The Unlucky Lottery

by Håkan Nesser

  Münster nodded.

  ‘Well, Claus came home from New York, despite everything,’ Moreno said, while trying to scrape a little coffee stain off her pale yellow jumper with a fingernail. ‘It struck me straight away that he had changed somehow . . . I think I said this, didn’t I? I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it finally came out yesterday. He’s found somebody else.’

  ‘What?’ said Münster. ‘What the hell . . .?’

  ‘Yes. A month ago he was ready to take his own life for my sake, but now he has a flourishing new relationship. He met her in a restaurant in Greenwich Village, they flew home on the same plane, and they’ve evidently found one another. Her name’s Brigitte, and she’s a script girl with a television company. Huh, men . . .’

  ‘Enough of that,’ said Münster. ‘Don’t tar everybody with the same brush, for Christ’s sake! I refuse to associate myself with this kind of . . . of boy scout behaviour.’

  Moreno smiled. Stopped scraping and contemplated the stain, which was still there.

  ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I know. In any case, I think it’s brilliant, even if it is a bit odd, as I said. Shall we drop the battle of the sexes?’

  ‘By all means,’ said Münster. ‘I’ve had more than my fair share of that as well, in fact.’

  Moreno looked vaguely sympathetic, but said nothing. Münster took a drink out of the can of soda water on his desk and tried not to belch, but belched even so. In that introspective, polite way, which brought tears to his eyes.

  ‘The Leverkuhn case,’ he said, taking a deep breath. ‘Are you with me on it?’

  ‘Yes, I’m with you.’

  ‘Act three. Or is it act four? Anyway, the division of labour is clear, in broad outline at least. Rooth and Jung will look after the search for the diaries at the Leverkuhns’ place. Reinhart and Heinemann will take care of Van Eck. You and I have a bit more freedom. I shall ignore what Hiller said about what’s resolved and what isn’t. I’m going to have another go at Leverkuhn’s children. All three, I think.’

  ‘Even the daughter who’s locked away?’ asked Moreno.

  ‘Even her,’ said Münster.

  ‘Do you think it was Marie-Louise Leverkuhn who disposed of Else Van Eck as well?’

  Münster made no reply at first. Leafed somewhat listlessly through the pile of paper on his desk. Drank the rest of the soda water and threw the empty can into the waste paper basket.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘She flatly denied it, and why should she bother to do that when she had already admitted to killing her husband? And she took her own life as well. Why would she want to kill Van Eck? What motive could she have had?’

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ said Moreno. ‘But you reckon they’re connected?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Münster. ‘I think so. I don’t know how, but I’m bloody well going to find out.’

  He could hear the trace of weariness in his last sentence, and he could see that Moreno heard it as well. She looked at him for a moment or two, while the furrow in her brow remained and she was presumably searching for something consoling to say. But she found nothing.

  I wish she would just walk round the desk and give me a hug, Münster thought, closing his eyes. Or we could get undressed and go to bed.

  But nothing like that happened either.

  32

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello,’ said Jung. ‘My name’s Jung, Maardam police. Am I talking to Emmeline von Post?’

  ‘Yes, that’s me. Good morning.’

  ‘I have just one simple question, so maybe we can sort it out on the telephone?’

  ‘Good Lord, what’s it about?’

  ‘Marie-Louise Leverkuhn. We’re winding up the case, as it were, and we want to sort out all the final details.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Emmeline.

  Oh no you don’t, thought Jung. But you’re not supposed to either.

  ‘Did fru Leverkuhn keep a diary?’ he asked.

  There were a few seconds of astonished silence before Emmeline answered.

  ‘Yes, of course. She used to keep a diary. But why on earth do you want to know about that?’

  ‘Routine,’ said Jung routinely.

  ‘I see . . . Oh, it’s all so awful.’

  ‘Absolutely awful,’ said Jung. ‘Had she been doing it long? Keeping a diary, that is?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Emmeline. ‘Yes, she was doing it when we were at commercial college together. They weren’t really diaries; as I understand it she only wrote something a couple of times a month . . . To sort of sum up the situation, I don’t really know.’

  ‘Did you often talk abut it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you ever read anything she wrote?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘But you’ve seen the diaries?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Emmeline. ‘On the odd occasion . . . Obviously we mentioned them now and then as well, but it was her private business and nothing to do with me.’

  ‘What do they look like?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The diaries. How many do you think there are, and what do they look like?’

  Emmeline thought for a moment.

  ‘I don’t know how many there are,’ she said, ‘but I think she kept them all, in any case. Ten or twelve, perhaps? They were the usual kind of exercise books with soft covers you can buy all over the place. Quite thick . . . black, soft covers. Or maybe blue, the ones I’ve seen at least. Perhaps she had more, in fact. I don’t think she showed them to her husband. But . . . but I don’t understand why you’re asking about this. Is it important?’

  ‘No, not at all,’ said Jung reassuringly. ‘Just a detail, as I said. By the way, do you remember if she had one of those books with her when she was staying with you for a few days? In October, that is?’

  ‘No . . . no, I don’t think so. I didn’t see one, at least.’

  ‘Thank you, fru von Post. That was all. I apologize for disturbing you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Emmeline. ‘No problem.’

  ‘Rooth, Maardam police,’ said Rooth.

  ‘I haven’t got time,’ said Mauritz Leverkuhn.

  ‘Why did you answer, then?’ said Rooth. ‘If you haven’t got time?’

  Silence for a few seconds.

  ‘It could have been something important,’ said Mauritz.

  ‘It is important,’ said Rooth. ‘Did your mother keep a diary?’

  Mauritz sneezed directly into the receiver.

  ‘Bless you,’ said Rooth, drying his ear.

  ‘Diary!’ snorted Mauritz. ‘What the hell has that got to do with you? And why the hell are you poking your nose into all this? We’ve had enough of you snooping around, can’t you leave people in peace? Besides, I’m ill.’

  ‘I’ve noticed,’ said Rooth. ‘Did she keep a diary?’

  For quite a while there was no sound other than Mauritz’s heavy breathing. Rooth realized he was wondering whether to hang up or not.

  ‘Listen here,’ he said in the end. ‘I’ve been in bed with flu for two days now. A thirty-nine degree temperature. I’ll be fucked if I want to talk to you any more. Both my father and mother are dead, I don’t understand why the police can’t find something better to do instead of pestering us.’

  ‘You’re taking penicillin, I assume?’ asked Rooth in a friendly tone, but the only answer he received was a clear and dismissive click.

  Rooth hung up. Bastard, he thought. I hope you’re in bed for a few more weeks at least.

  ‘Do you really mean that?’ asked Heinemann. ‘That the police have been treating you improperly?’

  ‘What?’ said Ruben Engel.

  ‘That we’ve been bothering you unnecessarily. If so, you should make a complaint.’

  ‘Yes . . . er?’

  ‘There’s a special form you can fill in,’ Heinemann explained. ‘If you like I can arrange to have one sent to you.’

  ‘Eh? That’s not necessary,’ said Engel. ‘But f
or God’s sake hurry up and get this business sorted out, so that we can get some peace and quiet.’

  ‘It’s a bit tricky,’ said Heinemann, looking round the cluttered kitchen with his glasses perched on the end of his nose. ‘Murder investigations like this one are often more complicated than people in general can imagine. There’s an awful lot of aspects to take into account. An awful lot. What are you drinking?’

  ‘Eh?’ said Engel. ‘Oh, just a drop of wine toddy – to raise my body temperature a bit. It’s so damned draughty in this flat.’

  ‘I see. Anyway, I mustn’t disturb you any longer. Do you know if fröken Mathisen next door is at home?’

  Engel looked at the clock.

  ‘She usually comes home about five,’ he said. ‘So with a bit of luck . . .’

  ‘We shall see,’ said Heinemann. ‘Anyway, sorry to have disturbed you.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Ruben Engel. ‘The screwing machines are moving out, by the way.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The couple downstairs. They must have found somewhere better. They’re moving out.’

  ‘Really?’ said Heinemann. ‘We didn’t know that. Thank you for telling us.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Marie-Louise Leverkuhn’s funeral took place in one of the side chapels in Keymerkyrkan. Apart from the vicar and the undertaker there were four people present, all of them women.

  Closest to the coffin, a simple affair made of fibreboard and hardboard – but during the service covered by a green cloth that concealed the deficiencies – sat Ruth Leverkuhn in her capacity as next of kin. Behind her sat the other three: furthest to the left was Emmeline von Post; in the middle a pale woman of about the same age and, as far as Münster and Moreno could make out, identical with the Regine Svendsen who had supplied Heinemann with the information about the diaries; and on the right a quite tall, well-dressed woman about forty-five years of age – Münster and Moreno had no idea who she was.

  They had placed themselves strategically in the nave: they were sitting in an austere, light-coloured pew, leafing furtively through their hymn books and keeping a discreet eye on the simple ritual taking place some fifteen metres away.

  ‘Who is the younger woman?’ whispered Münster.

  Moreno shook her head.

  ‘I don’t know. Why isn’t the son here?’

  ‘He’s ill,’ said Münster. ‘Or says he is, in any case. Rooth spoke to him on the phone this morning.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Moreno. ‘So you won’t be having a chat with him, then. Shall I try to grab that woman afterwards? She must have some sort of connection with the family.’

  ‘She could be one of those funeral hyenas, mind you,’ warned Münster. ‘It takes all sorts . . . But by all means, see what she has to say. I’ll try and have a word with the daughter.’

  He noticed that he was enjoying sitting here, squeezed up close to Ewa Moreno in the cramped pew, whispering. Whispering so closely to her ear that he could feel her hair brushing against his skin.

  Carry on talking, Mr Vicar, he thought. Make sure you spin the service out for as long as possible – it doesn’t matter if it takes all afternoon.

  What the hell am I doing? he then thought. Despite the fact that he was sitting in church with a hymn book in his hand.

  ‘No problem,’ said the woman, whose name was Lene Bauer. ‘No problem at all – I intended to ring you several times, but never got round to it . . . But then, perhaps I don’t have all that much to tell you, when it comes to the nitty gritty.’

  At Lene Bauer’s suggestion they had ensconced themselves in a screened booth in Rüger’s bar in Wiijsenweg, diagonally opposite the church. Moreno took an instant liking to the woman, who had apparently taken time off from her post at the library in Linzhuisen in order to attend the funeral. Her connection with Marie-Louise Leverkuhn was not especially strong: she and Lene’s mother had been cousins, but there had been no contact at all during the last twenty to twenty-five years.

  However, Lene had followed what had happened in the papers and on the television: they had socialized quite a bit in the sixties.

  ‘Holidays by the sea,’ she explained. ‘A few weeks in Lejnice, Oosterbrügge and similar places. I assume it was cheaper if we all went together. My mother and Marie-Louise and us children. Me and Ruth, Irene and Mauritz . . . But I used to play mainly with Ruth, we are exactly the same age. Our fathers – my dad and Waldemar – only came to join us for an occasional evening or at the weekends . . . That’s about it, really.’

  ‘You haven’t kept in touch with the children either?’ asked Moreno.

  ‘No,’ said Lene, looking a bit guilty. ‘A few letters to Ruth at the beginning of the seventies, but I got married quite early and had other things to think about. My own children and so on. And for several years we lived down at Borghem as well.’

  Moreno thought for a while. Sipped the wine they had ordered and tried to work out how best to continue. It certainly seemed as if this woman had something she wanted to say, but it might be something that wouldn’t be mentioned unless she was asked the right questions.

  Or was it just imagination? Questionable female intuition? Hard to say.

  ‘Did you enjoy those summer holidays?’ she asked cautiously. ‘How many were there, incidentally?’

  ‘Three or four,’ said Lene. ‘I can’t remember, to be honest. Each of them several weeks. I was between ten and fifteen in any case. We used to listen to The Beatles – Ruth had a tape recorder. Yes, I enjoyed it – apart from with Mauritz.’

  ‘Really?’ said Moreno, and waited.

  ‘He was so terribly difficult to shake off,’ she said. ‘You had to feel sorry for him, of course – the only boy with three girls. And he was younger as well, but there seemed to be no limit to his determination to cling to his sisters, especially Irene. She didn’t have a second’s peace, and she never turned him away either. She mollycoddled him and built sandcastles for him, painted pictures and read him bedtime stories. For hours on end. Ruth and I kept well out of the way, as I recall it, only too glad to off-load the responsibility; but I know I found it extremely difficult to put up with Mauritz. They never said anything to him, and he never showed the slightest bit of gratitude. A cry-baby and a moaner, that’s what he was.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Moreno. ‘This is what you wanted to tell me, isn’t it?’

  Lene shrugged.

  ‘I don’t really know,’ she said. ‘I just started to think about them again when I heard about the terrible things that have happened. I simply couldn’t believe it was true.’

  ‘No,’ said Moreno. ‘I suppose it must have been a shock for you.’

  ‘Two,’ said Lene. ‘First the murder. Then the fact that she’d done it. She must have hated him.’

  Moreno nodded.

  ‘Presumably. Did you have any idea of what their relationship was like? Then, thirty years ago, I mean.’

  ‘No,’ said Lene. ‘I’ve been thinking about it now, in view of what’s happened, but I was only a child in those days. I had no conception of things like that – and anyway, I hardly ever saw Waldemar. He only turned up very occasionally. No, I really don’t know.’

  ‘So it’s the children you remember?’

  Lene sighed and fished a cigarette out of her handbag.

  ‘Yes. And then all that business of Irene’s illness. I’ve somehow always felt that it was connected. Her illness and her being over-protective of Mauritz. There was something wrong, but I suppose it’s easy to speculate. Darkness swallowed her up more or less all at once, if I understand it rightly. Just over twenty years ago, so it was a few years after our holidays together and I’ve no idea what it was all about. One can only guess, but it’s so easy to be clever with hindsight.’

  She fell silent. Moreno watched her as she took out a lighter and lit her cigarette.

  ‘You know that Ruth is lesbian, I take it?’ she asked, mainly because she didn’t really know how to
continue the conversation. Lene inhaled deeply, and nodded slowly several times.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But there are so many possible reasons for being that. Don’t you think?’

  Moreno didn’t know how to interpret that answer. Did this stylish woman have a similar bent? Had she had enough of men? She took another sip of wine and thought about it, then realized that she was beginning to drift a long way away from the point.

  Mind you, what was the point?

  That’s certainly a good question, she thought. But she could think of nothing that might approximate to an answer. Not for the moment. Just now.

  It was nearly always like this. Sometimes in the middle of an investigation, it seemed impossible to see the wood for all the trees. She had thought about that lots of times, and of course the only thing that helped was to try to find a mountain or a hill that you could climb up and get some sort of overview. See things in perspective.

  She could see that Lene was waiting for a continuation, but it was difficult to find the right thread.

  ‘What about your mother?’ she asked for no particular reason. ‘Is she still alive?’

  ‘No,’ said Lene. ‘She died in 1980. Cancer. But I don’t think she had any contact with the Leverkuhns either in recent years. My father died last summer. But he knew them even less well.’

  Moreno nodded and drank up the remains of her wine. Then she decided that this was enough. Thanked Lene Bauer for being so helpful, and asked if they could get in touch again if anything turned up she might be able to help with.

  Lene handed over her business card, and said that the police were welcome to phone her at any time.

  How nice to meet somebody who at least displays a bit of willingness to cooperate in this case, Moreno thought as she left Rüger’s. That sort was distinctly thin on the ground. Not to say few and far between.

  But what Lene Bauer’s contribution was actually worth in a wider context – well, she had difficulty in deciding that. For the time being, at least. They were in the middle of a thicket, and the brushwood was anything but thin on the ground.

  I must improve my imagery, Moreno thought, somewhat confused.