Free Clinch by Martin Holmén Page A

floor.’
    ‘Don’t you have a notebook?’
    ‘I don’t know what’s going on up there.’
    ‘A goon without a notebook. Listen carefully: her name was Sonja, you got it? In case they find her. A bit of public insight into the investigation wouldn’t do any harm.’
    Hessler looks around the minimal space and shifts his weight from one leg to another. ‘I do have a notebook.’
    ‘Well, then! Sleuth around a bit and call me at Lundin’s in a couple of days.’
    Hessler goes on walking on the spot as if he needs a pee. Most likely he doesn’t. I take a step towards the door, but he clutches my elbow.
    ‘Harry,’ he whispers. ‘It’s been so long since I could stay the night with you.’
    I prise his fingers off. It’s not so difficult. ‘Sleuth around. Call me when you’ve come up with something.’
    I leave the door open when I walk out. ‘By no means have you been ruled out of the investigation.’ I laugh to myself. I’ll show the bastards. I’m not only going to clear my name, I’ll make it clear to them who’s the best snooper. I’ve tracked down whores many times before.
    I’ll present Sonja to them before evening has fallen. The easiest way of catching a moth is in daylight, when it lies sleeping.
     
    The water in the big saucepan on the wood-burning stove is slowly coming to the boil. I close my right eye. A half-extinguished cigar is wedged in the corner of my mouth. I slap banknotes onto the table. Count them a second time. The money is still here, as well as the Husqvarna pistol – etched with the navy’s K.Fl. stamp – in its hiding place in the wardrobe. The long arm of the law has kept its inept paws away for a change. The poor man sleeps more soundly.
    The AGA radio is switched on, at high volume. In a lifeless voice, the radio announcer reads out the names of all those who have contributed to the Christmas collection for the city’s poor. I drag the saucepan off the stove and slosh most of its contents into the big bathing tub. It is already half filled with cold water. My clothes are left in a lousy little pile on the kitchen floor as I step in, a brush in one hand. St Stefan’s church bells strike once, and before the reverberations have completely ebbed away, St Johannes answers in its deep timbre, like the last punch in a perfect left-right combination.
    I soap myself, work over the tattoo of the full-rigger on my chest and continue scrubbing under the water. My skin smarts wherever the brush works its way. The lice bites burn. I massage my scalp with liquid soap and rinse my hair withthe help of the saucepan. I forget that I have a Meteor in my mouth. I put down the saucepan and spit the cigar onto the draining board.
    Cooking fumes with several different and competing smells find their way into the flat. I fancy I can distinguish mashed turnips and fried herring, pork sausage and meatballs. I smack my lips. There’s a firm knock on the door. It opens with a click, then closes.
    Lundin comes into the kitchen. Not only does he come and go as he pleases, he also lets in potential clients if I’m not at home. Doesn’t want me to lose out on the dough, he says.
    I stand up, the water dripping off me, and snatch up a towel by the draining board. Lundin takes a few big strides and sits at the kitchen table. He removes his top hat, puts it on the chair beside him, brushes off the crown of his head and folds his hands in his lap. I take the cold, hard lice comb and bend over the draining board. My scalp is smarting from the soaping it got earlier. One by one, the lice drop audibly onto the metal.
    ‘Your eye looks like a tram headlight.’
    ‘I feel as if I ran into one.’
    ‘You always said they started calling you Kvisten – twig – because you were tall and lanky.’
    ‘For a boxer, yes. That’s ten years and ten kilos ago.’
    ‘I had breakfast ready this morning.’
    ‘I was in the clink.’
    The water spills over the edge when I pull the tub towards the table. I