The Unlucky Lottery (15 page)

‘No bag,’ he said. ‘Both the suitcase and the shopping bag are in the wardrobe as usual. And she hasn’t been down into the storeroom in the basement. And what’s
more, I know she came back home after doing her shopping – she has put things into the fridge and the larder. Milk and potatoes and a few tins of stuff. And other odds and ends.
Diegermann’s caviar for instance – we always buy that, the unsmoked variety. With dill.’

‘It’s pretty good,’ said Münster.

‘Have you mentioned this to any of the neighbours?’ Moreno asked.

‘No,’ said Van Eck, squirming in his chair.

‘Any acquaintances?’

‘No. I don’t want this to come out, I mean, if it’s nothing important . . . I mean . . .’

He said nothing more. Münster and Moreno exchanged glances, and she was evidently on the same wavelength – she gestured with her head, then nodded. Münster cleared his
throat.

‘Well, herr Van Eck,’ he said. ‘I think it would be best if you came to the police station with us. We can go through it all properly, and write a report.’

Van Eck took a deep breath.

‘I agree,’ he said, and it was obvious that he was not in complete control of his voice. ‘Can I go to the bathroom first? My stomach’s a bit upset, thanks to all
this.’

‘Please do,’ said Moreno.

While they were waiting they took the opportunity of looking round the cramped two-roomed flat. It contained nothing that surprised them. A bedroom with an old-fashioned double
bed with a teak headboard, and net curtains in light blue and white. Living room with television set, glass-fronted display cupboard and a drab three-piece suite in hard-wearing polyester. No books
apart from a reference work in ten bright red volumes – but lots of magazines and a mass of landscape reproductions on the walls, and hand-painted porcelain vases on bureaux and tables. The
kitchen where they had been sitting was barely big enough for three people: refrigerator, cooker and sink from the late fifties, by the looks of it, and the potted plants on the windowsills seemed
to have grown and multiplied of their own accord. The artificial flower on the table looked much more natural. All the floors were covered in carpets of different styles, colours and qualities, and
the only thing that Münster could possibly interpret as an expression of personal taste was a stuffed giraffe’s head over the hat shelf in the hall – but that was probably because
he had never seen a detached giraffe’s head before.

Moreno shrugged, with a sigh of resignation, and they went back to the kitchen.

‘What about the neighbours?’ she said. ‘Should I stay here and listen to whatever they have to say? I suppose it would be helpful if we could establish when she was last
seen.’

Münster nodded.

‘Yes, good thinking,’ he said. ‘Shall I send Krause or somebody to help?’

‘In an hour from now,’ said Moreno. ‘Then at least I won’t need to walk back to the station.’

She checked her watch. Van Eck’s stomach was evidently taking its time.

‘What do you think?’ she said. ‘I must say I haven’t a clue. Why on earth should this woman go and disappear?’

‘Search me,’ said Münster. ‘It must mean something, of course, and I have the feeling we need to take it seriously. Even if it all seems like a farce.’

He leaned back on his chair and looked out of the window. The melancholy weather was persisting. Heavy clouds were scudding in from the sea, and the pane was dappled in damp and fuzzy, even
though it wasn’t actually raining.

Gloom, Münster thought. Who would not want to vanish in weather like this?

There was the sound of the lavatory flushing. Van Eck came out.

‘I’ve finished,’ he said, as if he were a three-year-old at a potty-training camp.

‘Okay, then let’s go,’ said Münster. ‘Inspector Moreno will stay behind and investigate a few things.’

Van Eck’s lower lip started trembling, and Moreno tapped him cautiously on the shoulder.

‘This will sort itself out, don’t worry,’ she said. ‘There’s bound to be a perfectly natural explanation.’

Presumably, Münster thought. So much seems to be natural nowadays.

Inspector Moreno checked out of Hotel Bender at about four o’clock on Thursday afternoon. The nose-ringed receptionist tried to make her pay for a second night, since she
had occupied the room after twelve noon, but she refused. For the first time for ages (or maybe the first time ever? she asked herself) she chose to use her work status for her personal gain.

As it was only a matter of 140 euros, perhaps she could be excused.

‘I’m a detective inspector,’ she explained. ‘We needed the room in order to keep an eye on a certain transaction taking place in this hotel. That mission is now
completed. Unless you want your name mentioned in less than flattering circumstances, I suggest you debit me for one night and no more.’

The young man, as thin as a rake, thought for a couple of seconds.

‘I understand,’ he said. ‘Let’s say just the one night, then.’

There was no Claus sitting outside her door when she got home, but she phoned him as soon as she had downed half a glass of wine.

She explained, without beating about the bush, or becoming emotional, that she had a demand to make. An ultimatum, if he liked. If there was going to be any possibility of repairing the
relationship they used to have – and even as she spoke those words she understood that by doing so she was giving him false hope – she demanded two weeks without being disturbed.

No telephone calls, no greetings. No damned roses.

Two whole weeks. Fourteen days from today. Did he agree?

He did, he announced, after what seemed rather too long a silence. But only if he really could count on their meeting and discussing things properly once that time had run out. And neither of
them would initiate anything else during those two weeks.

Initiate? Moreno thought. Anything else . . .?

She agreed to the discussion demand, and avoided the other by making no comment and hanging up.

Then she drank the remaining half-glass of wine. So there, she thought. I’ve delayed his execution by two weeks. Cowardly. But it feels good.

She curled up in a corner of the sofa with another glass of wine and the notes she had made at Kolderweg. Adjusted the cushions and switched on the reading lamp: the light it produced was so
restricted that it almost felt like sitting inside a one-man tent, a tiny bright cone in the darkness where she could hide herself away, cut off from all the surroundings that she would rather
forget. Men, darkness and so on.

At last, she thought. Time to concentrate on the case, and pay no attention to herself or the world around her.

Especially herself.

She had written down the tenants in Kolderweg 17 on the first page of her notebook. From the top down:

The facts were first and foremost that Waldemar Leverkuhn was dead. She crossed his name out and continued.

Marie-Louise Leverkuhn? What was there to say about the widow?

Not a lot. She had returned from the charity shop soon after noon. Moreno had a short conversation with her, but in view of what the poor woman had already been through in terms of traumatic
experiences and rigorous interviews, she restricted herself to what was absolutely necessary. Fru Leverkuhn said she had drunk coffee with Else Van Eck in the latter’s flat on Tuesday
afternoon, had then bumped into her on the stairs the following morning (when she was on her way to the police station to talk to Intendent Münster), but apart from that, she claimed, she had
neither seen nor heard anything of the caretaker’s wife.

Moreno wrote a tick after Marie-Louise Leverkuhn. And a question mark after Else Van Eck.

Herr Van Eck had returned from the police station at about half past one in a rather pathetic state, and Moreno ticked him as well.

That left the athletic lovers Menakdise and de Booning on the first floor, and herr Engel and fröken Mathisen on the second. Viewed dispassionately these four were not yet involved in the
case. Neutral observers (question mark again) and possible witnesses.

She had started with the young couple.

Or rather, with Filippa de Booning, as Tobose Menakdise was studying medicine and had lectures all day. However, fröken de Booning promised to ask him when he came home if he had seen or
heard anything in connection with the caretaker’s wife that could throw some light on her disappearance. She herself had nothing to contribute. She had been at home most of Wednesday,
revising for an imminent exam on cultural anthropology, but she hadn’t seen any sign of fru Van Eck at all.

‘Thank goodness,’ she added, then bit her tongue. ‘Oh, sorry about that, but she always pays us special attention. I take it you know why?’

Moreno smiled and nodded. She felt a sudden shooting pain in her inside thigh as she momentarily envisaged the red-headed and very white-skinned Filippa in her sexual wrestling match with her
Tobose who – if the framed photograph in the hall was to be believed – was blacker than the blackest black.

You two are still alive, she thought. Congratulations.

Ruben Engel had had just as little to contribute – even less if you took the shooting pain into consideration. He had felt out of sorts and spent the whole of Wednesday in bed, he
explained. Not least the evening. Moreno looked around, and drew the provisional conclusion that it might have been due to his taking the wrong medication. If you didn’t feel too well in the
morning, it presumably didn’t help if you then proceeded to swig glass after glass of claret, beer and mulled wine for the rest of the day. Engel also seemed to be very upset about what was
going on elsewhere in the building, she noted, and she had difficulty in ignoring his moaning and groaning about law and order and moral decadence. But there were obvious elements of the dirty old
man in his outpourings: there was little doubt that he did his best to drag out her visit for as long as possible. She declined his offer of coffee, mulled wine and gin, and eventually managed to
extricate herself by half-promising to keep him informed about how the case was developing. In person.

What an unpleasant old fart, she thought when she finally succeeded in leaving his flat.

But then, she told herself after a few seconds, it can’t be all that much fun being old, lonely and smelly.

No fun at all, presumably.

The only possible gleam of light came from fröken Mathisen, who Moreno thought seemed very reminiscent in appearance of a cream puff pastry. Big, spongy and rather delicious. What Mathisen
had to say was perhaps nothing to write home about, but what she was quite clear over was that she had gone out at around seven o’clock on Wednesday evening – a few minutes past, if she
remembered rightly – and that she was pretty sure that she had heard noises coming from the caretaker’s flat as she walked past the door. She couldn’t be more precise about what
sort of sounds they were, apart from being sure that it seemed as if somebody was busy doing something in the hall – a somebody who must have been fru Van Eck, seeing as her husband was over
at Riitmeeterska, painting designs onto porcelain ornaments.

Moreno read through her notes on this conversation as well, and ticked it off together with the remaining names – de Booning, Engel and Mathisen.

There was not much more to add. Krause had come to relieve her at about noon, and spent the afternoon interrogating the neighbours. That was not too complicated as fru Van Eck had been a
well-known figure in the locality.

Sure enough, she had been to three of the shops in Kolderplejn, had left the last of them at about a quarter to six and been seen by at least two witnesses walking back home. So it was not
difficult to make a timetable for what seemed to be the crucial part of Wednesday evening:

It could possibly be added that none of Krause’s many witnesses had seen the very substantial caretaker’s wife after six p.m.

Moreno contemplated her summary. Brilliant detective work! she concluded, and closed her notebook.

Münster and Jung took it in turns with Arnold Van Eck.

Bearing in mind developments at Kolderweg, Hiller had agreed to release both Rooth and Jung and transfer them to the Leverkuhn case, in so far as Münster needed them. The serial rapist in
Linzhuisen had been lying low for over two months, and that investigation had come to a standstill.

Despite persistent efforts, mainly by Jung – there was something about Arnold Van Eck’s character that made Münster reluctant to interrogate him and even made him angry (perhaps
it was that image of the run-over kitten spooking him again) – they did not succeed in extracting much information over and above what had emerged during the conversation at the kitchen
table. Their picture of the somewhat peculiar and childless marriage became a little clearer, but on the whole no progress was made regarding the actual disappearance of the wife. No matter how
hard Jung tried to penetrate the relationship and the shared lives of the couple, Van Eck was unable to produce even a hint of an explanation as to why his wife would have left him voluntarily.

If she had done so thirty or forty years ago, it would of course have been the most natural thing in the world – even Van Eck himself could see that. But now – why leave him now?