The Unlucky Lottery

by Håkan Nesser

  It was a heavy-handed opening, but he had decided to take that line. Marie-Louise didn’t move a muscle.

  ‘There is only one person who can know about such things, and that is of course you, fru Leverkuhn. Have you had any thoughts about such matters in the last few days?’

  ‘None at all.’

  She stared vacantly at him.

  ‘You must have been thinking about what has happened.’

  ‘I suppose I’ve been thinking about it, but nothing has come of it.’

  ‘Have you talked to many people you know?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know all that many people. My children. Emmeline. A few neighbours.’

  ‘But can you give me the names of your closest friends? Apart from Emmeline von Post, that is. That you and your husband used to socialize with.’

  She looked down at the floor. Aha, Münster thought. So that’s how it is. That’s where the problem lies.

  The most shameful thing in life, he’d read somewhere, was not having any friends. Being on your own. You can be as stupid as they come, a racist, a sadist, obese and stink like a skunk, a practising paedophile – but you have to have friends.

  ‘We didn’t socialize much,’ she said without looking up. ‘He had his friends, I had mine.’

  ‘No mutual friends?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘What about relatives?’

  ‘Our children,’ she said again.

  ‘You don’t have any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘No, not any more.’

  ‘Who did your husband use to meet, apart from the gentlemen at Freddy’s?’

  She thought for a moment.

  ‘Nobody else at all, I think. Maybe herr Engel now and then.’

  ‘Ruben Engel? In the same block of flats?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what about you?’ Münster persisted. ‘You used to meet fröken von Post a few times a month. Who else?’

  ‘Nobody else,’ said Marie-Louise.

  ‘Are you sure?’ said Münster. ‘No former colleagues, for instance? You were working at that department store until a couple of years ago, isn’t that right?’

  ‘Fröken Svendsen,’ she said. ‘Regina Svendsen. We sometimes used to go out together, but she moved to Karpatz a few years ago. She found a new man, an old school friend who had also found himself on his own.’

  ‘Do you have her telephone number?’

  ‘No.’

  Münster made a note and turned over a page.

  ‘Tell me about your coming home last Saturday night.’

  ‘I’ve already done that several times.’

  ‘This will be the last time,’ Münster promised.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You never know. Things sometimes come back to you that you overlooked shortly after the event. Especially if you were in shock.’

  She looked at him. Somewhat annoyed.

  ‘I haven’t overlooked anything.’

  ‘You came home at a few minutes past two, is that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said fru Leverkuhn.

  ‘And the entrance door was standing ajar?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The door to your flat wasn’t locked, right?’

  ‘I’ve already said it wasn’t.’

  ‘Did you see anybody? In the street or on the staircase, or in the flat?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So you went inside and discovered that something was wrong?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘How did you know that something was wrong?’

  She thought for a moment.

  ‘There was a smell,’ she said.

  ‘Of what?’ Münster asked.

  ‘Blood.’

  Münster pretended to be making notes while waiting for her to say more. But she didn’t. He tried to recall the smell of blood, and established that it was distinctly possible that she could have detected it. If his memory served him rightly, he had read somewhere amongst all the information about her that, like her daughter, she had worked for a few years as a butcher. She presumably knew what she was talking about.

  ‘You went into the room?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And switched the light on?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How did you react when you saw what had happened?’

  She paused. Sat in silence again for a few seconds, then sat up straight and cleared her throat.

  ‘I stood there and felt like throwing up,’ she said. ‘It sort of came in waves, but then it stopped. So I went back out to report it.’

  ‘You set off for Entwick Pleijn?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve told you already.’

  ‘Were there many other people about?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I don’t remember. I don’t think so. It was raining.’

  ‘Did you go all the way to the police station?’

  She thought that over again.

  ‘No. There were no lights in the windows, I could see that from the other side of the square.’

  ‘And so you turned back?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And went the same way back home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Münster paused.

  ‘Shall I tell you something odd, fru Leverkuhn?’ he said.

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘You say you walked nearly two kilometres through the town, and so far not a single witness has come forward to say they saw you. What do you say to that? I mean, the streets were not completely deserted.’

  No reply. Münster waited for half a minute.

  ‘It’s not the case that you’re lying, is it, fru Leverkuhn?’

  She looked up and stared at him with mild contempt.

  ‘Why on earth should I be telling lies?’

  To save your own skin, for instance, Münster thought; but that was naturally an extremely dodgy thought, and he kept it to himself.

  ‘Had he fallen out with any of those old friends?’ he asked instead.

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘With herr Bonger, for instance?’

  ‘I don’t even know which is which of them.’

  ‘Have they never visited your flat?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘But you knew that they had won some money, I take it?’

  He had been leading up to that question for some considerable time, but it was difficult to draw any conclusions from her reaction.

  ‘Money?’ was all she said.

  ‘Twenty thousand,’ said Münster.

  ‘Each?’ she asked.

  ‘All together,’ said Münster. ‘Five thousand each. But that’s still quite a lot.’

  She shook her head slowly.

  ‘He never mentioned that,’ she said.

  Münster nodded.

  ‘And you still haven’t noticed anything missing from the flat? Apart from the knife, that is.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘No . . . Mind you, I haven’t seen any trace of five thousand.’

  ‘They haven’t collected the money yet,’ said Münster.

  ‘That would explain it,’ said fru Leverkuhn.

  Münster sighed. He could feel weariness creeping up on him, and suddenly – in no more than one second – the pointlessness of it all took possession of him. He suddenly felt that he could see right through this old woman’s vacant face, like looking through a pane of glass; and what he saw was a cul de sac, with himself standing there, staring at a brick wall. From half a metre away. With his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slumped in despair. In some strange way he was able to look at his own back and the brick wall at the same time. Filthy bricks covered in faded graffiti, and a smell of eternal, acid rain. It was not a pleasant picture of the situation. Not pleasant at all. I’d better retrace my steps
, he thought, and blinked a few times in order to come into contact with reality again.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I haven’t any more questions for the moment, but I’d still like you to keep thinking, fru Leverkuhn. Even the tiniest insignificant detail might help us to get on the right track.’

  ‘I want you to leave me in peace.’

  ‘We want to find your husband’s murderer, fru Leverkuhn. And we shall find him.’

  For a moment he thought she looked more than acceptably doubtful, and it was probably that – together with the increasing feeling of gravelliness behind his eyes – that made him raise his voice.

  ‘We intend to find the murderer, fru Leverkuhn, you can be absolutely bloody certain of that!’

  She looked at him in surprise. Then rose to her feet.

  ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘Not for the moment,’ said Münster.

  The rest of Wednesday passed by in more or less the same tone. Bonger’s canal boat was as deserted as ever, testimony from people who had been out and about on Saturday night was conspicuous by its absence, and the only response from the so-called underworld came from an anonymous source, urging the police to stop rummaging around in the wrong pile of dirty laundry.

  Tell us which pile of dirty laundry is the right one, then! Münster thought, aggressively.

  He purposely avoided contacting Inspector Moreno, and while he was struggling with an unusually unpalatable lunchtime pasta in the canteen, Krause informed him that she had phoned in earlier that morning and reported sick. At first Münster was relieved to hear that, but then he was filled with a degree of uncertainty that he dare not analyse too closely. The dream he had experienced the previous night was still hovering in the back of his mind – like an X-rated film he had watched by mistake – and he knew that it wasn’t there purely by chance.

  He spent the whole afternoon in his office, reading through all the reports and minutes connected with the case that had accumulated already, without becoming much the wiser.

  The case of Waldemar Leverkuhn?

  That’s the way it is, was how he summed it up in resignation as he left the police station at half past four. For some unknown reason, an unknown perpetrator (man? woman?) had killed a harmless pensioner – in the most bestial fashion imaginable. Four days had passed since the murder, and they were still nowhere near a solution.

  Another elderly man had disappeared that same night, and the police knew just as much about that as well.

  Nothing.

  Yet again – he had lost count of how many times it had happened these last few days – some wise words from Van Veeteren came into his head.

  Police work is like life, the chief inspector had announced over a Friday beer at Adenaar’s a few years ago. Ninety-five per cent of it is wasted.

  Wasn’t it about time they had got round to that last five per cent? Intendent Münster asked himself as he worked his way up through the labyrinth that formed the exit from the underground garage at the police station. Shouldn’t the breakthrough be due any time now?

  Or was it the case, it struck him as he emerged into Baderstraat, that those gloomy words of wisdom from Van Veeteren were a sort of nudge, encouraging him to call in at Krantze’s antiquarian bookshop?

  To pay a visit to the chief inspector?

  It was a bold thought, of course – probably the only one that had struck him all day – and he decided to leave it in the back of his mind for the moment, and see how it grew.

  Then he put his foot down on the accelerator and began to long for Synn and the children.

  TWO

  17

  ‘What did you say your name was?’ asked Krause, furrowing his brow.

  He noted down the name and telephone number. Chewed at his pencil. There was something about this . . .

  ‘Address?’

  He wrote that down as well and stared at it.

  Surely it was . . .?

  No doubt about it. He asked, and had his suspicions confirmed. Could hear how his voice was becoming rather excited, and tried to cough it away. Said thank you for the call and promised that somebody would be there within half an hour. Replaced the receiver.

  My God! he thought. What the hell can this mean?

  He dialled Münster’s number. Engaged.

  Moreno. No reply.

  Van Eck? Surely it can’t be a coincidence, he thought as he rose to his feet.

  Münster beckoned him to come in as he continued talking on the telephone. Judging by the expression on his face, it must be Hiller at the other end of the line. Krause nodded to Moreno, who was sitting on one of the visitor chairs, leafing through a sheaf of papers.

  Rather listlessly, it seemed. She looked tired, Krause noted, and leaned back against the bookcase. Everybody was tired at the moment, for whatever reason.

  Münster managed to get rid of the chief of police and looked up.

  ‘Well? What’s the problem?’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Krause. ‘I’ve just had a strange telephone call.’

  ‘Really?’ said Münster.

  ‘Really?’ said Moreno.

  ‘Arnold Van Eck. The caretaker in Kolderweg. He says his wife has disappeared.’

  ‘What?’ said Moreno.

  ‘What the hell?’ said Münster.

  Krause cleared his throat.

  ‘Yep, that’s what he claimed,’ he said. ‘Vanished into thin air yesterday, it seems. I promised we’d be there pronto. Shall I? . . . Or maybe . . .?’

  ‘No,’ said Münster. ‘Moreno and I will follow it up. That’s . . .’

  He failed to establish what it was. Collected his briefcase, scarf and overcoat and hurried out of the door. Moreno followed him, but paused for a moment in the doorway.

  ‘Are you sure this isn’t something Rooth has invented?’ she said, looking searchingly at Krause. ‘He doesn’t seem to be all that reliable at the moment.’

  Krause shrugged.

  ‘Are you suggesting Rooth has kidnapped her, or something? You’d better go there and take a look, and find out. If I remember rightly she’s the size of a house . . . It can’t be all that easy to hide her away.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Moreno. ‘Stay here and we’ll keep you informed.’

  ‘I don’t make a habit of disappearing,’ said Krause.

  Arnold Van Eck looked as if he’d sold the cream but lost the money. He must have been standing by the window, waiting for them, because he received them in the entrance hall where they also met fru Leverkuhn who was carrying bags and suitcases full of her husband’s clothes to a waiting taxi.

  ‘They’re going to the charity shop,’ she said. ‘I thought you lot would have been able to leave me alone for a day at least.’

  ‘It’s not . . . It’s . . .’ stammered Van Eck, shifting his feet nervously.

  ‘It’s not you we want to talk to today,’ Münster explained. ‘Herr Van Eck, perhaps we ought to go into your flat.’

  The little caretaker nodded and led the way. His tiny frame looked more wretched than ever – it looked as if it could fall to pieces at any moment, so compelling were his tears and his despair. Münster wondered if he had slept a single wink that night.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked when they had sat down around the diminutive kitchen table covered by a blue-and-white checked oilcloth, with a yellow artificial flower in a vase in the middle.

  Van Eck flung out his arms in a gesture intended to express his impotence.

  ‘She’s gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ said Moreno.

  ‘Your wife?’ asked Münster.

  ‘Alas, yes,’ said Van Eck. ‘That’s the way it is.’

  Alas, yes? Münster thought. He must be barmy. But then he knew – through his work and in other ways – that there were people who would never have been given the role of themselves if it had been a question of a film or a play rather than life itself. Arnold Van Eck was definitely one of those.

  ‘Tell us about it,’ said Mor
eno.

  Van Eck sniffed a few times and slid his thick spectacles further up his shiny nose.

  ‘It was yesterday,’ he said. ‘Yesterday evening . . . She disappeared some time during the afternoon. Or evening.’

  He fell silent.

  ‘How can you be sure that she hasn’t just gone to visit somebody?’ Moreno asked.

  ‘I just know,’ said Van Eck. ‘It was Wednesday yesterday, and we always watch Gangsters’ Wives on a Wednesday. It’s a television series.’

  ‘Yes, we know,’ said Moreno.

  ‘Gangsters?’ wondered Münster.

  ‘She massages my legs as well,’ continued Van Eck. ‘Always on a Wednesday. It helps to prevent vascular spasms.’

  He demonstrated rather awkwardly how his wife would grasp and rub his thighs and calves. Münster couldn’t believe his eyes, but he saw that Moreno was making notes without turning a hair, so he assumed for the time being at least that there was nothing to worry about. This was presumably how people behaved with each other in the autumn of their lives.

  But how could Ewa Moreno know that?

  ‘When did you see her last?’ he asked.

  ‘Five past five,’ said Van Eck without hesitation. ‘She went out to do some shopping, but she hadn’t come back when I left to attend my course.’

  ‘What course is that?’ Moreno asked.

  ‘Porcelain painting. Six o’clock at Riitmeeterska, so it only takes a few minutes to get there. I left at about ten to.’

  ‘Porcelain painting?’ said Münster.

  ‘It’s more interesting than you might think,’ Van Eck assured him, sitting up a bit straighter. ‘I’m only an amateur, I’ve only been going for four terms; but then the main idea isn’t to produce masterpieces. Mind you, one day, perhaps . . .’

  For a brief second the caretaker’s face lit up. Münster cleared his throat.

  ‘What time did you get home?’

  ‘Five past eight, as usual. Else wasn’t at home, and she hadn’t come by the time Gangsters’ Wives started either. It begins at half past nine, and that was when I became really worried.’

  Moreno continued writing everything down. Münster recalled his dream from the last night but one, and pinched himself discreetly in the arm to make sure that he really was sitting here in this yellow-and-pink-painted kitchen.