The Unlucky Lottery (8 page)

‘Immigrants,’ she said curtly, and washed down the biscuits with a swig of coffee. Slammed her cup down with a bang. ‘Yes, if you take my advice you’ll start
interrogating the immigrants.’

‘Why?’ asked Rooth.

‘For Christ’s sake, don’t you see? It’s sheer madness! Or it could be some young gangsters. Yes, that’s where you’ll find your murderer. Take your pick,
it’s up to you.’

Rooth thought for a while.

‘Do you have any children yourselves?’ he asked.

‘Of course we bloody well don’t,’ said fru Van Eck, starting to look threatening again.

Good, Rooth thought. Genetic self-cleansing.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I won’t disturb you any longer.’

Mussolini was lying on his back on the radiator, snoring.

Rooth had never seen a bigger cat, and purposely sat as far away on the sofa as possible.

‘I’ve spoken to the Van Ecks,’ he said.

Leonore Mathisen smiled.

‘You mean you’ve spoken to fru Van Eck, I take it?’

‘Hm,’ said Rooth. ‘Perhaps that
is
what I mean. Anyway, we need to clarify a few things. To ask if you’ve remembered anything else about the night of the murder,
for instance, now that a little time has passed.’

‘I understand.’

‘One thing that puzzles us is the fact that nobody heard anything. For example, you, fröken Mathisen, have your bedroom almost directly above the Leverkuhns’, but you fell
asleep at . . .’

He rummaged through his notebook and pretended to be looking for the time.

‘Half past twelve, roughly.’

‘That’s right,’ he confirmed. In fact Leonore Mathisen was not much smaller than fru Van Eck, but the raw material seemed to be completely different. Like a . . . a bit like a
currant bush as opposed to a block of granite. To take the comparison further, the bush was wearing cheerful home-dyed clothes in red, yellow and violet, and an intertwined hair ribbon in the same
colours. The block of granite had been greyish brown all over and at least a quarter of a century older.

‘I heard when he came home, as I said. Shortly before midnight, I think. Then I switched on the clock radio and listened to music until . . . well, I suppose I dozed off after about half
an hour.’

‘Was he alone when he came in?’ Rooth asked.

She shrugged.

‘No idea. I’m not even sure it was him. I just heard somebody coming up the stairs, and a door opening and closing. But it was their door, of course – I’m sure about
that.’

‘No voices?’

‘No.’

Rooth turned over a page of his notebook.

‘What was he like?’ he asked. ‘Leverkuhn, I mean.’

She started fiddling with one of the thin wooden beads she was wearing in clusters around her neck while weighing her words.

‘Hmm, I don’t really know,’ she said. ‘Very courteous, I’d say. He was always friendly and acknowledged me; rather dapper and correct; occasionally drank one glass
too many when he was out with his old mates – but never drank so much that he became unpleasant with it. I suppose I only saw him when he was on his way in and out, come to think about
it.’

‘How long have you been living here?’

She counted up.

‘Eleven years,’ she said. ‘I suppose the Leverkuhns have been living here twice as long as that.’

‘What about his relationship with his wife?’

She shrugged again.

‘As it usually is, I suppose. Old people who’ve been living together all their lives . . . She tended to wear the trousers, but my dad had a much rougher time.’ She laughed.
‘Are you married, Inspector?’

‘No,’ Rooth admitted. ‘I’m single.’

She suddenly burst out laughing. Her heavy breasts bobbed up and down, and Mussolini woke up with a start. It struck Rooth that he had never made love to a woman as big as she was, and for a few
moments – while her salvo of laughter ebbed away and Mussolini slunk away in the direction of the hall – he sat there trying to imagine what it would be like.

Then he returned to the job in hand.

‘Did they have much of a social life?’ he asked.

She shook her head.

‘Frequent visitors?’

‘No, hardly ever. Not that I noticed, in any case. They live directly below this floor, and I have to say that for the most part it’s as quiet as the grave, even when they’re
both at home. The only sounds you ever hear in this building come from the young couple, who live—’

‘I know,’ said Rooth quickly. ‘And they were at it as usual that night, were they?’

‘Yes, they were at it as usual that night,’ she repeated, stroking her index finger along her bare lower arm, deep in thought.

Then she smiled, revealing twenty-four perfect teeth. At least.

My God, Rooth thought, feeling himself blush. She wants me. Now. I’d better do a runner before I take the bait!

He stood up, thanked her and took the same route as Mussolini.

The screwing machines – Tobose Menakdise and Filippa de Booning, according to the handwritten note taped above the letter box – didn’t answer when he rang
their doorbell, and when he pressed his ear against the wooden door he couldn’t hear the faintest sound from inside the flat. He concluded that they were not at home, and wrote a question
mark in his notebook. Went back upstairs to the second floor instead, to talk to herr Engel.

Ruben Engel was about sixty-five, and his dominant feature was a large, fleshy, red nose so striking that in profile he reminded Rooth of the parrot he’d had as a textile portrait over his
bed when he was a young boy. He was not sure whether the appearance – Engel’s, not the parrot’s – was due to an excessive intake of alcohol, or whether there was some other
medical cause, but in any case, he was promptly invited to sit down at the kitchen table and partake of a drop or two of mulled wine.

It was so damned cold in the flat, Engel explained, that he always began the day with one or two warm drinks.

In order to keep healthy, of course.

The place looked reasonably clean and tidy, Rooth thought benevolently. More or less like his own flat. Only a few days’ dirty dishes, a few weeks’ newspapers, and a layer of dust
about a month thick on the windowsills and television set.

‘Anyway, I’m here in connection with herr Leverkuhn, of course,’ he began, and took a swig of the steaming drink. ‘You said last Saturday night that you knew him
slightly. That you socialized occasionally.’

Engel nodded.

‘Only to the extent that we were good neighbours,’ he said. ‘I mean, we’ve been living in the same block of flats for over twenty years. We went to a football match
occasionally. Had a drink together occasionally.’

‘I see,’ said Rooth. ‘How often?’

‘Football once a year,’ said Engel. ‘Old age is creeping up on us. There are so many hooligans. A drink now and then. I usually drink at Gambrinus just down the road, but then
I always have Faludi with me.’

‘Who is Faludi?’

‘An old colleague of mine. An Arab, but a bloody great Arab. He lives a bit further up the block. Cheers.’

‘Cheers,’ said Rooth.

‘Aren’t you on duty, by the way?’

‘Never when I have a drink,’ said Rooth. ‘Have you thought back again to last Saturday night, as I asked you to?’

‘Eh? . . . Oh yes, of course,’ said Engel, licking his lips. ‘But I don’t remember any more than I told you last time.’

‘So you didn’t hear anything or notice anything unusual?’

‘Nope. I came home at round about half past eleven and went to bed like a shot. Listened to our pair of lovebirds for a while, then fell asleep not far short of midnight, or thereabouts.
It’s not bad good-night music for an old fart like me, I can tell you! Hehe.’

He raised his eyes to heaven and lit a cigarette.

Rooth sighed.

‘Nothing else to add?’

‘Not a jot, as I’ve already said.’

‘Who do you think did it?’ Rooth asked.

That was an old Van Veeteren ploy. Always ask people what they think! They tend to pull themselves together when they are trusted to use their own judgement; and then there’s a bloody good
chance that if three out of five think the same thing, they’re right.

In some cases even two out of five.

Engel inhaled and thought it over. Scratched his nose and drank a little more mulled wine.

‘It’s not anybody living in this building,’ he said in the end. ‘And not one of his mates. So it has to be some bloody madman from the outside.’

Rooth scratched at the back of his neck.

‘Do you know if he had any enemies, people who didn’t wish him well?’

‘Of course he bloody well didn’t,’ said Engel. ‘Leverkuhn was a good man.’

‘What about his wife?’

‘A good woman,’ said Engel laconically. ‘She moans a bit, but that’s the way they are. Are you married, Inspector?’

‘No,’ said Rooth, emptying his glass. ‘I never got round to it.’

‘Neither did I,’ said Engel. ‘I’ve never managed to hang on to a woman for more than three hours.’

Rooth suspected he was dealing with a kindred spirit, but he refrained from exploiting the vibrations.

‘Okay,’ he said instead. ‘Many thanks. We’ll probably be in touch again, but it’s not certain.’

‘I hope you can solve it,’ said Engel. ‘There are too many murderers on the loose nowadays.’

‘We shall see,’ said Rooth.

At least nobody seems to be taking all this especially hard, he thought as he emerged into the stairwell again. If they really were looking for a madman – a lunatic
drop-out – one might have expected to find traces of fear and uncertainty. But not in this case, it seemed. Unless of course he chose to interpret herr Engel’s parting words
literally.

Perhaps people in general have grown just as accustomed over the years to violent deaths and perversities as he had himself. That wouldn’t surprise me, Rooth thought sombrely.

Hardly had he left through the front door than he was accosted by a bearded man aged about thirty-five with a notebook and pen in his hand.

‘Bejman,
Neuwe Blatt
,’ he explained. ‘Have you got a moment?’

‘No,’ said Rooth.

‘Just a couple of questions?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘We’ve already told you all we know.’

‘But you must know something else by now, surely?’

‘Hmm,’ said Rooth, looking round furtively. ‘Not officially.’

Bejman leaned forward to hear better.

‘We’re looking for a red-headed dwarf.’

‘A red-headed . . .?’

‘Yes, but don’t write anything about that, for God’s sake. We’re not really sure yet.’

He observed the reporter’s furrowed brow for two seconds, then hurried over the street and jumped into his car.

I shouldn’t have said that, he thought.

The Rote Moor was characterized by stucco work, uninspiring cut-glass chandeliers and self-assured women. Münster sat down behind an oak-panelled screen and hoped the
pianist didn’t work mornings. As he sat there waiting, gazing out of the crackled windowpane overlooking Salutorget and the bustling shoppers, he began to feel for the first time that he was
able to concentrate on the case.

As usual. It always took some time before the initial feeling of distaste faded away, a day or two before he managed to shake off his immediate reactions – protesting about and distancing
himself from the violent killing that was always the starting point, the starting gun, the opening move in every new case. Every new task.

And the disgust. The disgust that was always there. At the start of his career – when he spent nearly all his working time in freezing cold cars keeping watch during the night, or
thanklessly shadowing suspects, or making door-to-door enquiries – he had believed the disgust would go away once he had learned how to face up to all the unpleasantness, but as the years
passed he realized that this was not the case. On the contrary, the older he became the more important it seemed to be to protect himself and to keep things at arm’s length. It was only when
the initial waves of disgust had begun to ebb away that it made any sense to start digging deeper into the case. To establish and try to become closely acquainted with the nature of the crime. Its
probable background. Causes and motives.

The very essence, as Van Veeteren used to put it.

The pattern.

No doubt the chief inspector had taught him some of these strategies, but by no means all. During the last few years – the last few cases – Van Veeteren’s disgust had been even
greater than his own, he was quite certain of that. But perhaps that was a right that came with increased age, Münster thought. Age and wisdom.

Hard to say. There was a sort of pattern in the chief inspector’s last years as well. And in his current environment among all those books. That unfathomable concept known as
the
determinant
, in fact, that Münster had never really got to grips with. Never understood what it actually meant. But perhaps it would dawn on him one of these days: time and inertia were
not only the province of oblivion, but sometimes also of gradual realization. In fact.

But Waldemar Leverkuhn. Forget everything else! Münster rested his head on his hands.

A seventy-two-year-old pensioner killed in his sleep. Brutally murdered by a hair-raisingly large number of stab wounds – excessive violence, as it was called. A dodgy term, of course, but
perhaps it was appropriate in this case.

Why?

For Christ’s sake, why so many stab wounds?

A waitress in a white hat coughed discreetly, but Münster asked her to wait until his companion arrived, and she withdrew. He turned his back on the premises and instead watched two pigeons
strutting back and forth on the broad window ledge while he tried to conjure up an image of Leverkuhn’s mutilated body in his mind’s eye.

Twenty-eight stabs. What did that suggest?

It was hardly an insoluble puzzle. Fury, of course. Raging fury. The person who had put an end to this old man had been totally out of self-control. There had been no reason to continue after
four or five stabs if the aim had been simply to kill the victim. Meusse had been crystal clear on that point. The last thirty seconds – the last fifteen or twenty stabs – were an
expression of something other than the urge to kill.