Håkan Nesser - The Unlucky Lottery

‘And your mother?’

‘The same. We were there for Christmas. Two years ago.’

Münster noted it down.

‘Have you any idea about what might have happened?’ he asked. ‘Had your father any enemies? People who have known him for a long time, who didn’t like him?’

‘No…’ She moved her tongue up behind her upper lip and tried to look thoughtful. ‘No, I have no idea at all. Not the slightest.’

‘Any other relatives?’

‘Only Uncle Franz. He died a few years ago.’

Münster nodded.

‘And how were things between your mother and father?’

She shrugged.

‘They stuck together.’

‘Evidently,’ said Münster. ‘Did they have much of a social life?’

‘No… No, hardly any at all, I should think.’

Münster thought for a moment.

‘Are you intending to visit your mother now?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Of course I am. What did you think?’

The last convention, Münster thought.

‘What do you work as?’

‘I’m a shop assistant.’

‘In Wernice?’

‘Yes.’

‘What were you doing last Saturday evening?’

‘What do you want to know that for?’

‘What were you doing?’

She took out a paper tissue and wiped her mouth.

‘I was at home.’

‘Do you live alone?’

‘No.’

‘With a girlfriend?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was she also at home last Saturday evening?’

‘No, she wasn’t as it happens. Why are you asking about that?’

‘Do you remember what you gave your mother as a Christmas present fifteen years ago?’

‘Eh?’

‘A Christmas present,’ Münster repeated. ‘1982.’

‘How should I…?’

‘A carving knife,’ said Münster. ‘Is that right?’

He saw that her facial muscles were beginning to twitch here and there, and he realized there was probably not long to go before she started crying. What the hell am I doing? he thought. This job makes you a sadist.

‘Why…?’ she mumbled. ‘I don’t know what you mean. What are you getting at?’

‘Just routine,’ said Münster. ‘Don’t take it personally. Are you staying here overnight?’

She shook her head.

‘I don’t think so. I’ll probably go back home this evening… Unless Mum wants me to stay with her.’

Why should she want that? Münster thought. Then he closed his notebook and reached his hand out over the table.

‘Thank you, fröken Leverkuhn,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry I had to torment you at a difficult time, but we would rather like to catch your father’s murderer, as I’m sure you understand.’

‘Yes… Of course.’

She presented him with four cold fingers for half a second. Münster pushed back his chair and stood up.

‘I think you’d better hurry before your parking time runs out.’

She glanced at the clock, stuffed the cigarettes and lighter into her handbag and got to her feet.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I hope…’

He never discovered what she hoped. Instead she tried to produce a smile, but when it refused to stick she turned on her heel and left him.

Ah well, Münster thought as he beckoned to the waitress. One of those conversations.

A condensed life in twenty minutes. Why was it that other people’s lives could seem so clear-cut when his own almost always seemed to evade judgement and reflection?

He didn’t know. One of those questions.

When Marie-Louise Leverkuhn had finished crying – a comparatively short outburst of emotion that lasted only a minute – Emmeline von Post removed her arm from her friend’s shoulders and suggested a walk by the river. The weather was quite pleasant – the occasional shower was likely during the course of the day, but there were raincoats and Wellington boots available. That she could borrow.

Fru Leverkuhn blew her nose and declined the offer. Remained seated for a while at the kitchen table – like an injured and dishevelled bird, it seemed to her hostess – and then explained that she needed a little more rest after all, before she was ready to meet her children. Her daughter Ruth was expected about lunchtime, and it wasn’t quite clear who would be expected to support whom.

Emmeline didn’t quite understand the last bit, but kept a straight face even so and submitted to her newly widowed friend’s wishes. Decided to go for a short walk herself instead – to the post office and the shopping centre to buy a few odds and ends that would be necessary, now that there would be several mouths to feed.

And Marie-Louise could spend the time recovering as she thought best. While waiting for the children.

Emmeline set off as soon as the breakfast dishes had been washed up, shortly before eleven, and when she returned with her carrier bags three-quarters of an hour later, Marie-Louise had vanished.

The door to Mark’s room was standing ajar, so it seemed that she had made no attempt to conceal the fact that she wasn’t there. But there was no message, neither in the room nor anywhere else.

Ah well, Emmeline thought as she unpacked her bags and allocated the goods to the larder or the refrigerator as appropriate. I expect she has just nipped out to buy a postage stamp or something of the sort.

She’ll soon be back, no doubt.

And so she took a Swiss roll out of the freezer, switched on the coffee maker and sat down at the kitchen table with a newspaper.

And waited.

She came down to the river next to the wooden cabin that served as the rowing club MECC’s clubhouse. A few young people were busy scraping the window frames. She hesitated for a moment before setting off westwards along the unpaved bridle path through the deciduous woods. She felt almost immediately the raw, cold wind blowing off the dark water, and tied her shawl more tightly round her head. Wished she had a woolly hat instead, dug her hands down into her coat pockets and clutched the package more tightly under her arm.

She had been along this path before – two or three times in the summer together with Emmeline – and she began to picture what it was like a bit further on. Tried to remember if there was any one place that was better and more inaccessible than anywhere else, but couldn’t decide for sure. She would have to make the best of it, this area along the bank of the river: waterlogged, covered in brushwood and with hardly any buildings – but of course it could never be a hundred per cent foolproof. She had realized and accepted that, seeing as there had been no opportunity to burn it, which would have been the best solution, of course.

She had walked only a hundred metres or so when her bad knee started to make itself felt – the typical prickling sensations and shooting pains were hurting whenever she put her right foot down into the loose sand, and it was clear that it would be risky to continue much further.

But in all probability it wouldn’t be necessary anyway. The river bank was covered in alders and brushwood, and the belt of reeds extended a long way out into the water, fifty metres or more in places. She could hardly have asked for anything better. When she came to the first side-track leading inland, she paused and looked around. No sign of anybody. She turned off along the muddy path down to a jetty that ran in a sort of diamond shape round a tumbledown boathouse. Walked carefully along the shaky, slippery planks to where it changed direction like the apex of a triangle, and leaned against the boathouse wall while she pressed the air out of the package and tied the string tightly. Listened attentively, but there was no sound save for the distant, mournful cries of birds and the hum of traffic a long way off on the motorway. No sign of any people. No boats on the river. She took a deep breath and hurled the package out into the reeds. Heard the rattling noise as the brittle stalks snapped, and the dull plop when it dropped into the water.