pocket at home.
    ‘So,’ says Berglund after coming back and sitting down and making himself and his spectacles comfortable. ‘We’re wondering about your whereabouts last night, between eight and a quarter past nine?’
    He smiles and twists the left side of his moustache. His shirt-sleeve is ornamented with a cufflink of gold with two crossed fasces over three crowns. I lift my handcuffed hands and massage the base of my nose with my forefinger and thumb. The pain darts around my head when I accidentally brush against my swollen eye.
    ‘Between eight and a quarter past nine?’
    ‘Exactly. In the evening.’
    ‘I must have been at home. I came home before eight.’
    Berglund nods and makes a first note on the white sheet of paper before he goes on: ‘I see. Did you meet anyone after nine?’
    I stretch my neck first to the left, then the right.
    ‘No, I was alone. I did the crossword in Social-Demokraten .’
    ‘Me too,’ says Berglund and adds: ‘It got the better of me.’
    ‘Not me.’
    ‘Did you know that one about the loser at Breitenfeldt?’
    ‘Tilly? Everyone knows that, don’t they?’
    ‘Oh yes, that’s right. I’ll remember that. Tilly.’ Berglund’s pen rasps across the paper. ‘How many years of schooling did you have?’
    ‘Two.’
    The dust lies thickly on the glass lampshade dangling over the table. Up in a corner of the room the ceiling has cracked. My headache has changed; it’s grown duller and more persistent. Soon we’ll be there. With Leonard. I know how these bastards work.
    ‘What were you doing before you came home that evening?’
    ‘Working. I had a job down on Kungsgatan.’
    ‘And what do you do?’ His spectacles slide down a bit when he quizzically raises his eyebrows. Does he take me for an idiot?
    ‘You know,’ I answer quickly.
    Berglund chuckles tersely and leans back. ‘Certainly. So you met Zetterberg?’
    He notes that I flinch slightly.
    ‘The suicide,’ I mutter.
    ‘How’s that?’ Berglund scrutinises me.
    Is all this about the suicide who diddled me out of my four hundred and fifty?
    ‘Yes, I met him.’
    I smack my lips to get some saliva flowing. It feels as if someone put cotton wadding against the roof of my mouth. The nausea comes over me again. I cough drily. The boy is probably alive. At least that’s something.
    ‘Why did you go to see Zetterberg?’
    ‘To collect a debt. It was a job.’
    ‘And who hired you?’
    I could have predicted that one. Berglund smiles again. What was that backwater called again? I fumble with