The Unlucky Lottery

by Håkan Nesser

  ‘What did you think when you saw the knife?’

  ‘Nothing. I think I just picked it up to wash it and put it back in the drawer.’

  ‘Is that what you did?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Did you wash the knife, in fact?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tell us what you did instead.’

  Leverkuhn brushed aside an annoying strand of hair and seemed to be hesitating about what to say next. The prosecutor eyed her without moving a muscle.

  ‘I was standing with the knife in my hand. And then my husband shouted something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’d rather not say. It was a very rude insult.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I felt that I just couldn’t go on like this any longer. I don’t think I really understood what I was doing. I went into the bedroom, and then I stabbed him in the stomach.’

  ‘Did he try to defend himself?’

  ‘He didn’t have time.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘I just carried on stabbing. It felt . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It felt as if it wasn’t me holding the knife. As if it was someone else. It was very odd.’

  Prosecutor Grootner paused again, then went for a little walk. When she returned to her starting point, a metre or so in front of the table, she first coughed into her hand, then turned her head so that she seemed to be speaking to a point somewhere diagonally above where the accused was sitting. As if she were actually talking to somebody else.

  ‘I find it a bit difficult to believe this,’ she said. ‘You have been married to your husband for over forty years. You have shared the same home and bed and endured the same hardships during a long life, but now you suddenly lose your head without any real reason. You said you were used to, er, exchanges of opinion like that, didn’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Leverkuhn, looking down at the table. ‘It’s just that this was something extra . . .’

  ‘This wasn’t something you’d considered doing earlier?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’d never even given it a thought?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not earlier that evening, for instance?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that you didn’t know what you were doing when you murdered your husband?’

  ‘Objection!’ shouted Bachmann. ‘It has not been established that she murdered her husband.’

  ‘Sustained,’ muttered the judge without moving his mouth. The prosecutor shrugged, and her heavy bosom bobbed up and down.

  ‘Did you know what you were doing when you stabbed your husband?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  A faint murmur ran through the gallery, and Judge Hart called for silence by raising his gaze half an inch.

  ‘What did you intend to do by stabbing him?’

  ‘To kill him, of course. To shut him up.’

  The prosecutor nodded again, several times, and looked pleased.

  ‘Then what did you do?’

  ‘I rinsed the knife under the tap in the kitchen. Then I wrapped it up in a newspaper and went out.’

  ‘Why?’

  Leverkuhn hesitated.

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose I wanted to make it look as if somebody else had done it.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Towards Entwick Plejn. I threw the knife and the newspaper into a rubbish bin.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I can’t remember. Maybe in Entwickstraat, but I’m not sure. I was a bit confused.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then I went back home and phoned the police. I pretended that I’d found my husband dead, but that wasn’t the case . . .’

  ‘Didn’t you get a lot of blood on you when you killed your husband?’

  ‘Only a bit. I washed it off at the same time as I rinsed the knife.’

  The prosecutor seemed to be thinking for a few seconds. Then she slowly turned her back on the accused. Pushed up her spectacles again and let her gaze wander over the members of the jury.

  ‘Thank you, fru Leverkuhn,’ she said, in a voice lowered by half an octave. ‘I don’t think we need to doubt that you acted with great presence of mind and purposefulness all the time. And I no longer think there is a single one of us who doubts that you murdered your husband with malice aforethought. Thank you, no more questions.’

  Bachmann had stood up, but didn’t bother to protest. He had bags under his eyes, she noticed. Looked tired and somewhat resigned. She had the impression that his fee depended in some way on whether he won or lost the case, but she wasn’t sure. It wasn’t easy to know the ways of this strange world.

  Not easy at all.

  Nor did she know how common it was for the judge himself to ask questions, but when Bachmann had finished his rather pointless interrogation – all the time she found it difficult to understand what he was after and what he wanted her to say, and when he sat down he looked even more dispirited – the great man cleared his throat emphatically and announced that certain things needed clarifying.

  But first he asked if she would like a little rest before he started questioning her.

  No, she said that was not necessary.

  ‘Certain things need clarifying,’ Judge Hart said again, clasping his hairy hands on the Bible in front of him. A murmur ran through the public gallery and Prosecutor Grootner suddenly began scribbling away on her notepad. Bachmann stroked his hair and looked like a morose question mark.

  ‘What made you confess?’

  He looked down on her from his slightly raised position with a sceptical frown between his bushy eyebrows.

  ‘My conscience,’ she said.

  ‘Your conscience?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what made your conscience stir after more than a week?’

  Marie-Louise Leverkuhn was certainly ten years older than Judge Hart, but nevertheless there was suddenly an element of teacher and schoolgirl in the situation. A teenager caught smoking in the toilets and now summoned to the headmaster for a telling-off.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said after a short pause for thought. ‘I thought about it for a few days and then decided it was wrong to carry on lying.’

  ‘What made you lie in the first place?’

  ‘Fear,’ she said without hesitation. ‘Of the consequences . . . court and prison and so on.’

  ‘Do you regret what you did?’

  She examined her hands for a while.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course I regret it. It’s terrible, killing another human being. You have to take your punishment.’

  Judge Hart leaned back.

  ‘Why didn’t you throw the knife into a canal instead of a dustbin?’

  ‘I didn’t think.’

  ‘Have you been asked that question before?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why bother to get rid of the knife in the first place? Wouldn’t it have been sufficient to rinse the blood off it and put it back in its place in the kitchen?’

  Leverkuhn frowned briefly before answering.

  ‘I don’t remember what I was thinking,’ she said, ‘but I supposed people would realize that was the knife I’d used if they found it. I wasn’t thinking clearly.’

  The judge nodded and looked mildly reproachful.

  ‘I’m sure you weren’t,’ he said. ‘But don’t you think it was rather odd that you immediately told the police that the knife was missing?’

  She did not answer. Judge Hart pulled a hair out of his nostril and examined it for a moment before flicking it over his shoulder and continuing.

  ‘Did you meet fru Van Eck at all during the days before she disappeared?’

  Bachmann started gesturing, but seemed to realize that it wasn’t appropriate to protest when it was the judge himself asking the questions. He moved his chair noisily and leaned back nonchalantly instead. Looked up at the ceiling. A
s if what was happening had nothing to do with him.

  ‘I had coffee with her and her husband one afternoon. They invited me.’

  ‘That was on the Tuesday, wasn’t it?’

  She thought about it.

  ‘Yes, it must have been.’

  ‘And then she disappeared on the Wednesday?’

  ‘As far as I know, yes. Why are you asking about that?’

  The judge made a vague gesture with his hands, as if to say that they might just as well chat about these events, seeing as they were all gathered together here.

  ‘Just one more little question,’ he said eventually. ‘It doesn’t happen to be the case that you needed this time – these seven days or however long it was – for some special purpose?’

  ‘I don’t understand what you mean,’ said Leverkuhn.

  Judge Hart took out a large red handkerchief and blew his nose.

  ‘I think you do,’ he muttered. ‘But you may leave the dock now.’

  Marie-Louise Leverkuhn thanked him and did as she had been told.

  Judge Hart, Van Veeteren thought as he came out into the street and opened up his umbrella. What a terrific police officer the old distorter of the law would have made!

  25

  Moreno knocked and entered. Münster looked up from the reports he was reading.

  ‘Have a pew,’ he said. ‘How did it go?’

  She flopped down on the chair without even unbuttoning her brown suede jacket. Shook her head a few times, and he noticed that she was on the verge of tears.

  ‘Not all that well,’ she said.

  Münster put his pen in his breast pocket and slid the stack of files to one side. He waited for the continuation, but there wasn’t one.

  ‘I see,’ he said in the end. ‘Feel free to tell me about it.’

  Ewa Moreno dug her hands into her pockets and took a deep breath. Münster noted that he did the opposite – held his breath.

  ‘I explained to him that it was all over now. Definitely over and done with. He’s off to the USA for a course tomorrow morning. He said that if I don’t change my mind, he won’t be coming back. So that’s where we’re at.’

  She fell silent, and looked past his shoulder, out of the window. Münster swallowed, and for a fleeting moment acknowledged that if he had been in Claus Badher’s shoes he would probably have done the same.

  ‘You mean . . .?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Moreno. ‘That’s what he meant. I know it. He’s intending to take his own life.’

  Five seconds passed.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be that serious. A lot of people say things like that.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Moreno. ‘And a lot of people do it. God, I sometimes wish I could just disappear into a black hole. Everything feels so damned hopeless. I’ve tried to persuade him to at least talk to somebody . . . To seek some kind of help. To do anything at all that leaves me out of it – but you men are just the way you are.’

  ‘The macho mystery?’ said Münster.

  ‘Yes, of course. We’ve already talked about that.’

  She shrugged apologetically.

  ‘Do you have somebody to talk to yourself?’ Münster asked.

  A slight blush coloured her face.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘An old detective intendent I happen to know, among others. No, enough of this. Isn’t there any work I can immerse myself in?’

  ‘A whole ocean,’ said Münster. ‘Plus a stagnant backwater called the Leverkuhn case. Could that be something for you?’

  ‘You’re not going to shelve it?’

  ‘I can’t,’ said Münster. ‘I’ve tried, but I dream about it at night.’

  Moreno nodded and took her hands out of her pockets.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that daughter I spoke to,’ said Münster. ‘Could that be something worth following up?’

  ‘Odd,’ said Rooth.

  ‘What is?’ said Jung.

  ‘Can’t you see?’

  ‘No, I’m blind.’

  Rooth snorted.

  ‘Look at the other houseboats. That one . . . And that one!’

  He pointed. Jung looked, and stamped his feet in an attempt to create a bit of heat.

  ‘I’m freezing,’ he said. ‘Tell me what you are on about, or I’ll throw you into the canal.’

  ‘Spoken like a true gentleman,’ said Rooth. ‘It’s not moored next to the quay, you berk. Why the hell has he anchored a metre out into the water?’

  Jung registered that this really was the case. Bonger’s canal boat – which he was now gaping at for the seventh or eighth time – was not moored with its rail next to the stone quayside. Instead it was held in place by four hawsers as thick as your arm and a couple of fenders made out of rough wooden logs with car tyres fixed to the end, wedged between the hull of the boat and the quay half a metre above the waterline. The narrow gang-plank, which he had crossed a month ago, ran for a metre and a half over open water very nearly to the bows of the boat. Come to think of it, he had to admit that this was a bit odd.

  ‘All right,’ said Jung. ‘But what’s the significance?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’ said Rooth. ‘But it’s an unusual set-up. Anyway, shall we call in on the old witch?’

  Jung bit his lip.

  ‘Maybe we should have brought her something.’

  ‘Brought her something? What the hell are you on about?’

  ‘She’s a bit of a one-off, I’ve explained that already. We’d be more likely to get somewhere with her if we presented her with a drop of something tasty.’

  Rooth shuddered.

  ‘A curse on this bloody wind,’ he said. ‘Okay, there’s an off-licence on the corner over there. Nip over and buy a half bottle of gin, and I’ll wait here for you.’

  Ten minutes later they were ensconced in the galley with fru Jümpers. Just as Jung had predicted, the gin was much appreciated – especially as it was the coldest day so far this winter, and the lady of the boat had a visitor.

  The visitor’s name was Barga – Jung couldn’t make out whether this was her first name or her surname – a robust woman of an uncertain age. Probably somewhere between forty and seventy. Despite the fact that it was relatively warm on board, both ladies were wearing rubber boots, thick woollen jumpers and long scarves, wrapped round and round their heads and necks. Without much in the way of ceremony, four tin mugs appeared on the table and were promptly filled with two centimetres of gin and three centimetres of coffee. Then a sugar lump, and a toast was proposed.

  ‘Aah!’ exclaimed Barga. ‘God is not as dead as they say.’

  ‘But He’s on His last legs,’ said fru Jümpers. ‘Believe you me!’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Jung. ‘In that connection, do you happen to have seen herr Bonger lately? That’s why we’ve called on you, of course.’

  ‘Bonger?’ said Barga, unwinding her headscarf slightly. ‘No, that’s a mystery. Makes you wonder what the bloody police do in this town.’

  ‘These gentlemen are from the police,’ said the hostess, with a wry smile.

  ‘Well, I’ll be buggered,’ said Barga. ‘Still, I suppose somebody has to do it, as the arse-licker said.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Rooth. ‘So you also knew herr Bonger?’

  ‘You can bet your bleeding bollocks I did, Constable,’ said Barga. ‘Better than anybody else, I reckon . . .’ She glanced at her friend. ‘With the possible exception of this old cow.’

  ‘Do you also live on the canal?’ Jung asked.

  ‘No fear,’ said Barga. ‘On the contrary . . . Up under the roof beams in Kleinstraat, that’s where I have my abode. But I do descend down here now and then.’

  ‘Descend down here, kiss my arse!’ snorted fru Jümpers, unscrewing the top of the bottle again. ‘Can I offer anybody a drop more?’

  ‘Just a little one,’ said Jung.

  ‘A fairly big one,’ said Rooth. />
  Fru Jümpers poured out the gin and Barga laughed so expansively that the fillings in her teeth glittered.

  ‘A fairly big one!’ she repeated in delight. ‘Are you really a police officer, my dear?’

  ‘I wasn’t good enough to do anything else,’ said Rooth. ‘But this Bonger character – if you knew him so well, perhaps you have some idea of where he might be?’

  A few seconds passed while the large woman’s facial expression turned serious. She peered between swollen eyelids at fru Jümpers, who was meticulously blending the coffee and gin. Then she cleared her throat.

  ‘Either he’s been murdered . . .’ she said.

  She lifted her mug. Three seconds passed.

  ‘Or?’ said Jung.

  ‘Or he’s done a runner.’

  ‘Don’t talk crap,’ said fru Jümpers.

  ‘Why would he do a runner?’ asked Rooth.

  ‘Business,’ said Berga secretively. ‘He had no choice.’

  Jung stared sceptically at her and Rooth shook his head.

  ‘What kind of business?’

  ‘Debts,’ said Berga, tapping the table three times with her fist. ‘He owed a lot of money. They were after him – I spoke to him just a few days before he disappeared. He’s gone underground, that’s all there is to it. You don’t mess about with the characters in that branch.’

  ‘What branch?’ wondered Rooth.

  ‘It could have something to do with his sister as well,’ said Berga, gazing down into her mug as if her friend had got the proportions wrong.

  ‘I didn’t know he had a sister,’ said Jung. ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Nobody knows,’ interjected fru Jümpers. ‘She also vanished in mysterious circumstances . . . when would it be now? Fifteen years ago? About that. Took leave of her senses and turned up later in Limburg, or so they say.’

  ‘What branch were you talking about?’ Rooth insisted.

  ‘I’m not saying, so I haven’t said anything,’ said Berga, fishing out a crumpled cigarette. ‘It’s not good to give your tongue its head.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ sighed Jung.

  ‘Cheers!’ said fru Jümpers. ‘Pay no attention to her. She always rambles on like that when she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She’s been senile for the last thirty years.’