Murder of Halland by Pia Juul Page B

round I said, ‘I’ll tell you if I need you!’
    ‘Please yourself! Do you want something to drink?’
    ‘Have you got any aquavit or whisky? Anything strong. Just a single glass.’
    ‘I’ll have a look.’ 
    I unlocked Halland’s room, stepped inside and closed the door behind me. My gaze fell on a film poster that hung on the wall between the windows: Le Retour de Martin Guerre . I sat down on the bed and stared. ‘That’s not funny!’ I said to Gérard Depardieu.
    At home Halland had hung up a couple of reproductions . This poster was so enormous that the room nearly capsized. The bed was narrow and prim. A white cover was tucked in neatly at the corners. On top lay a large pillow. His laptop stood on the desk with the lid open, the screen blank. Books were stacked in a deep-shelved bookcase rather than lined up in rows. There were piles of documents. On the floor stood three packing cases with their flaps open. Papers had been thrown into each of them without much thought. There was a clothes rail with hangers, a jacket and two white shirts.
    ‘Halland?’
    ‘I have some aquavit as it happens!’ said Pernille, entering the room with a bottle and a glass in her hands.
    ‘Out!’ I shouted. ‘I don’t want any aquavit! Make me some coffee! If you’ve got decent coffee, that is!’
    ‘I beg your pardon,’ she huffed, and went away again. The door didn’t shut properly behind her. Did it stand ajar like that when Halland was here, so his life could seep out into hers, and hers into his? Sighing, I stared wearily at the packing cases. What was I doing here? What had I been thinking? Would I have to lug all this down to the car? I wanted none of it. But I supposed I’d better have a look, if only I could get up. Then I could bin the lot. 
    ‘Pernille!’ I called. She appeared in the doorway at once. ‘Do you know anything about all this?’
    She glanced around. ‘It’s not normally untidy. Those boxes are new. I guess the rest is work.’
    ‘If I pay the rent, can the papers stay here for a while?’
    ‘The longer you pay the rent, the less I have to worry about! Do you want a hand?’
    ‘With what?’ I stared at the piles.
    ‘Don’t the papers all need sorting?’
    ‘But we don’t know what any of it is!’
    Was I meant to ask if Halland was the father of Pernille’s child? I wouldn’t. How could Halland have fathered a child? That made no sense. Then why did I assume the baby was his? I had no reason. With whom was I angry? And what did Halland think he was doing putting up that poster, a poster for a film dealing with the most celebrated, most lamentable, most improbable case of imposture the world had ever seen. A film that was all the more improbable for ending happily. Halland had told me about that film so often. He loved it. I watched it once for his sake, but he watched it a thousand times. What was he thinking? Had he ever imagined that one day I would be sitting on this bed, unable to get up, glaring at a French actor?
    Pernille knelt with difficulty beside one of the packing cases, gingerly lifted out a few documents and envelopes and began to read. I closed my eyes and listened. Sounds filtered up from the street. Cars drove through rain, buses pulled in and out. These were the sounds that had accompanied Halland to sleep. I always thought he stayed in a hotel when he visited Copenhagen. I knew about his life in provincial hotels; he had told me all about it. But what was this ?
    ‘How long did you say Halland kept this room?’ My eyes were closed.
    ‘I didn’t.’
    ‘I might not be able to afford the rent…’
    ‘Perhaps you won’t…’ Pernille said dreamily, as people do when they are reading and not listening. I glanced down at her. ‘What have you’ve found?’ I asked. She looked up in annoyance. ‘I’m not sure. A travel journal, I think.’
    ‘Halland didn’t keep a journal.’
    ‘No,’ she said. I closed my eyes again.
    ‘What does it say?’ I