Håkan Nesser - The Unlucky Lottery

So there was good reason to assume that Van Veeteren had drawn a line under his police career.

And Reinhart! Münster thought. Detective Intendent Reinhart had spent the last three weeks at home babbling away to his eight-month-old daughter. Rumour had it that he intended to continue doing that until Christmas. An intention that – it was said – made Chief of Police Hiller froth at the mouth and turn cross-eyed in frustration. Temporarily, at least.

There had been no question of appointing replacements, not for either of these two heavyweights. If there was an opportunity to cut down on expenditure, that was of course what was done. No matter what the cost.

The times they are a-changin’, Münster thought, taking a Danish pastry.

‘The wife’s a bit odd though, don’t you think?’ suggested Krause. ‘Or at least, her behaviour is.’

‘I agree,’ said Münster. ‘We must talk to her again… Today or tomorrow. But of course it’s hardly surprising if she seems a bit confused.’

‘In what way has she seemed confused?’ asked Heinemann.

‘Well,’ said Münster, ‘the times she gave are obviously correct. She did travel on the train she said she was on, and there really was a power failure last Saturday night. They didn’t get to the Central Station until a quarter to two, an hour late, so she should have been at home roughly when she claims. One of the neighbours thinks he heard her as well. So, she finds her husband dead a few minutes past two, but she doesn’t ring the police until 02.43. During that time she was out – she says she was going to report the incident at Entwick Plejn police station. But she goes back home when she discovers it’s closed… I suppose one could have various views about that. Does anyone wish to comment?’

A few seconds passed.

‘Confused,’ said Rooth eventually. ‘Excessively confused.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Moreno. ‘But wouldn’t it be more abnormal to behave normally in a situation like this? Mind you, she’d have had plenty of time to get rid of the knife – half an hour, at least.’

‘Did anybody see her while she was taking that walk?’ Heinemann wondered.

Münster shook his head.

‘Nobody has reported having done so yet, in any case. How’s the door-to-door going?’

Krause stretched.

‘We’ll have finished by this evening,’ he said. ‘But everything she says is unverified so far. And it’s likely to stay that way – the streets were pretty deserted, and there’s not much reason to stand gaping out of the window at that time either. But she ought to have passed Dusar’s cafe, where there were a few customers. We’ll check there this evening. But it was raining, as I said…’

Münster turned over a page.

‘The relatives,’ he said. ‘Three children. Between forty and fifty or thereabouts. Two of them are travelling here today and tomorrow – I’ve arranged to meet them. The elder daughter is in a psychiatric home somewhere, and I don’t think we have any reason to disturb her… No, I don’t suppose any of us thinks it’s a family affair, do we?’

‘Does anybody think anything at all?’ muttered Moreno, gazing down into her empty coffee mug.

‘I do,’ said Rooth. ‘My theory is that Leverkuhn was murdered. Shall we move on to the old codgers?’

Moreno and Jung reported on their visits to Wauters and Palinski, and the failed attempts to contact Bonger. Meanwhile Münster contemplated Moreno’s knees and thought about Synn. Rooth ate two more Danish pastries and Heinemann polished his thumbnails with his tie. Münster wondered vaguely if there really was a mood of despondency and a lack of active interest hanging over the whole group, or if it was just he who was affected. It was hard to say, and he made no effort to answer his own question.

‘So he’s disappeared, has he?’ said Rooth when Moreno and Jung had finished. ‘Bonger, I mean.’

Jung shrugged.

‘In any case, he hasn’t been home since last Saturday night.’

Krause cleared his throat to show signs of enthusiasm.

‘For Christ’s sake,’ he said. ‘Four old codgers, and two of them have gone. There must be a connection, surely. If they’ve all managed to hang on until they are past seventy, it’s surely pretty unlikely that one of them would disappear naturally the same night as another of them is murdered!’

‘“Disappear naturally”?’ said Jung. ‘What does that mean?’

‘What’s it to do with their age?’ Heinemann asked, frowning. ‘I’ve always been under the impression that your chances of dying are greater, the older you get. Isn’t that the case? Statistically, I mean…’

He looked round the table. Nobody seemed inclined to answer. Münster avoided his gaze and looked out of the window instead. Noted that it had started raining again. How old is Heinemann? he asked himself.

‘Anyway,’ said Rooth, ‘it’s possible of course that there’s a connection here. Do the other oldies know whether Bonger returned home at all on Saturday?’

Jung and Moreno looked at each other.

‘No,’ said Jung. ‘Not as far as they’ve told us, in any case. Shall we give ’em a grilling?’

‘Let’s wait for a bit with that,’ said Münster. ‘Tomorrow morning… If Bonger hasn’t turned up by then, presumably there’s something funny going on. He isn’t normally away from his boat for more than a few hours at a time, isn’t that what you said?’

‘That’s right,’ said Jung.

Silence again. Rooth scraped up a few crumbs from the empty plate where the pastries had been, and Heinemann returned to cleaning his glasses. Krause looked at the clock.

‘Anything else?’ he wondered. ‘What do we do now? Speculate?’

Nobody seemed especially enthusiastic about that either, but eventually Rooth said:

‘A madman, I’ll bet two cocktail sausages on it. An unplanned murder. The only motive we’ll ever find will be a junkie as high as a kite – or somebody on anabolics, of course. Did he need to be strong, by the way? What does Meusse have to say about that?’

‘No,’ said Münster. ‘He said… He maintained that with well-hung meat and a sharp knife you don’t need a lot of strength.’

‘Ugh, for Christ’s sake,’ said Rooth.

Münster looked round for any further comments, but as none was offered he realized that it was time to draw the meeting to a close.

‘You’re probably right,’ he said, turning to Rooth. ‘For as long as we don’t find a motive, that’s the most likely solution. Shall we send out a feeler in the direction of the drugs squad?’

‘Do that,’ said Moreno. ‘A feeler, but not one of us.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Münster promised.

Moreno stayed behind for a while after the others had left, and only then did Münster discover that he’d forgotten a detail.

‘Oh, shit! There was another thing,’ he said. ‘That story about having won some money – can there be anything in it?’

Moreno looked up from the photograph she was studying with reluctance.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked.

Münster hesitated.

‘Four old codgers club together and win some money,’ he said. ‘Two of them kill off the other two, and hey presto! They’ve suddenly won twice as much.’

Moreno said nothing for a few moments.

‘Really?’ she said eventually. ‘You think that’s what happened?’

Münster shook his head.

‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s just that fröken Gautiers down at Freddy’s said something about a win, and she admits herself that she’s only guessing… But I suppose we ought to look into it.’

‘Rather that than drugs,’ said Moreno. ‘I’ll take that on.’

Münster was about to ask why she was so strongly opposed to the murky narcotics scene, but then he recalled another detail.