When Mickel Cardell wakes up, he does not know where he is, but his cheeks are wet and he tastes the salt of tears in the corners of his mouth. It is dark all around. Beneath him, something cuts painfully into his side. A round, smooth shaft. As he feels with his hand along the wooden surface, he realizes he is lying on the handle of a broom. His headache is abominable, as is the taste in his mouth. When his eyes grow accustomed to the dark, he can make out the shape of a door.
He remains on his back a moment longer, in the hope that his memory will return. Frothy tankards, smoky pubs, a growing state of drunkenness, voices raised in anger, an exchange of blows. As his senses return, Cardell becomes aware of the cold. Freezing air is rising from the cracks between the floorboards, and his teeth are chattering. Stockholm, as always. November now. He is inside the cupboard at the Perdition, at times used as a place to store customers who cannot be managed in any other way. And Cecil Winge is dead.
In his state between wakefulness and sleep, Cardell cannot at first tell nightmare from reality, but the memory surfaces out of the mists of inebriation and the loss hits him yet again, as mercilessly as when the message was first delivered. He loses his breath, fighting to draw in air, and his left arm flares with sudden pain. A whimper escapes him while he massages the scars left by the surgeon’s knife. Lightning flickers behind his closed eyelids.
Cardell rolls over onto his stomach. The weight of his left arm is still unfamiliar. He has a new carved hand, of oak this time, and it weighs more than the one he lost. He has not had time to get used to it. Nonetheless, it serves its purpose. Oak may be harder to swing but when it hits the mark, it spreads death and destruction. The new straps fit better. Cardell does not intend to lose it again. He loosens the straps now to regain some blood flow and finds that two front teeth have become jammed between the knuckles of the wooden fist. As life returns to his left arm, he redoes his straps and bangs on the door.
“Open up and let me out, for fuck’s sake.”
It takes a while before he receives an answer from the other side.
“Have you calmed down now, Cardell? I don’t want any more trouble, do you hear?”
“My temper will only worsen as my patience is tried.”
Something heavy that has been placed in front of the door is dragged aside. Cardell lifts his arm to shield his eyes from the light and lurches out of the cupboard. The taproom is a mess, shards of glass and bottles strewn over the floor. Cardell slumps down on the first bench he sees and rests his face in his hands. When he looks up, Hoffbro’s mural grins down at him from the wall. The scythe-wielding corpse dances with joy.
“Gedda, give me something strong. I feel as if my head is about to burst.”
The publican returns with a mug of ale.
“Hear me now, Cardell. If you’re going to behave as you did last night, I can’t have you here anymore, not even as a customer. You scared away my clientele, and those I employed to keep order in your stead quit on the spot rather than put themselves in your path.”
Cardell downs his drink in one swig and replies when he has regained his breath.
“Calm yourself, Hans. Bad tidings found me late last night and I took them poorly. I’m not expecting more. I have neither friends nor family left.”
Cardell turns his purse inside out on the table. Three shillings and a German farthing.
“You can add the damages I have caused to my tab and I’ll settle it once I get paid. Other than that, you may consider our acquaintance at an end, unless you’re willing to repaint your walls. Death has laughed in my face one time too many.”
The alleys are twilit already. The sun has barely managed to crawl over the rooftops before it plunges downwards again. Snow lies on the cobblestones and has gathered in drifts along the walls. The streetlamps have not yet been lit and no light is coming from the houses either, where folk gather by the windows instead in order to take advantage of the last light of the day. It is cold, and even though Cardell’s heart beats like a trip-hammer and sweat pours down his body to ease his hangover, he has to pull his coat around himself more tightly to shield him from the wind coming off the bay. He treads his path towards the Hall of Nobles and turns right, up towards Castle Hill. If he is lucky, he will still find Isak Reinhold Blom at the Indebetou. Lost memories from last night return to him as he walks.
It was a young police assistant who said it first. The boy must have seen him in Cecil Winge’s company before and stepped forwards to express his condolences. At first Cardell didn’t understand a thing, but others confirmed what their colleague had said. The secretary at the Chamber of Police had confirmed the news himself: the Ghost of the Indebetou was no more. The cold had worsened Cecil Winge’s illness until yesterday, when he had breathed his last.
Cardell was already drunk at this point. The announcement was not unexpected but it still knocked him off balance. Deep inside, Cardell had been convinced that their time together would not end until they had shone light on Karl Johan’s fate. The body in the Larder had made Cecil Winge cling to life, whatever the cost. Cardell remembered how he had drunk so much until he appeared to be suspended in a sphere of his own, separated from the din of the world, a place peaceful enough to accept the parting, when some passer-by had bumped straight into him.
Rage at the world’s baseness and grief at the news of the death had lit him up like a cartouche of gunpowder. Harsh words had been exchanged, followed by blows. Finally they must have overpowered him and thrown him into the cupboard among the brooms, where he soon fell asleep. Karl Johan haunted his dreams from his lonely hole in the graveyard of Maria Church. The dead man whispered lipless accusations, his voice seething with worms.
“You were to bring me justice but you failed. The other has atoned with his life. You’ll be next.”
When Cardell turns the corner of Stockholm Cathedral, he has to hang on to his hat. Out there, where the flowing lake water joins the sea, along the islands lined up in a row, snow whirls out of menacing clouds. Indebetou House lies quiet. The police cannot afford to waste money on candles and they have been forced to adjust their routines to suit the sun. He has the good fortune of running into a man on his way out who can tell him that Secretary Blom is still inside, hunched over his accounts, although—as the man adds in a lower voice—this is only so he can avoid using his own firewood at home, the wily old fox.
“Not that he has any need to be so miserly these days.”
The point of the gibe escapes Cardell, but he is happy enough to be let inside.
Blom’s office is bursting with books and ledgers. As expected, a tiled stove is spreading heat in the room, to the point that Blom can sit at his desk in his shirtsleeves. Cardell does not bother to knock.
“I was told last night.”
Blom pushes the paper he has been working on inside a folder.
“My condolences, Cardell. It is a great loss to us all.”
Cardell sits down on a stool and unbuttons his coat. The brisk walk has cleared his head. For the second time since waking, he feels the familiar sense of panic coming on. It is not unexpected but no less painful. His throat narrows, and each breath becomes a struggle. Dark spots dance in front of his eyes. He closes them and tries to force his heart to slow down. Blom waits quietly until Cardell is successful and feels life returning to his body.
“Anything to drink ’round here?”
Blom hesitates, flustered. His face takes on a tinge of color.
“I feel the utmost compassion for you in your grief but I have my duties to attend to. Each moment counts if I am to get any sleep tonight . . .”
“Really? Let’s see it, then.”
Cardell deftly snatches the folder Blom has been working on. Blom tries to get it back but is not quick enough.
“Funny, Blom. This doesn’t look like police business to me. Seems more like a beggar’s letter to Baron Reuterholm about a position at Drottningholm Palace. ‘Your Excellency—’ What’s this? Are you sick of your secretarial post after hardly a year of service?”
Blom sinks down on his chair and dejectedly rubs his face with his hands.
“Damn it, Cardell. That’s not meant for your eyes. But I’ll let that go. Police Chief Norlin has finally been given the notice we’ve long been expecting. It certainly makes sense. Reuterholm wanted a lapdog and our Johan Gustaf Norlin went his own way, as shown in no small measure by Winge’s stunt in the paper with those obscene draperies.”
“Who’ll take Norlin’s place?”
“Norlin will be posted up north, for his sins. His replacement will be Magnus Ullholm, who is leaving his position at Drottningholm Palace. It is his old job that I am now seeking.”
“I’ve heard that name before. He is the same Ullholm who was forced to flee to Norway after accusations of embezzlement. And now he will be made chief of police.”
“You have to keep in mind that the primary qualifications for the job are an unyielding loyalty to the current regime, accompanied by inclinations towards servility and flattery.”
“To judge by what I’ve glimpsed in your letter to the baron, I must say that if anyone is well suited to recognizing servility and flattery, it’d be you, Blom.”
Blom’s frowning face grows even redder.
“By the devil, Cardell! I only get one hundred and fifty dalers a year. That is nothing to live on. To be seen in the company of the likes of Cecil Winge and yourself will do me no favors, so if there is nothing else, I have other duties to which I must attend.”
Cardell stops at the mention of the meager salary. What was it the young man at the door had said? Cardell squints thoughtfully at Blom, who has stood up and is holding the door open for him.
“You’ll sit down and shut your trap, if you know what’s good for you. There’s something here that doesn’t add up. I need to think it over.”
Cardell curses his sluggish mind. His current state doesn’t help. On the other hand, there’s never been anything wrong with his instincts. Blom is hiding something. The secretary has broken out in a sweat even though the chamber is no warmer than before. His eyes dart around the room and return time and again to a table close to the fire. Cardell follows his gaze. On top of a pile of books sits a bundle wrapped in paper and tied with string. Cardell walks over and picks it up. It is addressed to Cecil Winge, the name written in a childish handwriting and in ink so thin it is almost transparent.
“How’d you come by this, Blom?”
“A girl came and left the package at the entrance this morning. Since I am the secretary, it was brought to my attention.”
Blom casts longing looks at the door of the room. Cardell catches his eye and slowly shakes his head. He shifts his chair to block the exit. He lays the package in his lap as he loosens the strings and unwraps it. It is a bundle of mismatched sheets, wrapped in a bit of stained fabric and written in the same childish hand. He starts to read the crooked lines of text and his heart begins to beat faster. When he puts the pages down again, he fixes Isak Blom with a glare. The fog in his mind slowly dissipates.
“How did you learn of Winge’s passing?”
“I don’t remember exactly. Someone came with a message.”
“You spoke with this messenger yourself?”
“No, I . . .”
“That’s odd. One of the police officers I spoke with last night told me that it was you who informed the agency of the exact hour of death, and of the details. Another question: A man I ran into at the door implied that you had recently come into wealth. May I be so impudent as to ask where this money came from? Perhaps a recently departed aunt?”
“Now listen, Cardell, you have to promise me you will remain calm . . .”
Cardell stands up, locks the door, and puts the key in his pocket while he and Blom begin circling the desk, the one in order to increase the distance between them, the other to narrow that gap.
“From what I hear, there’s been a sweep-stake here at the agency about the exact time of Cecil Winge’s demise. Could that be the way that you have become so rich, brother Blom?”
“Dear Mickel . . . you have to understand my situation . . .”
“When you received this package, Cecil Winge was still alive, but you had no intention of sending it on to him. You’d already decided to consign him to the grave with your falsehood in order to line your own pockets. If you want to live out this day with only a swollen lip, you’d do well to weigh your words carefully now. Is Winge alive or is he dead?”
Cardell overturns the desk, takes several steps, and grabs Blom by his collar as he readies his wooden fist for the blow. Blom’s voice rises an octave.
“Be sensible, Cardell. I met ropemaker Roselius at the coffeehouse and heard him complain that he was about to lose such a good tenant. Winge has taken to his bed for the last time and is filling his chamber pot with bloody discharge. The doctor has abandoned him for patients in whom there is still hope to be found, and the pastor has been to see him for his last rites. What does it matter if he died yesterday or if he dies tomorrow? For me it makes the difference of almost a year’s salary! Can’t you understand that, Cardell?”
Down by the Quayside a few minutes later, before Cardell stretches out his left arm to catch a ride with a passing wagon, he pauses and wipes the wood clean on some snow.