Free Clinch by Martin Holmén

paper in front of him. At the top of one is a photograph. It’s impossible to see what it features. Olsson looks up and follows the direction of my gaze.
    ‘Sometimes I’m still surprised when I see how much blood there is inside a bloke.’
    I remember the first time I was made aware of it myself. It was in the port of Cherbourg, just a few months before I was paid off for the last time. There was a strike and we couldn’t unload the cargo. I was hanging about on the ship’s railing. A fresh, salt-spattered breeze was making the flags flutter. Much further down on the quay, a couple of stevedores had got hold of a scab. They were working him over hard with their loading hooks. They stood in a ring around him, someone rolled a cigarette, and the scab bled dry. A couple of sturdy blokes hooked him in the back and dragged him off towards a crane. Behind him ran a wide rivulet of blood. Soon he was swinging by his feet under the crane.
    I flinch when Olsson clears his throat. He slides a card across the table.
    ‘Speaking of blood, we have to take some of yours, but then you’re free to go. Currently we’re working on the hypothesis that you were the last person, apart from the murderer, to meet Zetterberg. Call me if something occurs to you about your meeting.’
    I take the card and pocket it. ‘So the witness freed me?’
    ‘If you mean the street girl, we never found her, not a Vanja and not a Sonja either.’
    ‘You know who I mean.’
    ‘Don’t call me unless it’s for a good reason. I don’t like you.’
    I walk through the monotonous corridors of the police station to the Anti-Smuggling Section at the other end. This temporary specialised task force is expected to track down home-distilled wares from the northern parts of the country and smuggled spirit from the east. At the same time, the section manages now and then to close down the odd drinking dive, preferably the sort of place frequented by nonces, communists and artists. With all its points of entry, harbours and long quays, Stockholm is in fact quite impossible to keep under control. The Anti-Smuggling Section always makes its raids when the big syndicates are getting some competition from a lesser newcomer. Anyone with any insight into the business knows this.
    In the heart of the section is a table several metres long. On either side of it are five chairs. Three desk goons, all with their ties undone, sit there pushing papers.
    My old friend Johan Hessler isn’t at all happy to see me. The constable in charge of the Anti-Smuggling Section is the sort of bloke that most women would describe as handsome. His thick, dark hair is carefully tended, with a centre parting. He has one of those small, ridiculous moustaches like Ronald Colman. Certain members of the police corps must find his facial hair too daring, but every button of his blue uniform is well polished, as are his shoes. I think his main task is to pose with what they’ve seized for the newspapers.
    When I come in, Hessler stops what he’s doing and stands up abruptly. Without greeting me, he grabs me by the arm and bundles me into an adjoining cubbyhole. The room is filled with bookshelves and dusty boxes. It smells like a dry sauna at a gentlemen’s Turkish bath. The door closes heavily behind us.
    ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Hessler’s voice is an octave higher than usual. ‘I heard they put you up for Kungsgatan? And look at the state of you!’
    ‘I was in the house. Visiting an old friend.’
    ‘When did they release you?’
    ‘Just now. A witness wouldn’t cooperate.’
    ‘You seem to get out of trouble that way at regular intervals.’
    ‘It happens.’
    Hessler lowers his voice. ‘So there’s a witness?’
    ‘There are more. Among others a tart, Sonja, but they can’t find her.’
    ‘Shouldn’t be so hard.’
    ‘Precisely.’ I stroke my beard stubble. ‘Make a note of it! I have to know if they find her.’
    ‘But that’s on the first