Murder of Halland (10 page)

Early the next morning, I grabbed my umbrella and walked over to the churchyard. I had woken up with a headache and what I could only call a guilty conscience. I hadn’t visited Halland’s grave since Friday evening. Was that awful of me? I felt as if I had neglected him but I suspect he wouldn’t have cared less. It was earlier than I thought, not properly light yet and rather chilly, and the square
retained
its night-time appearance. The churchyard seemed much quieter than usual, which made my own noise all the more conspicuous. Shadows flitted between the
headstones
. I wasn’t afraid, though I found myself wondering about ghosts. Or was it just the mist? The flowers still lay on Halland’s grave, but they had clearly been disturbed, scraped aside at one edge, to expose bare soil. I dutifully contemplated the grave and realized I wouldn’t come again. Halland wasn’t here. He wasn’t even missing,
because
he had never been here when he was alive. I followed the fjord out of the town, then walked back up to the high street and across the square.

Inger opened her window as I approached the house. Leaning out, she wished me good morning. She approved of my visit to Halland’s grave.

‘I saw ghosts…’ I said.

Her look shifted to match the one people usually adopted when they took what I said literally.

‘There were ghosts flitting about. And someone had disturbed the flowers.’

Inger looked relieved. ‘That’ll be deer. Don’t you remember how they wanted them shot last year? Peter Olsen made such a fuss when they wouldn’t let them.’ Her expression became distant. We stared at each other.

‘Aha,’ I said.

‘What do you mean, “aha”?’

‘Can no one in this town put two and two together?’

‘The thought only just occurred to me.’

‘What was his name again?’

‘Peter Olsen. He’s on the Parish Council, or he was. I don’t think he is any more.’

‘Has he got a hunting licence?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Would the pastor?’

Inger clutched at her dressing gown and made to close her window. ‘For all we know, the police may already have been informed.’

Abby clattered around the kitchen. I smelt coffee and baking.

‘Have you made bread?’ I asked, aghast.

‘You don’t mind, do you? It’s only one of those packets.’

‘Bread is bread!’ I said, sitting down in the corner.

‘Have you been for a walk?’

‘I went to the churchyard.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry I haven’t said anything about… him.’

‘About what?’

‘About your husband dying. Being murdered, I mean. It’s so dreadful. I ought to have said something yesterday, but I was feeling so uncertain.’

‘You weren’t entirely at a loss for words, if I remember correctly. But I wasn’t either. I had a hangover and had just escaped from a lunatic. I reeked of pee and puke and needed to sleep. I was just glad to see you after all that time. It didn’t matter what you said. Did you sleep upstairs?’

She turned away.

‘You’re blushing,’ I said.

‘It was late when I came in. I sneaked upstairs quietly. The bed was made, so I went straight to sleep. Do you want some coffee?’

I did. But first I needed to call Funder. ‘Halland may not have been murdered after all. I think he may have been shot by accident by some churchman with a hunting licence.’ I told Abby.

Her eyebrows shot up. ‘Have some coffee first.’

‘You’ve been mothering me since yesterday,’ I said. ‘It’s as if you’re…’ I was going to say ‘in love’, but I knew the words would make me cry. ‘I’ll just make that call. Won’t be a minute!’

But Funder had already made progress without me. I had alerted him to that line of enquiry the day before,
he told me, only without knowing what I was saying. He hadn’t spoken to Peter Olsen yet, though. ‘I’ll get back to you as soon as we’ve talked to him,’ the detective said.

‘No need,’ I replied, opening my laptop. ‘Just ring me when you know who did it.’

‘Roger,’ he said.
Roger
? ‘We’re trying to get in touch with the woman who put the death notice in the paper. Pernille, wasn’t it?’

‘She’s mad. She knew Halland’s sister. I think she went too far putting in that notice. What do you want her for, anyway? She lives in Copenhagen. She’s hardly likely to know Peter Olsen.’

‘Have you got her surname? Phone number?’

‘I’ll call you back with the number. Any news about Brandt?’

‘I expect you’ll know before I do when he comes home,’ Funder answered, sounding wounded. ‘His car’s parked outside the surgery, even though he normally walks there. His secretary can’t explain it. On Friday they closed the surgery at noon because of the funeral, but they left separately, and…’

‘And he didn’t arrive at the church. I didn’t notice who came; I was too embarrassed to look. But I know he wasn’t there.’

‘Why were you embarrassed?’

‘So many people had come because of the notice in the paper.’

The doorbell rang. I heard Abby talking to Brandt’s lodger in the hall. Had she made breakfast with him in mind? Craning my neck, I saw her hug him.

‘Funder?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I’ve found Halland’s computer.’

‘You did what?’

‘I found Halland’s computer,’ I repeated.

‘Where?’

‘I’ve found it, that’s all. I don’t suppose you’ll be needing it once you’ve got hold of our parish marksman. Assuming he shot Halland by accident, that is.’

‘Leave Peter Olsen to me. I’ll send someone over to pick up the laptop. But we need to know where you found it!’

I hung up.

‘I’ll be off, then!’ said the lodger as soon as I joined them.

‘Not on my account, I hope. Abby’s baked a loaf,’ I told him.

‘Which reminds me, I better take it out of the oven!’ she said, squeezing past us with a swing of her hips.

‘I’ve got work to do, I’m afraid,’ the lodger explained. ‘I just wanted to say…’

‘Goodbye?’ I suggested. ‘Good morning? Thanks! You were wonderful?’

‘Mum!’ exclaimed Abby.

They exchanged glances over my head. I was nearly blushing myself now. ‘I need the loo,’ I said.

I didn’t actually. I stared at my face in the mirror above the sink. I let the water run over my hand, then turned it off. Waited. Peter Olsen. Who was he? And who was that woman in the mirror? That woman’s husband
is dead. That woman’s long-lost daughter has come back. Does it make any difference? Her face is empty, but mirrors always make people’s faces look empty.
Halland
shaved without a mirror. Did I know why he used to do that? Is there no difference at all with him being gone and her being back?
Why
is there no difference? But there
was
a difference. I had a weight on my heart that hadn’t been there before Halland died. And I felt a need to laugh that hadn’t been there before Abby came back. But my face in the mirror appeared as empty as it always had been.

‘Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, a hundred! Coming out, ready or not!’ I called.

‘He’s gone!’ she called back.

We sat down in the kitchen again. It was like some kind of unpleasant test, I thought. But the bread tasted good, albeit rather doughy and too hot, right from the oven. I ate and enjoyed, and said nothing. I kept glancing over at Abby. The woman was undoubtedly her. How I could have failed to notice her among ten or twenty other people was beyond me. These were the same brown eyes, the same blonde hair, though darker and she wore it up now. She had put on a bit of weight and resembled Troels’s sister just as she had done as a child. But she looked like me too. I could see myself in her. And I was happy. Then I felt ashamed to be happy.

‘I didn’t open them or anything,’ she said. ‘But I found some boxes on the shelf upstairs… they had my name on them.’

‘You may open them if you want. They’re for you.’

‘What’s in them?’

I took a deep breath. ‘All sorts of things I was going to tell you about.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They’re full of notebooks. Not diaries, because I don’t keep one, but… well, there were so many things I needed to tell you. You were growing up, you didn’t want to see me, so I wrote to you instead.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said my daughter, ‘but this all sounds a bit weird, if you ask me.’

I cringed. I had never imagined she could think like that. The notebooks were meant for Abby the child.

‘I suppose it is, in a way,’ I said. ‘I haven’t been well since… no, that’s not what I mean. Actually, I don’t know what I mean. Don’t read any of them. They will only embarrass us both. We don’t know each other any more. I intended those notebooks for the person you were then…’

‘Give me an example.’

I thought for a moment. ‘For example, I wrote about how I thought I was having an erotic experience when all I was doing was kissing a door.’

‘Mum!’

‘It’s true. I was having a sleepover with some friends. This was when I was a teenager – the last throes. I was nineteen, I think. And there I was on the floor, kissing this boy I had a crush on. Kissing what I thought was his upper arm.’

‘But it was a door?’

‘No, it was my sleeping bag. It had this shine, like the skin on a young man’s upper arm.’

‘Oh, come off it!’

‘I imagined that was the kind of thing one told one’s daughter as she was growing up. So I wrote it down.’

‘But there’s boxes and boxes…’ She gestured
despondently
in the direction of the stairs. She was right, no one, not even I, would read all that rubbish.

‘Do you know about Martin Guerre?’ I asked. ‘He’s rolled up in Halland’s study. I don’t have a big enough wall.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Martin Guerre deserted his family and his village. Then along came someone called Arnaud du Tilh,
pretending
to be Martin Guerre. He had everyone fooled, even Martin Guerre’s wife. So the story goes.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Do you recognize me?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Do you recognize me? Do I talk like your mother did when you were a child? Am I more human now, or still a monster? Or the other way round? What am I? Can you tell me who I am?’

For a moment she didn’t respond. ‘You’re a bit dippy,’ she said.

‘And you’re in love,’ I said. ‘Lucky thing.’

My grandfather was dead. I didn’t cry. Abby was still with me when my mother rang to tell her. My mother didn’t ring me, but I knew. She was probably offended that I hadn’t told her the date of Halland’s funeral. She loved a tit-for-tat: one funeral for another. Abby said she would go with me, but I wasn’t upset. I could do without seeing my mother. Anyway I had stopped missing my grandfather after I had spoken to him on the phone. He had been kind to me as a child. But the moment he called me ‘dear’ three times in two minutes I remembered that he was a miserable, resentful old man nonetheless. The funeral was arranged for the Monday, but I couldn’t attend. I was suppose to give a talk at a library in Jutland that Sunday and would be hard pressed to arrive in Reading on time. At least that’s what I told myself. Telling the talk’s organizer that my husband had died was out of the question, and I didn’t
want to use my grandfather as an excuse either. So I should just go to Jutland as planned, thereby avoiding having to involve a stranger in my private life. I had already been on the front page of one of the tabloids, but the headline merely said,
WRITER IN MOURNING
. I could have been anyone; and anyway, Pernille appeared more prominently in the photo. Abby asked who she was. ‘Is that the kind of paper you read?’ I returned her question.

I had given Halland’s laptop to Funder, though I still hadn’t told the police about the rented room. But they are very clever. Pernille rang on the Wednesday morning to say that they were standing outside her door and wanted to see Halland’s room. ‘Let them in,’ I said. ‘They’ve got the key.’

Boarding the train to Jutland felt like a relief. I just grabbed my bag, the one Halland had taught me always to have at the ready. On the train, I plugged my mobile in to charge and busied myself with the quick
crossword
, trying not to think.
TWINGE–CONTRACTION, EXCLAMATION –ALAS, HOLLOW–TROUGH, DIVIDE–HALVE, MALE–BUCK
.

I had received a text. From my editor, one of the few people who had the number. He couldn’t get through on the landline; would I call him? He had written the text the day Halland died. I deleted it.

Although I had never met the man who organized my reading, I could tell that he knew about my husband’s murder. But he said nothing, and as we drove from the station to the new library I wondered whether I should
be offended by his lack of manners. Ought he not to offer his condolences, at the very least mention that he had read the awful news in the paper or heard an
announcement
on the radio? But truth to tell, I wasn’t offended. I wouldn’t have known how to react anyway if he had mentioned Halland.

‘I’ve been pushing for you to be our writer of the month!’ the man told me, blinking three times in quick succession.

‘Thank you.’

‘Have you decided what you’re going to read?’

‘Not yet. I like to get a feel of the audience first.’

‘I hope the turnout will be all right. On a sunny day like today, a lot of people will want to be out in their gardens. Do you take requests?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘You might not think it suitable, but you published a story in a journal about ten years ago. None of your books include the piece, but I think it is magnificent. I brought a copy along in case you’d like to read it.’

‘Sounds intriguing.’

When he unlocked the library door, I noticed a large poster for another event three days earlier. He traced my gaze.

‘Yes, that was one of the library’s own events. We’re only a small group, so we borrow a room in the basement.’

The building was lovely, though. Filled with light from the bright sun. He locked the door behind us.

‘How will people get in?’ I gestured towards the locked door.

‘The library’s closed,’ he said. ‘But I will send Birthe up to stand by the door. She’s downstairs preparing the coffee, I should think.’ I sighed. I knew the routine. He ushered me into a small office where I sat down in a deep armchair. He left me alone. I heard them discuss how many people might come and how much coffee they needed to make. Birthe came in, said hello and handed me a fat envelope and a form to fill in. ‘Might as well do it now,’ she said, ‘so you have a fighting chance to catch the train after the reading.’

‘Shouldn’t you be guarding the door?’ I asked.

‘Someone else is doing that,’ she replied. ‘Two people have already arrived.’

I knew the scenario off by heart. The organizer came back into the room and handed me a photocopy of my old story. Without looking at it, I filled in the form with my ID number and address, and peeked inside the envelope. Seeing my fee in cash livened me up. Putting the form on the table, I stuffed the photocopy and the envelope in my bag and stood up. The organizer looked flustered as I strode past him.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘We usually get about twenty-five people.’

‘I’m just popping out for some air,’ I said.

‘You mean a smoke?’

‘No, some air.’

He gestured down the corridor towards a glass door.

‘That’s an exit. Just make sure to leave the lock on the latch so you can get back in again.’

I let the door slam behind me, went up some steps and found myself at the rear of the building. I gazed on
lawns, sculptures, shade. A gravel path led into what looked like a small park.

Walking briskly, I glanced back over my shoulder like a thief, then ran, faster and faster, past old people on benches, past a play area and a fountain. When I reached the pedestrianized area I ambled along like a tourist. The shops were shut except for a pizzeria with tables on the pavement. When I asked the way to the railway station, I was annoyed with myself for saying
railway
station. People always gave me funny looks when I used that expression. I was hungry but I only wanted to go home. The next train was due in fifteen minutes. I walked through the tunnel beneath the tracks to the opposite platform and stood in the sun. I felt liberated, which was a much better feeling than having completed a task. After finishing a job, I always worry that I could have done better. But now, I only felt relieved to be on my way home.

My mobile chimed and I searched around in my bag.

One new message, it said. I pressed
DISPLAY
. The message was from Halland.