The Unlucky Lottery (31 page)

‘What?’ said Jung.

‘Why?’ said Moreno.

‘Why what?’

‘Yes. Why on earth would she want to kill Else Van Eck as well?’

Jung thought for three seconds.

‘Where do you think she did it?’ he said. ‘The butchery, I mean. If we ignore why for the moment.’

Moreno shook her head.

‘How should I know? The bathtub, perhaps. Yes, she hit and killed her with a frying pan, then butchered her in the bathroom – that sounds about right, don’t you think?
That’s what I’d do. Afterwards you only need to rinse everything down, maybe a bit of soap or scrubbing powder. But why? Tell me why! We can’t just ignore the cause, there must be
a reason.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Jung. ‘I’m just one of the blind boys.’

At a quarter to two – that same rain-free January day – there was a discreet knock on the door of Intendent Reinhart’s room.

‘Come in,’ said Reinhart.

The door opened slowly, and Winckelhübe the linguist popped his head round it.

‘Ah, yes,’ said Reinhart, looking up from his pile of papers.

‘Well, I’ve made a little analysis,’ said Winckelhübe, scratching his stomach. ‘I’m not a hundred per cent certain, but I’m prepared to bet on it being
about seals. The text, that is.’

‘Seals?’ said Reinhart.

‘Yes, seals,’ said Winckelhübe.

‘Hmm,’ said Reinhart. ‘Bang on. That’s exactly what we suspected. Thank you very much. Send your invoice to the police authorities.’

Winckelhübe remained standing there, looking slightly confused.

‘Would you like a lollipop as well?’ asked Reinhart. ‘I’m afraid we’ve run out.’

It was obvious that the therapist Clara Vermieten treated several of the patients at the Gellner Home. In the bookcase of the cramped office deBuuijs showed Münster into,
four of the shelves were marked with initials. It said I.L. on the top shelf, where there were several cassettes, neatly sorted into stacks of ten. Münster counted sixty-five of them. The
shelves lower down contained significantly fewer.

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, who 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.

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?’