The Unlucky Lottery

by Håkan Nesser

  For the man in the street, the most important thing is to realize that deeds have consequences.

  For a detective they have causes.

  Erwin Baasteuwel, Detective Inspector

  CONTENTS

  ONE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  TWO

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  THREE

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  FOUR

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  FIVE

  41

  42

  ONE

  1

  The last day of Waldemar Leverkuhn’s life could hardly have begun any better.

  After a windy night of non-stop rain, mild autumn sunshine was now creeping in through the kitchen window. From the balcony overlooking the courtyard he could hear the characteristic soft cooing of love-lorn pigeons, and the fading echo of his wife’s footsteps on the stairs as she set off for the market. The Neuwe Blatt was spread out on the table in front of him, and he had just laced his morning coffee with a couple of drops of gin when Wauters rang.

  ‘We won,’ Wauters said.

  ‘Won?’ said Leverkuhn.

  ‘By Christ, yes, we won!’ said Wauters. ‘They said so on the radio.’

  ‘On the radio?’

  ‘Bugger me if we haven’t won twenty thousand! Five each – and not a day too soon!’

  ‘The lottery?’

  ‘The lottery, yes. What else? What did I tell you? There was something special in the air when I bought the ticket. My God, yes! She sort of coaxed it out! As if she really was picking out the right one – Mrs Milkerson in the corner shop. Two, five, five. One, six, five, five! It was the fives that won it for us, of course. I’ve had the feeling this was going to happen all week!’

  ‘How much did you say?’

  ‘Twenty thousand, for God’s sake! Five each! I’ll have to ring the others. Let’s have a party at Freddy’s this evening – dammit all, a knees-up in Capernaum is called for!’

  ‘Five thousand . . .?’ said Leverkuhn, but Wauters had already hung up.

  He remained standing for a while with the receiver in his hand, feeling rather dizzy. Five thousand euros? He blinked carefully a few times, and when his eyes started to focus again they turned automatically to look at the wedding photograph on the bureau. The one in the gold frame. Settled gradually on Marie-Louise’s round and milk-fresh face. Her dimples and corkscrew curls. A warm wind in her hair. Glitter in her eyes.

  That was then, he thought. She was a stunner in those days. 1948.

  As tasty as a cream cake! He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. Scratched himself a little tentatively in the crotch. It was different nowadays . . . but that’s the way it is with women . . . early blossoming, childbirth, breastfeeding, putting on weight . . . reluctant. It was sort of in the nature of things. Different with men, so very different.

  He sighed and went out of the bedroom. Continued his train of thought, even though he didn’t really want to – that seemed to happen so often nowadays . . . Men, oh yes: they were still up for it much longer, that was the big difference . . . that damned big difference. Mind you, it evened itself out towards the end . . . now, well into the autumn of his life, he rarely got the urge any more, it had to be admitted. That applied to both of them.

  But what else could you expect? Seventy-two and sixty-nine. He’d heard about people who could still keep going for longer than that, but as far as he was concerned it was probably all over and done with; he’d just have to make the best of it.

  Apart from the odd little twitch now and then, though, which he’d have preferred to do without. A vague reminder of days long past; no more than a memory, a sad recollection.

  But that’s the way it was. A little twitch. That he could have done without. He flopped down over the kitchen table again.

  Five thousand!

  Hell’s bells! He tried to think. Five thousand euros!

  But it was hard to pin down those butterflies fluttering in his stomach. What the hell would he do with such a lot of money?

  A car? Hardly. It would probably be enough for a pretty decent second-hand model, that was true, and he had a driving licence, but it was ten years since he’d sat at the wheel, and he hadn’t had any pressing desire to get out and see the world for a long time now.

  Nor did he fancy an expensive holiday. It was like Palinski used to say: he’d seen most things and more besides.

  A better television set?

  No point. The one they had was only a couple of years old, and in any case, he only used it as something to sit in front of and fall asleep.

  A new suit?

  For his own funeral, or what?

  No, the first thing to stick its head over the parapet inside his mind was that there was nothing he really needed. Which no doubt said a lot about what a miserable old git he’d become. Couldn’t even work out how to spend his own money any longer. Couldn’t be bothered. What a berk!

  Leverkuhn slid the newspaper to one side and poured himself another cup of coffee with a dash of gin.

  That was surely something he could allow himself? Another cup? He listened to the pigeons as he sipped his coffee. Maybe that was how he should deal with the situation? Allow himself a few things? Buy an extra round or two at Freddy’s. Rather more expensive wines. A decent bite to eat at Keefer’s or Kraus.

  Why not? Live a bit of the good life for a year or two.

  Now the phone rang again.

  Palinski, of course.

  ‘Dammit all, a knees-up in Capernaum is called for tonight!’

  The very same words as Wauters. How odd that he wasn’t even capable of thinking up his own swearwords. After his opening remark he roared with laughter down the phone for half a minute, then finished off by yelling something about how the wine would be flowing at Freddy’s.

  ‘. . . half past six! White shirt and new tie, you old devil!’

  And he hung up. Leverkuhn observed his newly wed wife again for a while, then returned to the kitchen. Drank up the rest of the coffee and belched. Then smiled.

  He smiled at last. After all, five thousand was five thousand.

  Bonger, Wauters, Leverkuhn and Palinski.

  It has to be said they were a long-standing, ancient quartet. He had known Bonger and Palinski since he was a boy. Since they were at school together at the Magdeburgska, and the war-time winters in the cellars on Zuiderslaan and Merdwick. They had drifted apart for a few decades in the middle of their lives, naturally enough, but their paths had crossed once again in their late middle age.

  Wauters had joined them later, much later. One of the lone gents who hung out at Freddy’s, herr Wauters. Moved there from Hamburg and Frigge and God only knows where else; had never been married (the only one of the quartet who had managed to avoid that, he liked to point out – although he now shared the bachelor state with both Bonger and Palinski) – and he was probably the loneliest old bugger you could possibly imagine. Or at least, that’s what Bonger used to confide in them, strictly between friends of course. It was Bonger who had got to know him first, and introduced
him into their circle. A bit of a gambler as well, this Wauters – if you could believe the rumours he spread somewhat discriminately about himself, that is. But now he restricted himself to the football pools and the lottery. The gee-gees nowadays were nothing but drugged-up donkeys, he used to maintain with a sigh, and the jockeys were all on the make. And as for cards? . . . Well, if you’d lost nearly twelve hundred on a full house, huh, let’s face it – it was about bloody time you took things easy in your old age!

  According to Benjamin Wauters.

  Bonger, Wauters, Leverkuhn and Palinski.

  The other evening Palinski had worked out that their combined age came to 292, and so if they could hang on for another couple of years, they could look forward to celebrating their 300th anniversary at the turn of the century. Christ Almighty, that wasn’t something to be sneered at!

  Palinski had patted fröken Gautiers’s generously proportioned bum and informed her of that fact as well, but fröken Gautiers had merely snorted and stated that she would have guessed 400.

  But in reality these round figures had no significance at all, because this Saturday was the last day of Waldemar Leverkuhn’s life. As already said.

  Marie-Louise arrived with the carrier bags of groceries just as he was on his way out.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Out.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To buy a tie.’

  There was a clicking noise from her false teeth, twice, as always happened when she was irritated by something. Tick, tock.

  ‘A tie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why are you going to buy a tie? You already have fifty.’

  ‘I’ve grown tired of them.’

  She shook her head and pushed her way past him with the bags. A smell of kidney floated into his nostrils.

  ‘You don’t need to cook a meal tonight.’

  ‘Eh? What do you mean by that?’

  ‘I’m eating out.’

  She put the carrier bags on the table.

  ‘I’ve bought some kidney.’

  ‘So I’d noticed.’

  ‘Why have you suddenly decided to eat out? I thought we were going to have an early meal – I’m going round to Emmeline’s this evening, and you’re supposed to be going—’

  ‘—to Freddy’s, yes. But I’m going out to have a bite to eat as well. You can put it in the freezer. The kidney, that is.’

  She screwed up her eyes and stared at him.

  ‘Has something happened?’

  He buttoned up his overcoat.

  ‘Not that I know of. Such as what?’

  ‘Have you taken your medicine?’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘Put a scarf on. It’s windy out there.’

  He shrugged and went out.

  Five thousand, he thought. I could spend a few nights in a hotel.

  Wauters and Palinski were also wearing new ties, but not Bonger.

  Bonger never wore a tie, had probably never owned one in his life, but at least his shirt was fairly clean. His wife had died eight years ago, and nowadays it was a matter of getting by as best he could. With regard to shirts and everything else.

  Wauters had reserved a table in the restaurant area, and they started with champagne and caviar as recommended by Palinski – apart from Bonger who declined the caviar and ordered lobster tails. In a Sauterne sauce.

  ‘What’s got into you old devils this evening?’ fröken Gautiers wondered incredulously. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve sold your prostates to some research institute.’

  But she took their orders without more ado, and when Palinski patted her bottom as usual she almost forgot to fend off his rheumatic hand.

  ‘Your very good health, my friends!’ proposed Wauters at regular intervals.

  ‘Let the knees-up in Capernaum commence!’ Palinski urged at even more regular intervals.

  For Christ’s sake, I’m sick and fed up of these idiots, Leverkuhn thought.

  By about eleven Wauters had told them eight or nine times how he had bought the lottery ticket. Palinski had begun to sing ‘Oh, those sinful days of youth’ about as frequently, breaking off after a line and a half because he couldn’t remember the words; and Bonger’s stomach had started playing up. For his part, Waldemar Leverkuhn established that he was probably even more drunk than he’d been at the Oktoberfest in Grünwald fifteen years ago. Or was it sixteen?

  Whatever, it was about time to head for home.

  If only he could find his shoes, that is. He’d been sitting in his stockinged feet for the last half-hour or so. He had realized this, somewhat to his surprise, when he had made his way to the loo for a pee; but no matter how much he fished around for them under the table with his feet, he didn’t get a bite.

  This was a damned nuisance. He could smell that Bonger’s stomach had spoken once more, and when Polinski started singing yet again, he realized that his search needed to be more systematic.

  He coughed by way of creating a diversion, then ducked down discreetly – but unfortunately caught the edge of the tablecloth as he collapsed onto the floor, and the chaos that ensued made him reluctant to leave his temporary exile under the table. Especially as he could see no sign of any shoes.

  ‘Leave me alone, damn you!’ he growled threateningly. ‘Fuck off and leave me in peace!’

  He rolled over onto his back and pulled down the rest of the tablecloth and all the glasses and crockery. From the surrounding tables came a mixed chorus of roars of masculine laughter and horrified feminine shrieks. Wauters and Palinski offered well-meaning advice, and Bonger weighed in with another stinkbomb.

  Then fröken Gautiers and herr Van der Valk and Freddy himself put in an appearance, and ten minutes later Waldemar Leverkuhn was standing on the pavement outside, in the rain, complete with both overcoat and shoes. Palinski and Wauters went off in a taxi, and Bonger asked right away if Leverkuhn might like to share one with him.

  Most certainly not, you bloody skunk! Leverkuhn thought; and he must have said so as well because Bonger’s fist hovered threateningly under his nose for a worrying second: but then both the hand and its owner set off along Langgracht.

  Touchy as usual, Leverkuhn thought as he started walking in more or less the same direction. The rain was getting heavier. But that didn’t worry him, not in the least. Despite being drunk, he felt on top of the world and could walk in a more or less straight line. It was only when he turned into the slippery slope leading to the Wagner Bridge that he slipped and fell over. Two women who happened to be passing, probably whores from the Zwille, helped him to his feet and made sure he was on steadier ground in Zuyderstraat.

  The rest of the walk home was a doddle, and he reached his flat just as the clock in the Keymer church struck a quarter to twelve.

  But his wife wasn’t at home yet. Waldemar Leverkuhn closed the door without locking it, left his shoes, overcoat and jacket in the hall, and crept down into bed without more ado.

  Two minutes later he was asleep. On his back and with his mouth wide open; and when a little later his rasping snores were silenced by a carving knife slicing twenty-eight times through his neck and torso, it is not clear if he knew anything about it.

  2

  The woman was as grey as dawn.

  With her shoulders hunched up in her shabby coat, she sat opposite Intendent Münster, looking down at the floor. Showed no sign of touching either the mug of tea or the sandwiches fröken Katz had been in with. There was an aura of weary resignation surrounding her, and Münster wondered for a moment if it might not be best to summon the doctor and give her an injection. Put her to bed for a rest instead of sitting here being tortured. Krause had already conducted a preliminary interrogation after all.

  But as Van Veeteren used to say, the first few hours are the most important ones. And the first quarter of an hour weighs as much as the whole of the third week.

  Assuming it was going to be a long-drawn-out business, of course. But you never knew.


  He glanced at the clock. Six forty-five. All right, he thought. Just a quarter of an hour.

  ‘I’ll have to take the details one more time,’ he said. ‘Then you can get some sleep.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I don’t need to sleep.’

  Münster read quickly through Krause’s notes.

  ‘So you got home at about two o’clock, is that right?’

  ‘Yes, about five past. There had been a power cut, and we’d been stuck in the train for over an hour. Just outside Voigtshuuis.’

  ‘Where had you been?’

  ‘Bossingen. Visiting a friend. We generally meet on a Saturday . . . not every week, but now and then. I’ve already told an officer this.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Münster. ‘What time was it when you set off from Bossingen?’

  ‘I took the twelve o’clock train. It leaves at 23.59, and is supposed to arrive at a quarter to one. But it was nearly two.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Then I went home and found him.’

  She shrugged, and fell silent. She still hadn’t raised her eyes. For a brief second Münster recalled a kitten that had been run over, which he’d found when he was ten or eleven. It was lying there, stuck to the asphalt in a pool of blood as he came cycling past, and it hadn’t raised its eyes either. It simply lay there, staring into the tall grass at the side of the road, waiting to die.

  He wondered why that particular image had come back to him on this gloomy morning. It wasn’t fru Leverkuhn who was dying after all, it was her husband who was dead.

  Murdered. Seventy-two years of age and he had met his killer, a killer who had found it safest to stab his knife into him between twenty and thirty times, making sure he would never again be able to get out of bed.

  At some time between half past twelve and half past two, according to the preliminary forensic report which had been delivered shortly before Münster arrived at the police station.

  A bit over the top, to be sure. One or two stabs would presumably have been enough. The loss of blood had been so great that for once it was justified to talk about bathing in his own blood. Apparently there was much more in the bed and on the floor than in the man’s body.