Clinch by Martin Holmén Read Free Book Online Page B

Målaregatan. It must have been around seven. She said she was a dishwasher on Drottninggatan.’
    ‘How do you know she was a tart?’
    ‘A girl on her own who approaches a bloke she doesn’t know? What would you say, chief inspector? And if she wasn’t, then she was the first dishwasher I ever met who had dirty fingernails.’
    Berglund nods, makes a note and then rings a bell attached under the table. The high-pitched tone of it makes me jump. The door opens at once and a uniformed constable comes into the room.
    ‘Ask Linder to run a check on a prostitute by name of Vanja. Check the ledgers for assumed identities and run her through the register for nicknames too.’
    The door closes behind me, and Berglund goes on: ‘This Vanja, can you say with absolute confidence that she saw you?’
    ‘It was dark but she saw me. I believe she even greeted me when I was on my way out.’
    ‘Appearance?’
    ‘Blonde, slanted dark eyes, almost like a Chinese, seventeen or eighteen years old, with a black coat. A bit bowlegged.’
    ‘How do you mean?’
    ‘Like someone in the cavalry. Too many men, perhaps? Or scurvy?’
    ‘Anything else?’ Berglund makes notes.
    ‘Dales accent. Liked Madeira wine.’
    Berglund nods and makes more notes. ‘The chances of finding her in our records are good. We keep the street ladies under close scrutiny.’
    The door behind me opens. I do not turn around.
    ‘Could the chief inspector come out for a moment?’
    Berglund nods, closes his notebook and takes it with him when he leaves the room.
    I go back to massaging my swollen knee. Even though the girls change names more frequently than their underwear, there shouldn’t be a problem finding her. Even if they haven’t nabbed her yet she’s bound to have a couple of cautions. I lean back and sigh with relief.
    ‘And I managed to keep the kid out of all this!’ I chortle. ‘Not bad going for a one-legged horse, Kvisten!’
    The goons most likely didn’t leave me fifteen öre for the tram when they went through the wallet. It’ll be a long, cold walk home to Sibirien.
    The door opens, two uniformed goons come barging in and I feel a heavy hand on my shoulder. The physical touch sends an electric flash through my head, and I breathe in abruptly.
    ‘Harry Kvist,’ Berglund says ceremoniously behind my back.‘You are hereby formally under arrest for the murder of Gunnar Zetterberg, and attempted arson. You will be transferred at once to the remand prison.’
    One of the goons grabs my arm and the other takes me by the shirt collar. They get me up on my feet and turn me around, so that I’m standing eye to eye with Berglund.
    ‘The only Vanja to be found in our registers found the Lord and became a Salvation Army soldier several years ago,’ he continues, monotonously.
    My mouth opens, I snatch my arm away. Berglund raises his hand.
    ‘I don’t read Social-Demokraten , but I find it hard to believe that there was a clue about Breitenfeldt in the crossword the day before yesterday.’
    ‘For Christ’s sake! I can’t keep tags of all the crossword clues!’
    ‘We’ve also telephoned both the district police superintendent in Bollnäs and the parish constable in Ovanåker to check on your statement,’ Berglund goes on and adjusts his bow-tie. ‘It’s strange,’ he says with a sudden smile, ‘but there isn’t and never has been a farmer by name of Elofsson in that part of the country.’

 
     
    I’m shivering under the blanket. All I can hear is the continuous pacing in the corridor outside, and the wheezing of my bronchial tubes. Every time the guards get close to my sturdy cell door of green-painted wood, I raise my head and listen. The bunk is bolted to the wall. A chain hangs from an overhead eyelet and runs down the brick wall.
    Apart from the table without chairs under the little window, my bunk is the only furniture in the room. The bucket by the door fills the whole cell with its stench. The sound of footsteps