Clinch by Martin Holmén Read Free Book Online Page A

my recall of thename. Sometimes I forget the simplest things. I’ve seen the same in many retired boxers, punch-drunk types with more stitches in them than a football, who can hardly tell right from left any more.
    I close my eyes and again press thumb and forefinger against the top of my nose. Slowly the letter reappears in my mind. The paper is lined, the letter is written in ink without splodges, and the handwriting is forwards leaning…
    ‘It was about a payment for a car… A certain farmer, Elofsson, in… Ovanåker parish.’
    The relief spreads a warmth inside, like a slug of booze in my stomach.
    ‘I see.’
    Berglund makes another annotation. I lean back in my chair and cough. The handcuffs rattle as I clench my hands in my lap.
    ‘Did he kill himself? Zetterberg?’
    ‘Possibly.’ Berglund glances up before he goes on with his notes.
    I shake my head. On two occasions I’ve seen it happen. Both times it was prisoners throwing themselves off the top-floor walkway at Långholmen. Like icicles of prison grey, they fell through the air and were shattered against the stone floor.
    ‘Just for the sake of accuracy,’ Berglund goes on, smiling and leaning forwards. ‘Did this Elofsson telephone you or did he write?’
    ‘He wrote a letter.’
    ‘Do you still have it?’
    ‘I burned it when I heard of Zetterberg’s death.’
    ‘But you’re certain of the name and the address?’
    ‘The name I am absolutely sure of; the address, almost sure.’
    ‘Do you own a light brown overcoat?’
    ‘No, if your boys had let me dress myself properly, you would have seen that my overcoat is black.’
    ‘I see.’ Berglund writes. ‘Would you object to my sending a courier for the coat, to verify this?’
    ‘No, do as you wish,’ I say, thinking about my reserve capital, seventy-five kronor folded between the octagonal plates in the kitchen cupboard, my best china. The pistol in the wardrobe and the notebook would probably be even worse.
    ‘One moment.’
    Berglund stands up, brushes down his trousers and walks out of the room. I hold up my hands. Is it the hangover or tension that makes them tremble? I stand up and pace back and forth across the tiny space. Zetterberg: why do they care about Zetterberg?
    ‘The bloke puts his head in the oven, the goons go in full strength, and I lose out on a new pair of shoes,’ I mutter hoarsely. A lump of phlegm blocks my throat, and I clear it with some coughing.
    I lift my hands again. They’re shaking even worse now.
    I bend down and squeeze my knee. It’s badly swollen. Berglund comes back in, but he stops in the doorway when he sees that I’m standing up, and eventually has to squeeze past me. We find ourselves face to face, he averts his eyes. Just like Zetterberg, he uses Aqua Vera. At the tip of one eyebrow, a slight scar spreads the wrinkles vertically. We sit down. The sound of the chairs scraping against the floor cuts through my cranium, as when my schoolmates used to pull their nails across their slates.
    ‘What was your impression of Zetterberg? So you would have been there…’ Berglund moves his finger over his notes. ‘… At around eight o’clock?’
    ‘More like half past six, or maybe seven.’
    ‘How did Zetterberg seem to you?’
    ‘Accommodating.’
    ‘In what sense do you mean?’
    ‘The whole thing was a misunderstanding about the payment date. We arranged it. He said he’d go to the bank the next day.’
    ‘I see.’ Berglund smiles. ‘Did you see anyone after your little rendezvous?’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘After your meeting. Did you see anyone after your visit?’
    ‘I went straight home.’
    ‘You didn’t buy anything? A newspaper? Some groceries for dinner?’
    ‘No. But I saw that bowlegged whore. Vanja.’
    Berglund makes a note. ‘Vanja. Where and when exactly?’
    ‘We had spoken earlier while I was waiting for Zetterberg, and we bumped into one another when I left the house. She was walking between Klara Norra and