Murder of Halland Read Free

Then I wanted to find a photograph of Halland as a child. I knew wehad 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