Murder of Halland (7 page)

Halfway home I stopped at a service station for a
sandwich
consisting of meat and a disgusting white
undefinable
spread. Sitting in the fading light and watching people fill up with petrol in the dreary weather, I drank a bottle of water. Then I switched on the car’s interior light. Martin Guerre was rolled up lengthwise on the back seat. On the passenger seat lay Halland’s computer bag, his redirected post and the black notebook. ‘The
most wonderful thing
, indeed!’ I flicked through the pages again, skimming over entries describing a journey. A firm hand, blue biro, no dates, just days of the week.

I recognized the handwriting. I couldn’t breathe. That’s enough. Secret pregnant nieces. Secret rooms. 
And what kind of secret was this? Maverick? I know what goes on in Halland’s mind. I fell in love with him, of course I know. I can read his slightest passing thought; I can sense him without touching. I can hear the modulations in his voice when we speak on the phone, and I know exactly what each of them means. Such is true love.

It was time to go home. I got out of the car and strode across to a bin and dropped in the bottle and sandwich wrapper. I liked the smell of service stations. A smell that could make me cry.

The rest of the way home, I sang snippets of all the hymns I could remember, and when the words ran out I sang on unabated: Halland, oh Halland, oh why and wherefore, and glorious Halland, oh Halland, ha ha, and ye noble Martin Guerre, oh Halland the dwarf, a riddle was he, what is it that leaves and never comes back…

I parked on the square and sat for a while before opening the car door. My hands were sore from
gripping
the wheel. I had avoided the funeral reception that never was. I thought no one would be at the church besides Inger and Brandt, and they could have come back for coffee in my kitchen. The flowers and wreaths must have been placed on the grave. Wasn’t that
customary
? I wanted to see if they were there, though it was nearly dark.

But I never got that far. I could just make out the
flowers
– the white ones were still visible, even in the gathering darkness – but I had a strange feeling. Turning my head,
I listened. Footsteps? Someone running? The sound of my own breathing drowned out what I might have heard. I tried to stop breathing and found I couldn’t. But there
were
footsteps. There
was
someone running. And then I ran myself, as fast as I could, to the churchyard exit. The heavy gate creaked.

I opened the door. Brandt’s lodger. I haven’t described him. I won’t bother now; it’s irrelevant.

‘Have you seen Brandt?’ he asked. Lowering my gaze, I stepped aside so that he could come in. I had slept for hours but cried so much in my dreams that I felt exhausted.

The lodger had expected Brandt the day before. Having made dinner, he thought the doctor must have been delayed at the surgery. But Brandt never came. So the lodger ate his dinner, did the washing-up and waited. Then he called the surgery and Brandt’s mobile several times, but either he reached an answering machine or made no connection. He slept badly and was unsure whether to report the doctor as missing to the police.

Brandt’s hand on my neck. Dusk. I was looking
forward
to seeing him again. My stomach hurt. ‘Do sit down,’ I said. ‘Life ends so abruptly,’ I ventured. ‘Or can do.’

‘Do you think he might be dead?’ The lodger hadn’t shaved. The shadow of his stubble made his features all the more prominent.

‘Of course not!’ I said. ‘Can I offer you a wee dram?’ I heard the voice of my grandfather in my own. He always offered his guests a wee dram.

Brandt was a grown-up. We didn’t need to worry about him. So we drank one aquavit and then another. We chatted about Brandt, about how unlike him it was not to call. But today was a Saturday and his day off. Polite conversation between strangers. The aquavit helped, but not much. The drink was sharp yet smooth on the tongue, with a taste of caraway and aniseed, but mostly of alcohol. I sipped, then knocked the rest back in one.

‘Would you like another?’ I asked.

‘Perhaps he met a woman on his way home from work,’ the lodger suggested, sounding unconvinced.

‘Perhaps he did,’ I said, looking out onto the square. ‘Perhaps he met a woman.’

There was a dead fly on the windowsill, a lot of dust and some mysterious black spots.

‘He didn’t come to the church yesterday either,’ I said. ‘I found that odd, but thought I knew why.’

‘Was the funeral yesterday? He didn’t mention it.’

I went to the phone and called Brandt’s secretary, but no one answered. The lodger looked out of sorts. Perhaps he needed a cigarette.

‘And then there’s the dog,’ he said.

‘Is it still at Brandt’s house?’

‘Yes. I don’t care for dogs much, but I took his for a walk.’

‘He can’t have met a woman, then,’ I said. ‘Not while he’s looking after a dog.’

‘Which he isn’t any longer,’ the lodger replied.

When the lodger had gone, I drank another shot of aquavit. After that I stared out of the window, then rang Brandt’s mobile. No answer. Wedging Inger’s casserole dish under my arm, I went next door and knocked. I could hear raised voices inside, hers and Lasse’s. I rang the doorbell, though I knew it didn’t work, then knocked again.

‘I won’t put up with it for one more minute!’ Inger yelled in my face, stepping past me into the square.

‘He’s just a teenager,’ I mumbled.

‘That doesn’t excuse
everything
! I’m sick to
bloody
death
of him. Never lifts a finger, lounging about all day… He was supposed to help me this morning, but he’s only just crawled out of bed with a hangover. He thinks he’s going out again tonight. How can you get drunk when you’re seventeen anyway? Isn’t it against the law?’

‘Just leave him,’ I said, and went inside. Lasse sat in the kitchen, slumped in front of a bowl of porridge and a glass of chocolate milk.

‘Got a headache, have we?’ I chuckled. Hangovers are funny at that age. They’re proud of them. ‘You haven’t seen Brandt, I suppose, either of you? His lodger says he’s gone missing.’

They hadn’t. And didn’t seem that bothered either. I watched Lasse. He was so listless, so boyish and
self-conscious
. A few moments ago he had yelled at his
mother
. She was still livid.

‘He takes and takes and never gives anything in return!’ she fumed. Lasse cowered. I wanted a teenager at home, even an unreasonable one. As unreasonable as they came – I wouldn’t mind. Not everyone is cut out for children, but most people have them anyway. As always, I was overcome by a rather gratuitous tenderness since I had no children living with me. Besides, Abby would be twenty-four soon. But there had been a time when she was small, just growing up. A time when she laughed and cried, played on the swing, spilt her food down her front; a time when she immersed herself in play, sat still to have her hair brushed; a time of sleeping and waking; a time of singing and shouting and squealing with joy; a time of whispered secrets and finishing her dinner; a time of pulling faces, and dealing out kisses, and shying away from kisses offered in return. I wanted it all back, yet at the time the opportunity seemed to have passed me by. When I wept from the pain of not having Abby, I really wept for not being a decent mother. I had been
a hypocrite who had wanted Abby to like me. But she couldn’t. It was as simple as that. I often thought of how I held her in my arms as a baby just as I recently held my cousin’s sleeping newborn grandchild. I sat and gazed into that little face, longing to relive the entire
experience
, even the part where Abby started answering back as children do. I even wanted her to despise me again because she would at least be with me. I had made one of my despairing attempts at becoming a decent mother after reading an article claiming that mealtimes delivered many benefits. One had to make an effort with the table, for example by using colourful napkins. The first time I tried this, I don’t think Abby or her father noticed. In fact, Abby tried to pick a fight and her first mouthful prompted the obnoxious comment: ‘Your food tastes like shit!’ Although her words upset me, I nearly burst out laughing. She noticed straight away and flew into a rage. And now I could only remember her comment and her eyes filling with tears, not the reason for her anger. Perhaps her father and I had already decided to split up. Yes, that must have been the reason.

‘What happened to you yesterday?’ asked Inger. ‘And who was the pregnant young thing doing the honours at the door?’

I shrugged. ‘Thanks for your help at the church. I needed to get away.’

‘But who was she?’

I gave Inger a look that said
later
, though I had no intention of pursuing the matter. Turning back to Lasse, I asked, ‘Where are you off to tonight, then?’ His mouth
full, he pointed at the local paper lying open on the table in front of him.
Pavilion reopens
, it said.

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Can you believe it?’

Standing behind me with her hands on my shoulders, Inger read the article.

‘Halland always said someone should reopen that place, and when they did we’d…’

‘We’d what?’

‘Be the first ones to go. Inger! Let’s go tonight, you and me. What do you say?’

‘She’s not going!’ Lasse said.

He was right. Inger wasn’t going. Moreover, she was mortified that I would even consider the idea. ‘Bess,’ she said. ‘Do you really think that would be appropriate?’

Lasse looked displeased.

‘I won’t let on that I know you,’ I promised him.
Smiling
awkwardly, he got up from the table.

‘Plate!’ Inger barked. Lasse moved his plate to the counter, then turned to leave the room.

‘Dishwasher!’ she barked again. ‘And what about the glass?’ But he was gone. Her face contorted and she turned away. I felt like asking her if she loved him, asking why she would yell at a child because of a plate. But I hesitated, and then she was herself again, sitting down at the table and reaching for a book that lay open. ‘It’s one of those books for the loo,’ she said, ‘Victorian instructions for mourning. A widow was supposed to mourn her spouse for two or three years, a widower only three months. If you lost a child or a parent, you were supposed to mourn for a year. These rules may seem silly, but they make some kind of sense.’

There was a loud knock on the door. Inger leapt to her feet.

‘Goodness, someone is ringing!’

‘No, they’re not! Isn’t it time you got the bell fixed?’

‘It’s a quote!’ she shouted from the hall. ‘Beckett!’

While she spoke to the person at the door, I flicked through the loo book.

‘It was the lodger,’ she announced when she came back into the kitchen. ‘Asking after Brandt.’

‘When did you last see him? He didn’t come to the church yesterday.’ I wanted to talk about something else. ‘Do you know him, the lodger?’

‘No. I just know that he’s doing some work in the museum archives. Who was that girl yesterday? The one at the door.’

‘No one. What was that Beckett quote?’

‘The quote came from a play that my dad directed at his school. I was a child. I can’t have been very old. The play was new then. I went round repeating the words for years. I thought they were hilarious.’

‘Your dad put on Beckett at a school?’

‘He did! Or maybe it wasn’t Beckett. An absurd play, anyway. Bess, don’t they have any idea who shot Halland?’

‘They haven’t told me anything.’

‘Have you asked?’

‘Not really. Anyway, I’m off to the Pavilion.’

‘Bess, we’ve just buried Halland. You can’t go to the Pavilion.’

‘Don’t make me say that Halland would have wanted me to go.’

‘But there are reasons behind those mourning rules. They’re for your own good.’

‘Mourning…’ Should I tell her that I didn’t mourn for Halland? For ten years I mourned for Abby – someone I had killed and who was not even dead.

‘If you don’t want to come, I will go on my own,’ I said.