Håkan Nesser - The Unlucky Lottery

‘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.