The Unlucky Lottery (29 page)

‘Eighty-six out of a hundred,’ he said.

‘Eighty-six?’ said Reinhart.

‘I rounded it off,’ said Mulder.

‘Wrapping paper,’ commented Reinhart later in the car, as he gave Moreno a lift home. ‘Just like at the butcher’s.’

‘But surely they don’t wrap meat up in newspaper?’ said Moreno. ‘I’ve never come across that.’

‘They used to,’ said Reinhart. ‘You’re too young, you’re just a little girl.’

I’m glad there are some people who still think that, Moreno thought as she thanked him for the lift.

He had to ring the bell three times before Mauritz Leverkuhn opened the door.

‘Good afternoon,’ said Münster. ‘It’s me again.’

Presumably it took Mauritz a few seconds to remember who the visitor was, and perhaps it was that short space of time that put him out of step somewhat from the very start.

Or perhaps it was his illness. In any case, when it had registered with him that it was the police again he didn’t react with his usual aggression. He simply stared at Münster with
vacant, feverish eyes, shrugged his coat-hanger shoulders and beckoned him in.

Münster hung up his jacket on a hook in the hall and followed him into the living room. Noted that it looked bare. It seemed temporary. A sofa and two easy chairs round a low pine table. A
teak-veneered bookcase with a total of four books, half a metre of videotapes and a collection of various ornaments. A television set and a music centre in black plastic. On the table was a girlie
magazine and a few advertising leaflets, and the two-metre-long windowsill was livened up by a cactus five centimetres high, and a porcelain money-box in the shape of a naked woman.

‘Do you live here alone?’ Münster asked.

Mauritz had flopped down into one of the easy chairs. Despite the fact that he was obviously still unwell, he was fully dressed. White shirt and neatly pressed blue trousers. Well-worn slippers.
He hesitated before answering, as if he still hadn’t made up his mind what attitude to adopt.

‘I’ve only been living here for six months,’ he said in the end. ‘We split up.’

‘Were you married?’

Mauritz shook his head with some difficulty and took a drink from the glass in front of him on the table. Something white and fizzy: Münster assumed it was some kind of vitamin drink, or
something to reduce his temperature.

‘No, we just lived together. But it didn’t last.’

‘It’s not easy,’ said Münster. ‘So you’re on your own now?’

‘Yes,’ said Mauritz. ‘But I’m used to that. What do you want?’

Münster took his notebook out of his briefcase. It wasn’t necessary to sit taking notes in a situation like this, of course, but it was a habit, and he knew that it gave a sort of
stability. And above all: an opportunity to think things over while he pretended to be reading or writing something.

‘We have a bit of new evidence,’ he said.

‘Really?’ said Mauritz.

‘It could well be that your mother is innocent, in fact.’

‘Innocent?’

There was nothing forced about the way he pronounced that one word. Nothing, at least, that Münster could detect. Just the natural degree of surprise and doubt that one might have
expected.

‘Yes, we think she might have confessed in order to protect somebody.’

‘Protect somebody?’ said Mauritz. ‘Who?’

‘We don’t know,’ said Münster. ‘Have you any suggestions?’

Mauritz wiped his brow with his shirt sleeve.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Why should she do anything like that? I don’t understand this.’

‘If this really is the case,’ said Münster, ‘she must have known who actually killed your father, and that must have been somebody close to her, in one way or
another.’

‘You don’t say?’ said Mauritz.

‘Can you think of anybody who would fit the bill?’

Mauritz coughed for a few seconds, his flabby body making the chair shake.

‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at. She didn’t have much of a social life, as you know . . . No, I can’t believe this.
Why should she do that?’

‘We’re far from sure,’ said Münster.

‘What’s the new evidence you referred to? That would suggest this interpretation?’

Münster studied his notebook for a few seconds before replying.

‘I can’t go into that, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘But there are a few other things I’d like to talk to you about.’

Excessively phlegmatic, he thought. Is it the flu, or is that his normal state? Or is he putting on a show?

‘What other things?’

‘Your sister, for instance,’ said Münster. ‘Irene.’

Mauritz put down his glass with an unintentional clang.

‘What do you mean?’ he said – and now, at last, there was a trace of irritation in his voice.

‘They’ve sent us a letter from the home where she lives.’

That was a bare-faced lie, but it was the line he’d decided to take. Sometimes it was necessary to take a shortcut. He was reminded of a wise Persian saying he’d picked up somewhere:
A good lie travels from Baghdad to Damascus while the truth is looking for its sandals
.

Not a bad truth to bear in mind, Münster thought. With regard to short-term decisions, at least.

‘You have no right to drag her into this business,’ said Mauritz.

‘Does she know what’s happened?’ Münster asked.

Mauritz shrugged, and his aggression crumbled away.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But you must leave her in peace.’

‘We’ve received a letter,’ Münster repeated.

‘I don’t understand why they should want to write to you. What do they say?’

Münster ignored the question.

‘Do you have much contact with her?’ he asked instead.

‘You can’t come into contact with Irene,’ said Mauritz. ‘She’s ill. Very ill.’

‘We’ve gathered that,’ said Münster. ‘But that wouldn’t prevent you from visiting her now and again, surely.’

Mauritz hesitated for a few seconds, and took a drink from his glass.

‘I don’t want to see her. Not the way she’s become.’

‘Wasn’t she your favourite sister in the old days?’

‘That’s nothing to do with you,’ he said, and the irritation was returning. Münster decided to back off.

‘I apologize,’ he said. ‘I realize that this must be difficult for you. It’s not a lot of fun having to sit here and ask you such questions either. But that’s my
job.’

No answer.

‘When did you last visit her?’

Mauritz seemed to be considering whether or not to refuse to make any comment. He wiped his brow again and looked wearily at Münster.

‘I’m running a temperature,’ he said.

‘I know,’ said Münster.

‘I haven’t been there for a year.’

Münster made a note and thought that over.

‘Not for a year?’

‘No.’

‘Did your parents use to visit her?’

‘My mother did, I think.’

‘Your other sister, Ruth?’

‘I don’t know.’

Münster paused and studied the pale grey walls.

‘When did you split up from that woman?’ he asked eventually.

‘What?’ said Mauritz.

‘That woman you used to live with. When did she move out?’

‘I don’t understand what that has to do with it.’

‘But would you kindly answer the question even so,’ said Münster.

Mauritz closed his eyes and breathed heavily.

‘Joanna,’ he said, and opened his eyes. ‘She left me in October. She’d only been living here for a couple of weeks. We fell out, as I said.’

October, Münster thought. Everything happens in October.

‘These things happen,’ he said.

‘Yes, they do,’ said Mauritz. ‘I’m tired. I must take a pill and go to bed.’

He sneezed twice, as if to stress the point. Fished out a crumpled handkerchief and blew his nose. Münster waited.

‘I understand that you’re not in good shape,’ he said. ‘I’ll soon be leaving you in peace. But do you remember the de Grooit family or Lene Bauer?’

‘Who?’

‘Lene. She was called Gruijtsen in those days. You sometimes went on holiday together. In the sixties.’

‘Ah, Lene! Good Lord, I was only a kid then. She spent most of the time with Ruth.’

‘And that episode in the shed – no doubt you remember that?’

‘What bloody shed?’ asked Mauritz Leverkuhn.

‘When you hid there instead of going to school.’

Mauritz took two deep, wheezing breaths.

‘I haven’t a clue what you’re on about,’ he said. ‘Not a bloody clue.’

Münster checked into a hotel down by the harbour which seemed about as run-down as he felt. Showered, then dined in the restaurant in the company of two decrepit old
ladies and a few members of a handball team from Oslo. Then he returned to his room and made two phone calls.

The first was to Synn and Marieke (Bart was not at home, as it was a Wednesday and hence film club at school). Marieke was being visited by a girlfriend who would be sleeping over, and hence
only had time to ask him what time he’d be coming home. He spoke to his wife for one and a half minutes.

Then Moreno. It lasted nearly half an hour, and of course that said quite a lot in itself. She informed him about the new plastic carrier bag in Weyler’s Woods, and the ongoing
investigation into the scrap of newspaper; but most of the time they talked about other things.

Afterwards he couldn’t really remember what. He spent an hour watching three different films on the television, then showered again and went to bed. It was only eleven o’clock, but
he was still awake when the clocks struck two.

Thursday, 8 January was a comparatively fine day in Maardam. No sun, certainly, but on the other hand no rain – apart from a couple of hesitant drops just before dawn.
And a good five degrees above freezing.

Quite bearable, in other words; and there was also a feeling of cautious optimism and a belief in the future about continued efforts to throw light on the Leverkuhn case.

The Leverkuhn–Van Eck–Bonger case.

Reports from the Forensic Chemistry Lab were arriving in quick succession, but today both Reinhart and Rooth were content to follow developments by telephone. They didn’t want to suck up
too much to Intendent Mulder after all, and they did have other business to attend to . . .

The first message arrived at ten o’clock. New analyses of the typeface and paper showed that in all probability the Van Eck strip of paper had come from one of two publications.

Finanzpoost
or
Breuwerblatt
.

It took Ewa Moreno five seconds to hit upon the possible link with the Leverkuhns.

Pixner’s. Waldemar Leverkuhn had worked – for how long was it? Ten years? – at the Pixner Brewery, and the
Breuwerblatt
must surely be a magazine for people connected
with the beer industry. There was no reason to assume that a subscription would cease when a worker retired.

‘Leverkuhn,’ said Moreno when she, Reinhart, Rooth and Jung gathered for a run-through in Reinhart’s office. ‘It comes from the Leverkuhns, I’d bet my reputation on
it!’

‘Steady on,’ said Reinhart, enveloping her in a cloud of tobacco smoke. ‘We mustn’t jump to conclusions, as they say in Hollywood.’

‘Your reputation?’ said Jung.

‘Metaphorically speaking,’ said Moreno.

After a few productive telephone calls they had discovered all they needed to know about both magazines.
Finanzpoost
was very much a business publication with financial analyses, stock
exchange reports, tax advice and speculation tips. Circulation 125,000. Came out once a week, and was sold to subscribers and also over the counter. Number of subscribers in Maardam: over
10,000.

‘Bloody bourgeois rag,’ said Reinhart.

‘For the bastards who decide the fate of the world,’ said Rooth.

Breuwerblatt
was rather a different kettle of fish. It was published only four times a year, and was a sort of trade journal for brewery workers in the whole country. Print run last year:
16,500. No over-the-counter sales. Distribution in Maardam: 1,260. One of the subscribers was Waldemar Leverkuhn.

‘One thousand two hundred and sixty!’ exclaimed Rooth. ‘How the hell can there be so many brewery workers in Maardam?’

‘How many beers do you drink a week?’ wondered Jung.

‘Ah, well, yes, if you look at it like that, of course,’ said Rooth.

It was agreed unanimously to put the bankers on the shelf for now, and concentrate instead on the much more respectable producers of beer; but before they could even start there was a knock on
the door and an overweight linguist by the name of Winckelhübe – a specialist in semiotics and text analysis – entered the room. Reinhart recalled contacting Maardam University the
previous evening, and welcomed Winckelhübe somewhat reluctantly. He explained the situation in broad outline, gave him a photocopy of the magazine extract, a room to himself, and a request to
deliver a report as soon as he thought he had anything useful to say.

While Reinhart was busy doing this, Moreno contacted the editorial office of
Breuwerblatt
, which luckily was located in nearby Löhr, and after a typically efficient visit by young
Krause, half an hour later they had two copies of each of the last three years’ issues lying on the table.

‘Good God!’ said Rooth. ‘This is going like clockwork. We’ve barely got time to eat.’

And it was Rooth who found the right page.

‘Here we are!’ he yelled. ‘Three bloody cheers!’

‘Altho’ a poor blind boy . . .’ said Reinhart. He went over to Rooth to check.

No doubt about it. The little strip of paper sticking out of Else Van Eck’s bottom in Weyler’s Woods came from the September issue of the previous year’s
Breuwerblatt
.
Pages eleven and twelve. At the top on the left – a two-column announcement about a working environment conference in Oostwerdingen. The picture on the reverse side was part of a table and a
suit belonging to the county governor who was officially opening a new brewery in Aarlach.

‘This is pretty clear,’ said Reinhart.

‘Crystal clear,’ said Moreno.

‘It’s obvious he has cirrhosis of the liver,’ said Rooth, examining the governor close up.