Down for the Count is the second book in the Harry Kvist trilogy by Swedish author and teacher, Martin Holmen. It is flawlessly translated from Swedish by Henning Koch. It’s 1935, and the National Socialists are making their presence felt in Sweden. When Harry Kvist walks out of Langholmen after an 18-month sentence, he has plans. Life is going to turn around for him.

But metres from the prison’s gates, he learns that a good friend and neighbour has been murdered. Laundress Beda Johansson was apparently beaten to death by her deaf-mute son, Petrus. Kvist is immediately sceptical: he knew them both well, and suspects foul play. He promised Beda he would look after Petrus if anything happened to her, and he intends to keep that promise.

At the same time, he has a debt to work off for his landlord, Lundin, who kept his flat and dog while he was inside, so he’s driving Lundin’s hearse and picking up bodies. He might just make a fighting comeback, maybe even do a bit of training? And then he learns of a business opportunity that sounds like a perfect fit for him: things are looking up. His old navy chaplain even has him writing a long-overdue letter.

However, his investigations into the Johansson murder bring him to the attention of certain black-coated gentlemen whom it would be better to avoid, and his methods (Harry is still quick to resort to the use of force and fists) attract the ire of a fiery red-head named Elin. Elin turns out to be as gutsy as Harry, but she demonstrates to him that smarts can sometimes win out over violence when facts need to be ascertained.

In this second instalment of the trilogy, many of the characters will be familiar, although this is a slightly different side of Harry Kvist: he’s in love (with a big dose of lust) and, with the object of his affection still inside, he’s practising a lot of sexual restraint. But is he headed for heartbreak?

Again, the setting is 1930’s Stockholm, in winter, so there’s plenty of cold and rain, plenty of cigar smoking and schnapps drinking, and it’s Harry Kvist, so quite a bit of violence: “If I was to go around asking myself why one bloke harms another every time it happened, I’d go raving mad. Sometimes there are no reasons. It’s just how it is. It’s hard to resist the call of violence.”

Holmen evokes the mid-1930s with consummate ease: gas lights, fleabites, men in hats and suits, the scarcity of telephones, the mix of horse-drawn and petrol-driven vehicles. His descriptive prose is often exquisite: “Above the little wind-tormented wooden hovels on Kungsklippan, the tall chimney of the Separator, the turrets of City Hall and the church spires, the sky is suspended like a wet woollen blanket hung up to dry.” And nothing says gritty like the backyard abortion doctor who charges by the stitch to sew up a knife-wound on the quiet.

Holmen gives the reader a plot that keeps the pages turning and a nail-biting finish. It will be interesting to see where Harry goes next, and English-speaking fans will be hoping that a translation of the third instalment, Slugger, is not too long in coming. Brilliant Scandinavian noir.
With thanks to Bonnier Publishing for this copy to read and review