Håkan Nesser - The Unlucky Lottery

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?