Murder of Halland (2 page)

They wanted to see the car so I fetched my key from the hook in the kitchen. As we passed through the hall, I pointed at Halland’s coat and briefcase. They checked the coat pockets. Then they opened the briefcase, looked inside and closed it again.

There was nothing in the car. Just an empty plastic box that stayed in the boot, Halland’s wellies, his bird book, a torch and a small pair of binoculars.

‘He hasn’t been near the car today,’ I said. I didn’t know if that was true, but it sounded right.

After the policemen left, I lay down on the
living-room
floor. There was no space anywhere else. The furniture seemed all wrong. I lay there waiting,
emptied
out. I didn’t dare to think, but my thoughts were racing. Then it was quiet again. I felt sick and sleepy. I stared into space. I noticed cobwebs on the ceiling but I didn’t get up to remove them. Then I wanted to find a photograph of Halland as a child. I knew we
had some. I remembered one of him on holiday with a calf in his arms. He had called the animal a ‘maverick’ when he showed me the picture. I wondered where the photograph could be. It wasn’t in any of the albums. Where were Halland’s hiding places? How come I had even seen that photograph? I tried to visualize him holding it in his hand. I lost myself in the memory: the dinner table, the guests, the photo, laughter. Breakfast in the kitchen, newspaper, coffee, long hair: a dream retold – and the photograph. What had he dreamt? Did I listen?

The policemen returned a few hours later to collect me. On the way out of town, I heard a skylark through the open window. Its song filled me with sudden joy, then with abrupt dismay because of the joy. I said nothing. The others sat in silence too.

Halland lay alone in a bare room with a sheet over him. He looked the same and yet he didn’t. I both knew him and didn’t know him. I was his and he was mine, only now we weren’t. We were both alone. I laid my hand gently against his cheek, a gesture I made whenever he seemed in pain and I didn’t have the courage to ask him if anything was wrong.

‘Halland,’ I whispered. ‘Maverick!’ I had never said that word out loud in my life. Why did I say it now? With his smooth skin, Halland resembled a dead Indian chief deprived of his feathers. I pressed my lips to his forehead. It wasn’t a kiss. I just didn’t have the heart not to touch him.

Funder ushered me into a space, half office, half
waiting
room. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘we’ll drive you home soon. But I want to ask you some questions first. Did Halland have a mobile?’

‘Yes. A blue one.’ I felt cold.

‘Do you know where it is?’

‘In his shirt pocket? If it’s not in his jacket or his briefcase, I wouldn’t know. I can look…’

‘Let us know if it turns up. We’ll be coming round later anyway. Then there’s his keys…’ He put them on the table: Halland’s car keys on a keyring - a miniature Eiffel Tower - and the keys to the house. There was a third, unfamiliar set too: one ordinary-looking key and another for a security lock. ‘Do you know what these are for?’

Pointing at the third set, I said, ‘I’ve never seen those before. Where did you find them?’

‘In his trouser pocket. We found this too.’ A little wallet with a clip. Inside Halland kept his driving licence and his debit card. ‘Were the keys to do with his work, perhaps?’

‘He works from home.’

‘Do you have a holiday home or a flat somewhere?’

I had no idea where the two keys came from. Besides, I felt exhausted and past caring. Funder took me home. In the car I was about to nod off, but he was keen to give me some advice. ‘The news has already been announced on the radio, so there’ll be journalists,’ he said. ‘You don’t need to speak to them.’

I had no intention of speaking to them. Funder said I shouldn’t be alone.

‘I like being on my own; I’m used to it. Halland’s away so much, and I’ve no one to…’ Then, lying, I said I’d ask Inger to come round.

‘Halland is dead; he’s been murdered. You’ll be
feeling
vulnerable. In fact you don’t know how you’re going to feel. Not yet.’

‘Neither do you! I’d prefer to be on my own. I don’t like… people.’

A TV-news unit was parked at the far end of the square when he dropped me off. I ignored them and
hurried
into the house where I turned on my laptop.

Thirty-seven new messages. The subject line ‘My beloved husband’ caught my eye. When I opened the email, the line expanded to ‘My beloved husband –
characters
’. The message concerned one of my stories: ‘I’m in the process of analysing your short story “My Beloved Husband”, which, incidentally, is extremely well written. I’m sure you must be very busy with other matters, but I wonder whether you could find the time to send me some information about each of the characters. Thanks in advance.’

‘Busy with other matters’ indeed. I opened the next message.

‘I have just read your short story “The Fjord”. I’m writing an essay comparing it to other works. I wonder if you might say something about the story’s background? I can analyse it from the outside, but the views of the author would be very helpful. You have probably got more important things to do, so I will understand completely if you don’t reply.’

Normally, I would find such emails touching. I always replied to them, so I dealt with the two queries straight away, copying a couple of old responses rather than writing from scratch. But suddenly I stopped and rested my hands in my lap and closed my eyes. In many of my public
readings
I had been struck by disturbing thoughts. What if Halland fell ill or died? What if I broke my leg? What if Abby turned up? I always tried to weigh up probabilities. At what point would I cancel an engagement? Now my husband was dead and here I was replying to meaningless emails. I deleted both of my replies, aware that they could be retrieved, and moved on to the ones with the subject line ‘HALLAND’. There were several. From my cousin, my publisher, colleagues, even distant acquaintances. Filled with shock and compassion. I merely scanned the words but realized that everyone sensed the gravity of the situation more keenly and more immediately than I had. But why had no one called? I picked up the phone. Dead. I replaced the receiver tried again, but there was no dialing tone. Shivering, I wondered what to do next. I pulled the phone lead towards me and saw the plug lying loose on the floor. Where was my mobile? I ought to ring someone and tell them what had happened. But I couldn’t think who. There was an email with the subject line ‘REMINDER’. I was supposed to give a talk at a library in Jutland in a fortnight’s time. They were sending me instructions about how to get there. Had they heard the news on the radio? Did they know my husband had been shot? No. I had no intention of replying to them. Should I create an auto reply saying my husband had been murdered?

I turned off the laptop. The house was quiet. I had sat here writing last night. What had I written? I didn’t want to think about my work. Perhaps I would never want to think about writing again. That belonged to the past and didn’t matter any longer. I looked out at the fjord. The sun glittered on the water.

The hospital in Reading showed no interest in helping me find my grandfather. As I waited to be passed from one voice to the next, I wondered whether I could travel to England and back on the same day. It seemed
possible
. Though Halland was dead, I didn’t see how flying to London would be a problem. I tried to visualize my grandfather. Had he grown smaller as old people do, especially sick ones? Did he have the wild look in his eyes that I had seen in people who would die shortly afterwards? Would I be able to embrace him? Would he recognize me? Would he have the strength to admonish me, or would he forgive me? Why did he want to see me? Because he was dying. But for my sake or for his? I didn’t have the courage to visit him.

‘I’ve spoken to Julian and he would like to talk to you,’ said a nurse. ‘We can wheel a phone over to his bed. I’ll give you the number and you can ring him in ten minutes.’

I half got up to call for Halland, then sat down again, embarrassed. I closed my eyes for a moment. My
cousin had married when I was still in my teens. I had been deeply impressed by the wedding, and especially my grandfather’s speech. ‘Never let the sun set on your anger,’ he told the happy couple. What lovely advice, I thought, and decided that I would follow it when I got married. My mother, though, went off the deep end about my grandfather’s speech: ‘He could go for days without saying a word to Mum, all because of some little thing that annoyed him. No wonder she died before her time!’ My grandfather had shunned me for ten years. Maybe because of Abby, maybe because he opposed divorce. I didn’t know. He behaved wonderfully towards me during my childhood. Now he wouldn’t answer my letters. After the separation, I had attended a couple of family
get-togethers
. When I sat down next to him, he got up and went to the other end of the room. I didn’t care about the family if Abby wasn’t there. And most of them didn’t want to see me anyway; they wanted to see her. In the end, they kept their distance and I kept mine.

I deliberately didn’t plan what to say before I rang the hospital back. My grandfather didn’t sound poorly or even especially weak. ‘Hello?’ he barked.

‘Grandfather, it’s Bess. Mum said you wanted to talk to me?’

‘Yes. I’d prefer to see you face to face.’

‘I would like to visit, but something’s happened… Halland… my husband. How are you?’

‘Not well, my dear.’

‘One of the photographs hanging on the wall above my bed shows you sitting in a deckchair wearing a straw
hat. Do you remember? I look at it every night before I go to sleep.’

‘I’ve been foolish, my dear,’ he said. He never called me ‘my dear’ when I was a girl. ‘We’re all so fond of Abby. I suppose that’s why we didn’t…’

Now he did sound poorly.

‘I’m very happy we’re speaking now,’ I said.

‘I’m a great-great-grandfather! Did you know?’

‘Yes! I’ve seen baby Sofie!’

‘Do you know…’ – he winced, or shifted his weight – ‘who was there when she was born?’

I did know: my cousin’s daughter – the baby’s mother – her husband, her mother and her sister.

‘Three witnesses,’ he spluttered, ‘and here I am, all on my own! You all live so far away. What a mess!’

‘Grandfather, I’ll come and see you as soon as I can.’

‘All right, dear, all right,’ he said. ‘Bye.’

A commotion followed as though he had dropped the receiver. I continued to listen. The line was still connected, but no one said anything. All I could hear was a hiss and what sounded like footsteps in a corridor. I hung up. I didn’t cry, only stared at the phone. After a while I looked out of the window at the fjord. Was that all?

I thought of calling Halland. And remembered I couldn’t. Then again, perhaps I could. Where was his mobile? I could make it ring somewhere. In a bush. In a car. In the pocket of a stranger, a man with a hunting rifle. I pressed 1. The number didn’t pick up.

Now I could only wait for Abby to ring. Perhaps I should call my mother again, but I didn’t want to speak
to her. The police would be coming back. But what about Halland? I went into the hall to check on his briefcase. It was still standing in the same spot and his coat still hung on the same peg. Why had he left the house without his coat and briefcase? His big binoculars stood on the windowsill in the living room, so he hadn’t gone out
because
he had seen a bird. No one had rung the doorbell; I would have heard that. I rummaged in his pockets, even though I had seen the police checking them earlier. They were empty. I picked up the briefcase and went upstairs.

This was Halland’s domain – a place I hardly ever entered. Here was his office. Next door was the guest room. At the far end was empty loft space with a clothes line and some junk.

I felt apprehensive as I pushed open the door to his office. I am just putting the briefcase away, I told myself. I went over to the window, looked out. How tidy his desk was! A bulldog clip holding receipts, two biros, a calendar. That was it.

On the wall above the desk hung a black-and-white photograph. I took the picture down and wiped the dust off the glass with my sleeve. It showed Halland and me on our way to a film premiere. A press photographer had caught the moment. Not that we posed; we just happened to be snapped on our way past. I could see why Halland had hung up the picture. It was our first year together and we were happy. Anyone could see that. At least I could, now. Halland’s hair had turned completely white during his illness, but here his long mane was dark and only just starting to turn grey. I traced the sharp line of
his nose with my finger, his full mouth. He was looking at me, saying something. What did we say to each other in those days? What did we ever say? I couldn’t remember us talking. Did we even say good morning? Yes, we said good morning.

That night in the hotel, I got out of bed and stood at the window smoking. I gazed across the square into an illuminated flat occupied by people leading ordinary lives. I came to a decision which I then found myself unable to carry out. The act of making a decision can propel you along for a while, even if you never do anything. I wore my jacket to keep out the chill. Turning away from the window, I let the jacket fall to the floor. I felt my way around the bed to the armchair where I had left my clothes. Light from the street lamp fell across his naked, snoring bulk sprawled diagonally across the bed. I put on my clothes, retrieved my jacket and shoulder bag and tiptoed away.

That was the night I left him ten years ago. That was also the night I returned without him realizing I had been gone. He was lying as I had left him, drunk as a lord.

The next day we went to the seaside. For hours we strolled along the beach, lay in the sand and dozed. Later
we had dinner outdoors, generous helpings of shellfish and chilled wine. We sat under a lean-to in the evening light, waves lapping, conversation subdued and desultory, until we had run out of words. We sat at the back of the bus as we jolted our way to the hotel. We didn’t speak. Finally, I laid my head in his lap and wept silently. He stroked my hair. ‘I know why you’re crying.’

This tender comment, however uncharacteristic of him, was one of the reasons I decided to stay. Even though I knew very well that he couldn’t have guessed why I wept. He didn’t know that I had tried to leave him. He didn’t know that I cried because I had failed. And he certainly didn’t know that I missed my daughter. Yet the tenderness in his voice soothed me and I cherished the moment as though it had already turned into a fond memory. Had he not said what he said, I would never have thought of him as the love of my life. I never asked him if he understood my real feelings. I never asked him anything.

We never grew closer than on that night. In the silence. In the darkness as we dined. In the harsh light of the bus. In his touch and in the tenderness of his voice.