Death on a Cold Street.
Episode 1
The spring thaw had turned Idegranstad's thoroughfares into rivers of mud; summer then baked that mud into vicious furrows, these ruts held the foul smelling remains of every variation of shit known, the mix being heavily seasoned with the remains of rotting vegetables and the stink of butchered meat. The busy market towns streets boiled with a confusion of wagons, horses, and humanity.
A crush of man and beast moved about her, careless of her comfort, paying no heed even to her existence. Yet, in this crowd, she felt safe. Safe to breathe, walk, look about her, lead a life as others did.
"Nice bit of something to eat, girly?" A hot potato seller winked, and thrust the tempting fragment of his wares at her.
Shyly, she shook her head and stepped passed him.
But the scent took her. Eyes closed, she sucked in the pleasing aroma of food, and imagined herself an innocent again.
Mama and Tante Felice sitting on the floor in their spoilt finery, like dressed up children. There is a gin jug between them, it's clear liquid being drunk from delicate, but chipped China cups. Then they sing, and giggle, till they sleep where they sit.
And her? Why, she is curled in a quilt in the corner of their bed, eating a blackened hot potato with their last silver spoon.
These were the memories that brought pleasure.
She became aware, in her thoughtfulness, of shouts more urgent than the norm. Close to her, the shoving had become aggressive, rather than casual. She found herself pushed aside into a stall. It shuddered and toppled over, sending apples and cabbages rolling, bouncing onto greasy cobbles. Pulling back straight, gripping what was left of the stall, she managed to save herself.
From the commotion behind her, ragged street urchins darted forward, scooping up the fallen merchandise, disappearing just as quickly back into the crowd.
A small, flashily dressed man lurched by her, again she had to steady herself.
He was followed by a shaven-headed hulk, lumbering up behind him, thrusting others out of his way.
"Svensson, you cheatin' bastard. I'll have you!" He made a grab at the smaller man, dragging him to the ground.
Immediately the big man was surrounded by smartly coated policemen, it took four of them to drag him down, and all four to contain him. The small man saw his chance and was trying to scrabble over a wooden fence into a yard.
"Oh, no you don't, Svensson!" A large hand caught the scruff of his neck; he was swung hard against the slatted fence, and held there. His assailant was a tall man, of easy authority.
The whole show fascinated both her, and the crowd.
The tall man's low crowned Homberg stayed firmly in place, his immaculate black coat, unwrinkled and snowy white shirt collar, sharp.
"You got 'im Inspector!" one of the crowd called.
"Indeed sir, indeed I have." He bent and whispered something to the man he held, who answered with a terrified look.
Holding back her sneer, she turned to move away. Her dislike of policemen had never left her. Their brutality and corruption had killed her mother, and likely her own fate too. She would never trust one.
But in the turn, she caught the eye of the Inspector; a fleeting look of interest was there.
Her colour drained; she must not attract attention, definitely not from the likes of him.
It was then she felt the slightest of tugs on her reticule. She hissed low and angrily pulled it back. There was a grunt, the grip loosened and was gone. Regaining her obscurity within the crowd, she eased herself back and walked away, heart pounding.
Inspector Martinsson slammed the wriggling man harder against the fence, grunting an oath at the distraction of a pretty, but unknown face. He twisted Svensson's arm up hard behind him, and his attention returned to the job in hand
###
Magnus Martinsson tossed the cab driver a small silver coin. High on his perch, the cabbie caught his fee, tipped his hat, flicked the reins, and clucked, 'walk on' to his horse.
Closing his eyes and pursing his lips, Magnus prepared to face the monthly ordeal.
His mother would try to make him feel guilty about leaving the child with her, about the rarity of his visits. He, in turn, would give her twenty reasons why the time was not right to make a home for a small girl, followed by a list of the arduous, not to say, extensive duties of an inspector in a modern police force.
The whole thing was utterly tiresome.
But sometimes the child, he could never bring himself to call her Brigitte, sometimes she would come into the room and he could swear he caught the scent of her mother's skin.
Even after five years the thought still tormented him.
Taking a deep pull on his cigarette, he scowled, and tossed it into the gutter. His mother would complain of the smell, but then that was one of the reasons he lit up so close to the house, he knew it would annoy her. He had faced down anarchists with bombs, fought armed ruffians, even argued publicly with a minister of justice on one occasion, but his mother was a totally different matter. So he resorted to silly games. They got him nowhere in particular, though, perversely, they made him feel better.
###
"Master Magnus!" Bertinsen was his mother's only manservant; the poor man always looked relieved when Magnus visited, his look said 'at last, another man.'
There was a distinct lack decorum in his mother's household that Magnus always savoured. 'Manners did not maketh man.' As a policeman, he knew that better than most.
"She's in the drawing room." The elderly man took the young masters hat and whispered, "In a proper mood too. Mind yourself."
Taking the man's advice he straightened his shoulders, boldly stepping into the den of the Martinsson lioness.
###
"Good day mother, I hope I find you well?"
"That you find me at all is a surprise." Etta Brun huffed. "I thought you'd forgotten where we lived." She eyed her son with a pained but not quite resigned look. She was not giving up; he would not win this childish nonsense. Her daughter-in-law had been a sweet child, too delicate for the married state and the rigours of childbirth. But it was the lot of women to suffer so, and the fate of men to take responsibility for their families. Magnus was her only child; he was strong and straight, handsome, clever and ambitious. A fine man, but he mourned too deep, far too deep, blamed himself for his wife's death. Guilt swallowed what should have been love for his daughter.
He had been the same when his father died. It became impossible to speak of her late husband as the boy would fall silent at the mention of him, refusing; it seemed, to acknowledge his father's passing. When she later remarried, Magnus left to study in England, rather than have to deal with his new stepfather. He only returned when poor Lars died too.
Etta gathered her fortitude and let the past shuffle back where it belonged. Her son and granddaughter needed all her attention.
"I was here the other day, don't fuss so. Does she have all she needs?" As the phrase passed his lips he knew his mother would launch into her 'the child's need for a father' speech. He must remember to be more careful with his words; conversations with his mother were not like dealing with the criminal classes. It was more like the diplomatic exchanges with the commissioner, a careful ballet of verbal skill. He was tired; maybe he was losing his touch? The arrest of Svensson and Nyman had been satisfying, but a touch... energetic.
Energetic? He swore to himself. Christ, he was thirty-five, not fifty-five.
"Do you ever listen to me, or is it all for show?" She gave him a scathing look and snapped," And a beard? Really Magnus you look like an intellectual!"
"I wasn't aware that was an insult. But I beg pardon ma mere, official duties occupy my mind, and I'll shave, I wouldn't want to be mistaken for a man of intellect." He shrugged irritably. "You were saying?"
"I was about to tell you that the Lundquist house is up for sale. It would suit you and Brigitte very well. I could find you a decent housekeeper, a maid of all work, and more importantly a reliable nursemaid."
"The Lundquist house is too big, too expensive to run for just myself and..." He turned away, refusing, as usual to acknowledge the child's name. "And it's too far from the Commissariat; the journey would take too long."
"Last time the house was too close to town, unhealthy for a child you said!" Etta was losing patience, with her son. "This cannot continue, Magnus, I am an old woman, you must face your responsibility, find a home. A wife, a mother for the child."
As he turned on his mother, anger at the very suggestion he could replace his adored Brigitte, welling forth, a sharp rap at the drawing room door drew him up.
Etta assumed a haughty smile and called, "Ah, good. Come in, child, your father is come to see you."
The world froze for him. The small form of his daughter stepped hesitantly into the room, followed by his mother's bustling housekeeper.
"And what do you say, young lady?" The proud grandmother's smile was soft and expectant.
The little girl stood gazing up at the impossibly tall man she knew to be her 'Father'. "Good-day-to-you-sir." She said the words she had been taught with care, twisting a curl of silver hair about her stubby finger. The giant never stayed long, all she had to do was please her grandmother. She dipped a clumsy curtsy, and waited. Magnus swallowed, looked at his mother, and shook his head. He'd wanted to be a father, God knows he did. Brigitte and he had planned this child's future together. A boy would be like him, fond of skiing, literature, music. A girl would be as beautiful as her mother, paint delicate water colours, dance, and sing like an angel. They would live a life of familial bliss.
Then Brigitte died giving him his perfect child. And with her died that dream.