The Unlucky Lottery

by Håkan Nesser

  On the tiny desk was a portrait of a dark-haired man of about thirty, a telephone and a cassette recorder.

  Aha, Münster thought. I’d better get going, then.

  He lifted down one of the stacks. He noted that there was a date on the spine of each cassette. 4/3, 8/3, 11/3 . . . and so on. He took one out at random and inserted it into the cassette player. It seemed to have been rewound to the beginning, as it started with a voice he assumed was Clara Vermieten’s, stating the date on which the recording was made.

  Conversation with Irene Leverkuhn, the fifteenth of April, nineteen ninety-seven.

  Then a short pause.

  —Irene, it’s Clara. How are you today?

  —I’m well today, said Irene in the same monotonous tone of voice that he had been listening to not long ago.

  —It’s good to see you again, said the therapist. I thought we could have a little chat, as we usually do.

  —As we usually do, said Irene.

  —Has it been raining here today?

  —I don’t know, said Irene. I haven’t been out.

  —It was raining when I drove here. I like rain.

  —I don’t like rain, said Irene. It can make you wet.

  —Would you like to lie down, as usual? Clara asked. Or would you prefer to sit?

  —I’d like to lie down. I usually lie down when we talk.

  —You can lie down now, then, said Clara. Do you need a blanket? Perhaps it’s a bit cold?

  —It’s not cold, said Irene.

  Münster pressed fast forward, then pressed play again.

  —Who is that? he heard the therapist ask.

  —I can’t really remember, said Irene.

  —But you know his name, do you?

  —I know his name, Irene confirmed.

  —What’s he called? asked Clara.

  —He’s called Willie.

  —And who’s Willie?

  —Willie is a boy in my class.

  —How old are you now, Irene?

  —I’m ten. I’ve got a blue dress, but it has a stain on it.

  —A stain? How did that happen?

  —I got a stain when I had ice cream, said Irene.

  —Was that today? Clara asked.

  —It was this afternoon. Not long ago.

  —Is it summer?

  —It’s been summer. It’s autumn now, school has started.

  —What class are you in?

  —I have started class four.

  —What’s your class mistress called?

  —I don’t have a class mistress. We have a man. He’s strict.

  —What’s he called?

  —He’s called Töffel.

  —And where are you just now?

  —Just now I’m in our room, of course. I’ve come home from school.

  —What are you doing?

  —Nothing.

  —What are you going to do?

  —I’ve got a stain on my dress, I’m going to the kitchen to wash it off.

  Münster switched off again. Looked at the stacks of cassettes on the shelf and rested his head on his right hand. What on earth am I doing? he thought.

  He wound fast forward, and listened for another minute. Irene was talking about the kind of paper she used to make covers for her school books, and what they’d had for school dinners.

  He rewound the cassette and put it back into the case. Leaned back on the chair and looked out of the window. He suddenly shuddered as it dawned on him that what he had just listened to was a conversation taking place – when exactly? At the very beginning of the 1960s, he guessed. It was recorded less than a year ago, but in fact Irene Leverkuhn had been a long way back in her childhood – somewhere in that drab little house in Pampas that he had been looking at only a few weeks ago. That was pretty remarkable, for goodness’ sake.

  He began to respect this therapist and what she was doing. He hadn’t managed to get a word of sense out of the woman who had sat at a desk painting, but here she was telling Clara Vermieten all kinds of things.

  I must reassess psychoanalysis, Münster thought. It’s high time.

  He looked at the clock and wondered how best to continue. Just listening to cassettes at random, one after the other, didn’t seem especially efficient, no matter how fascinating it might be. He stood up and examined the dates written on the cassette cases.

  The first one was recorded just over a year ago, it seemed. On 23/11 1996. He took down the stack furthest to the right, comprising only four cassettes. The bottom one was dated 16/10, the top one 30/10.

  He went back to the desk, picked up the telephone and after various complications had Hedda deBuuijs on the other end of the line.

  ‘Just a quick question,’ he said. ‘When did Clara Vermieten take maternity leave?’

  ‘Just a moment,’ said deBuuijs, and he could hear her leafing through some ledger or other.

  ‘The end of October,’ she said. ‘Yes, that’s when it was. She had a little girl about a week later.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Münster, and hung up.

  He removed the top cassette from the stack and took out the one dated 25/10. Saturday, the 25th of October. Went back to the desk chair, sat down and started listening.

  It took barely ten minutes before he got there, and while he was waiting he recalled something Van Veeteren had once said. At Adenaar’s, as usual: probably one Friday afternoon, when he usually liked to speculate a bit more than usual.

  ‘You’ve got to get to the right person,’ the chief inspector had asserted. ‘In every case there’s one person who knows the truth – and the frustrating thing is, Intendent, that they usually don’t realize it themselves. So we have to hunt them down. Search high and low for them, and keep persevering until we find them. That’s our job, Münster!’

  He recalled what Van Veeteren had said word for word. And now here he was, having found one of those people. One of those truths. If he had interpreted the evidence correctly, that is.

  —Where are you now? asked Clara.

  —I’m at home, said Irene.

  —Whereabouts at home?

  —I’m in my bed, said Irene.

  —You’re in your bed. In your room? Is it night?

  —It’s evening.

  —Are you alone?

  —Ruth is in her bed. It’s evening, but it’s late.

  —But you’re not asleep?

  —I’m not asleep, I’m waiting.

  —What are you waiting for?

  —I want it to go quickly.

  —What do you want to go quickly?

  —It must go quickly. Sometimes it goes quickly. It’s best then.

  —You’re waiting, you say?

  —It’s my turn tonight.

  —Is there someone special you’re waiting for?

  —His cock is so big. It’s enormous.

  —His cock?

  —It’s stiff and big. I can’t get it into my mouth.

  —Who are you waiting for?

  —It hurts, but I have to be quiet.

  —How old are you, Irene?

  —Ruth couldn’t keep quiet yesterday. He prefers me. He comes to me more often. It’s my turn this evening, he’ll be here soon.

  —Who’s coming?

  —I’ve rubbed that ointment into myself, so that it won’t hurt so much. I hope it will go quickly.

  —Where are you, Irene? How old are you?

  —I’m in bed. I’m trying to make my hole bigger so that there’s room for his cock. It’s so big, his cock. He’s so heavy, and his cock is so big. I have to keep quiet.

  —Why do you have to keep quiet?

  —I have to be quiet so that Mauritz doesn’t wake up. He’s coming now, I can hear him. I have to try to be bigger still.

  —Who’s coming? Who are you waiting for?

  —I can only get two fingers inside, I hope it goes quickly. His cock is terrible.

  —Who’s coming?

  —. . .

  —Irene, w
ho are you waiting for?

  —. . .

  —Who is it that has such a big cock?

  —. . .

  —Irene, tell me who’s coming.

  —It’s Dad. He’s here now.

  38

  Jung was standing by Bertrandgraacht, staring at Bonger’s boat for the hundred-and-nineteenth time.

  It lay there, dark and inscrutable – but all of a sudden he had the impression that it was smiling at him. A friendly and confidential smile, of the kind that even an old canal boat can summon up in gratitude for unexpected and undeserved attention being paid to it.

  What? You old boat bastard, Jung thought. Are you telling me it was as simple as that? Was that really what happened?

  But Bonger’s boat didn’t reply. Its telepathic powers evidently didn’t run to more than a discreet smile, so Jung turned his back on it and left. He pulled down his cap and dug his hands deeper into his coat pockets; a biting wind had blown up from the north-west, putting an end to the fraternization.

  ‘I’ve had an idea,’ he said when he bumped into Rooth in the canteen not long afterwards.

  ‘I’ve had a thousand,’ said Rooth. ‘But none of them work.’

  ‘I know,’ said Jung. ‘Red-headed dwarfs and all that.’

  ‘I’ve dropped that one,’ said Rooth. ‘Nine hundred and ninety-nine, then. What are you trying to say.’

  ‘Bonger,’ said Jung. ‘I think I know where he is.’

  Münster remained in the room with the cassette player for a quarter of an hour after switching it off. Stared out of the window at the deserted grounds again while the jigsaw pieces inside his mind joined together, one after another. Before he stood up he tried to ring Synn, but she wasn’t at home. Of course not. He let it ring ten or so times, hoping that the answering machine would kick in, but evidently she had switched it off.

  ‘I love you, Synn,’ he whispered even so into the dead receiver; then he went back to Hedda deBuuijs’s office.

  She was dealing with a visitor, and he had to wait for another ten minutes.

  ‘How did it go?’ she asked when Münster eventually sat down on her visitor chair.

  For one confused second he didn’t know what to say. How had it gone?

  Well? Exceedingly well? A disaster?

  ‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘I discovered quite a bit. But there are a few things I need some help with.’

  ‘I’m at your service,’ said Hedda deBuuijs.

  ‘Clara Vermieten,’ said Münster. ‘I need to speak to her. A telephone call would do.’

  ‘Let’s see,’ said deBuuijs, leafing through a couple of lists. ‘Yes, here we are. There’s something I need to follow up, so you can talk undisturbed. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.’

  She left the room. Münster dialled the number, and as he waited he worried that Clara Vermieten might have gone away on an open-ended visit. To Tahiti or Bangkok. Or the north of Norway. That would be typical.

  But when she answered he immediately recognized her silky voice and her slight Nordic accent from the tape. It took a few moments for her to realize who he was, but then she recalled having given him permission to listen to the cassette recordings, via Hedda deBuuijs.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘I’m being pestered by a couple of little kids. They tend to wear you down.’

  ‘I know how it is,’ said Münster.

  He only had two questions in fact, and as he could hear the whining and whimpering quite clearly in the background, he came straight to the point.

  ‘Do you know about the murders of Waldemar Leverkuhn and Else Van Eck down in Maardam?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’ said Clara. ‘No, I don’t think so . . . Maardam, did you say? There are so many . . . What was the name again?’

  ‘Leverkuhn,’ said Münster.

  ‘Good Lord!’ said Clara. ‘Is it . . .?

  ‘Her father,’ said Münster.

  Silence.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ said Clara after a while. ‘I don’t know . . . When did it happen?’

  ‘October,’ said Münster. ‘The same week as you had your last conversation with Irene, in fact.’

  ‘I was in the maternity ward from the second of November,’ said Clara. ‘Gave birth on the fifth. Good Lord, does she know about it? No, of course she doesn’t. Have you met her?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Münster. ‘And I’ve listened to the tapes. Several of them. Towards the end.’

  Clara said nothing for a while again.

  ‘I understand,’ she said eventually. ‘What you must have heard. But I don’t really understand why it should be of any interest to you. Surely you don’t mean it could have something to do with what happened? With the goings-on in Maardam? Did you say murder?’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Münster. ‘It’s all very complicated. We won’t go into that now, but I’d like to ask you something that’s very important for our investigation. I hope you can make a correct judgement – but I’m sure you can,’ he added. ‘I must say I have the deepest respect for what you have managed to achieve with Irene Leverkuhn.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Clara.

  ‘Anyway,’ said Münster. ‘What I’m wondering is whether she – Irene, that is – can remain in that state . . . in those childhood experiences . . . even after you’ve concluded your conversation. Or do you have to return her to the present every time, as it were?’

  A few seconds passed.

  ‘Do you understand what I’m getting at?’ Münster asked.

  ‘Of course,’ said Clara. ‘I was just thinking . . . Yes, she could well recall it, what we were talking about. For a while, at least . . . If somebody were to strike the right chord, so to speak.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘As sure as one can be. The soul isn’t a machine.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Münster. ‘I now know what I need to know. But I’d like to talk to you again at some point, if that’s possible.’

  He could hear her smiling as she replied.

  ‘You’ve got my number, Inspector. I have a brother in Maardam, incidentally.’

  ‘There’s just one detail left now,’ said Münster when deBuuijs returned. ‘You said that you keep a record of all visits received by the patients in this home. Could you please give me access to that information? I know I’m being a nuisance, but I promise to leave you in peace after this.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Hedda deBuuijs with her usual enthusiasm. ‘Would you like to follow me?’

  They went into the reception area, where deBuuijs knocked on a little glass window. Before long she was handed two red ring binders which she passed on to the inspector.

  ‘Last year,’ she said. ‘If you need to go further back than that just knock on the glass window and tell one of the girls. There’s something I must see to now, if you’ll excuse me.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Münster ‘These two will be fine. You have been very hospitable and of great help.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Hedda deBuuijs, leaving him again.

  Münster sat down at a table and started thumbing through them.

  Now, he thought. Now we shall see if everything falls into place. Or if it falls apart.

  Five minutes later he knocked on the window and returned the files.

  If somebody were to strike the right chord? he thought as he drove out of the car park. That’s what Clara Vermieten had said. It couldn’t be put any better.

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’ said Reinhart.

  ‘Don’t bother trying to comprehend what you don’t understand anyway,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Tell me the situation instead!’

  ‘We’re nearly there,’ said Reinhart.

  ‘There?’

  ‘Listen carefully, my dear ex-chief inspector,’ said Reinhart. ‘Münster is up north, and things are going according to plan, if not better. I spoke to him on the phone half an hour ago, and he’d unearthed evidence that points clearly in a certain direction.’

&
nbsp; ‘Go on,’ said Van Veeteren.

  Reinhart sighed and explained patiently what had happened for another two or three minutes until Van Veeteren interrupted him.

  ‘All right, that’s enough,’ he said. ‘We’ll drive there. You can tell me the rest in the car.’

  ‘Drive there? What the hell . . .?’ exclaimed Reinhart, but as he did so a warning light started blinking somewhere at the back of his mind. He thought for a moment. If there was a rule he had discovered that was worth following during the chief inspector’s time – just one single rule – it was this one.

  Never ask questions when Van Veeteren makes a sudden and apparently incomprehensible decision.

  Reinhart had done that a few times. At first. Queried the decision. He had always been proved wrong.

  ‘You can pick me up outside Adenaar’s five minutes from now,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘No, four minutes. Are you with me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Reinhart sighed. ‘I’m with you.’

  When Münster had finished his dinner at a Chinese restaurant, he sensed once again how tired he was. He drank his usual two cups of strong black coffee as an antidote, and wondered how many years it would be before he had stomach ulcers. Five? Two?

  Then he settled up, and tried to concentrate on work again.

  On the case. The last act was looming now. About time too: he made a mental note to the effect that he would go to Hiller and demand a week off as soon as it was all over. Or on Monday. Two weeks, come to that.

  Then he phoned Maardam from the car, to put them in the picture. He spent ten minutes relating the latest developments to Heinemann, the only person available. Heinemann concluded by urging him to be extremely careful, in his usual long-winded style.

  When he had finished with Heinemann, Münster informed the local police authorities. Spoke to Inspector Malinowski, who had some difficulty in catching on at first: but he eventually seemed to have grasped the situation. He promised that everything would be on stand-by by the time he heard again from Intendent Müssner.