Down for the Count E-Book

Martin Holmén

• Herausgeber: Pushkin Vertigo
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

THE SECOND THRILLER IN THE STOCKHOLM TRILOGY'Holmén has created a brutal anti-hero quite unlike any seen in crime fiction before' ExpressHarry Kvist walks out of the gates of Langholmen jail into the biting Stockholm winter of 1935. He has nothing to his name but a fiercely burning hope: that he can leave behind his old existence of gutter brawls, bruised fists and broken bones.But the city has other ideas. Nazis are spreading their poison on the freezing streets, and one of Kvist's oldest friends has been murdered. Before he can leave Stockholm's underworld for good, he must track down the killer. As Kvist uncovers a trail of blood leading to the highest echelons of Swedish society, the former boxer finds himself in a fight to the death with his most dangerous opponent yet.What readers have to say about The Stockholm Trilogy'This is Scandinavian noir like no other you'll read and I can't wait for the next in the series!' - Amazon reviewer'A true noir... dark, dirty and bruised' - Goodreads reviewer'Brilliant Scandinavian noir' - Amazon reviewer'A Swedish noir par excellence. Bravo' - Goodreads reviewer'Further adventures of the super macho, super smart Harry wandering the streets and prisons of a wintry, grimy pre-war Stockholm' - Goodreads reviewerTHE STOCKHOLM TRILOGY CONTINES WITH SLUGGER

Leseprobe

PRAISE FORTHE STOCKHOLM TRILOGY

‘A dark, atmospheric, powerful thriller, the best debut novel I’ve read in years’

Lynda La Plante

‘Atmospheric Scandi retro, but Chandleresque to its core’

The Sunday Times Crime Club

‘Punches you in the face like one of Kvist’s knockout blows’

Crime Scene

‘A real tour de force… a fascinating race through 1930s Stockholm’

Kate Rhodes, author of Crossbones Yard

‘A fabulously classy twist on pulp fiction’

Elle Thinks

‘A tough thriller that packs a punch’

Daily Star on Sunday

‘Blending noir with gritty violence, Clinch is a visceral, compulsive thriller’

Col’s Criminal Library

‘This is noir writing at its best’

The Bookbinder’s Daughter

‘As original as it is remarkable’

Borås Tidning

‘Scandinavian Crime meets Film Noir, the crime novel of the year’

Alexander Bard

For Sandra

CONTENTS

TITLE PAGEDEDICATIONWEDNESDAY 20 NOVEMBER WEDNESDAY 20 NOVEMBER THURSDAY 21 NOVEMBER FRIDAY 22 NOVEMBER FRIDAY 22 NOVEMBER FRIDAY 22 NOVEMBER SATURDAY 23 NOVEMBER SUNDAY 24 NOVEMBER MONDAY 25 NOVEMBER MONDAY 25 NOVEMBER TUESDAY 26 NOVEMBER TUESDAY 26 NOVEMBER WEDNESDAY 27 NOVEMBER WEDNESDAY 27 NOVEMBER ABOUT THE AUTHOR COPYRIGHT

WEDNESDAY 20 NOVEMBER

Our time is up.

A sound of knocking vibrates between the graffiti-covered stone walls. The cowslip-blond youth, resting his head on my hairy chest, flinches. Every fibre of his body’s musculature tenses up. His nails dig into my ribs.

We’re lying naked on the fold-down metal bed on the longer side of the cell. I push my head forward, hushing him, my boxer’s nose buried deep in his tangled locks. He smells of sweat, sex and ingrained dirt.

‘We still have a few minutes.’

His cloying, salty taste sticks to the roof of my mouth. I clear my throat, then caress his hair and kiss his neck. It’s blotched with scratched flea bites. I lie back again. The wood shavings in the pillow crunch as I turn my head.

On the floor beside the bunk is a pile of three books. At the bottom the New Testament, in the middle the Psalms and at the top a thin pamphlet entitled In My Lone Hour. A wall-louse laboriously clambers up the book spines. In the holding cell next to ours, a fellow prisoner slowly whistles ‘Death of a Drinking Girl’, although it’s forbidden.

‘Doughboy.’

He hardens against my thigh as I squeeze him in my arms, even though we’ve only just finished.

‘I hope you haven’t played a trick on me now. For some it’s one thing while you’re in here and something else on the outside.’

Doughboy shakes his head and makes a little sob. Again, I press my nose into his hair. Oh, that boy! That fragrance of his is so honest.

There’s more thumping on the door. Harder, this time. It’s Wednesday, the twentieth of November 1935, a year and a half to the day since I entered through the heavy front gates.

I shift Doughboy’s head and climb out of the sheets. He sits on the edge of the bed, covering his groin with his hands and hanging his head: a wilting cowslip on a wiry stem. Two violet bruises shine on his prison-pale body. Around his nipples, a few blond hairs spread outward like rays of light.

I pull up the rough grey trousers, the shirt and the vest with the blue and grey stripes. Doughboy shrugs his bony shoulders: ‘We’ll see each other again in a week. Time will go by quickly. Even quicker for you on the outside.’

‘You remember what I’ve told you?’

‘I should come directly to you on Roslagsgatan. Over a funeral parlour.’

‘Do you remember the house number?’

‘Forty-three.’

I nod. Beard stubble rasps under my fist as I rub my chin.

‘The screws will want you for the Home Guard but don’t listen to that. Come straight to me. I have gas and wood stoves, an ice cupboard too. Lundin, the bloke I’m renting it off, is not niggardly about turning up the heating, and anyone in the house will tell you that. It’s not big, but at least it’s bigger than this cell and it’ll do for the both of us.’

‘You’ve said that a thousand times.’

I do up the wooden buttons of my uniform jacket. Doughboy looks up as the lock rattles and the door opens. Jönsson stands there; he’s an evil-eyed day-shift screw with a black full-length beard divided into two forks, hanging over his chest. He’s not tall but his girth almost fills the doorway from side to side. The emblem on his uniform cap glitters in the frail morning light.