Håkan Nesser - The Unlucky Lottery

The sixth book in the Inspector Van Veeteren series, 2011

English translation copyright © Laurie Thompson 2011

Originally published in 1998 as Münsters Fall by Albert Bonniers förlag, Stockholm

The last day of Waldemar Leverkuhn’s life could hardly have begun any better.

After a windy night of non-stop rain, mild autumn sunshine was now creeping in through the kitchen window. From the balcony overlooking the courtyard he could hear the characteristic soft cooing of love-lorn pigeons, and the fading echo of his wife’s footsteps on the stairs as she set off for the market. The Neuwe Blatt was spread out on the table in front of him, and he had just laced his morning coffee with a couple of drops of gin when Wauters rang.

‘We won,’ Wauters said.

‘Won?’ said Leverkuhn.

‘By Christ, yes, we won!’ said Wauters. ‘They said so on the radio.’

‘On the radio?’

‘Bugger me if we haven’t won twenty thousand! Five each – and not a day too soon!’

‘The lottery?’

‘The lottery, yes. What else? What did I tell you? There was something special in the air when I bought the ticket. My God, yes! She sort of coaxed it out! As if she really was picking out the right one – Mrs Milkerson in the corner shop. Two, five, five. One, six, five, five! It was the fives that won it for us, of course. I’ve had the feeling this was going to happen all week!’

‘How much did you say?’

‘Twenty thousand, for God’s sake! Five each! I’ll have to ring the others. Let’s have a party at Freddy’s this evening – dammit all, a knees-up in Capernaum is called for!’

‘Five thousand…?’ said Leverkuhn, but Wauters had already hung up.

He remained standing for a while with the receiver in his hand, feeling rather dizzy. Five thousand euros? He blinked carefully a few times, and when his eyes started to focus again they turned automatically to look at the wedding photograph on the bureau. The one in the gold frame. Settled gradually on Marie-Louise’s round and milk-fresh face. Her dimples and corkscrew curls. A warm wind in her hair. Glitter in her eyes.

That was then, he thought. She was a stunner in those days. 1948.

As tasty as a cream cake! He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. Scratched himself a little tentatively in the crotch. It was different nowadays… but that’s the way it is with women… early blossoming, childbirth, breastfeeding, putting on weight… reluctant. It was sort of in the nature of things. Different with men, so very different.

He sighed and went out of the bedroom. Continued his train of thought, even though he didn’t really want to – that seemed to happen so often nowadays… Men, oh yes: they were still up for it much longer, that was the big difference… that damned big difference. Mind you, it evened itself out towards the end… now, well into the autumn of his life, he rarely got the urge any more, it had to be admitted. That applied to both of them.

But what else could you expect? Seventy-two and sixty-nine. He’d heard about people who could still keep going for longer than that, but as far as he was concerned it was probably all over and done with; he’d just have to make the best of it.

Apart from the odd little twitch now and then, though, which he’d have preferred to do without. A vague reminder of days long past; no more than a memory, a sad recollection.

But that’s the way it was. A little twitch. That he could have done without. He flopped down over the kitchen table again.

Five thousand!

Hell’s bells! He tried to think. Five thousand euros!

But it was hard to pin down those butterflies fluttering in his stomach. What the hell would he do with such a lot of money?

A car? Hardly. It would probably be enough for a pretty decent second-hand model, that was true, and he had a driving licence, but it was ten years since he’d sat at the wheel, and he hadn’t had any pressing desire to get out and see the world for a long time now.

Nor did he fancy an expensive holiday. It was like Palinski used to say: he’d seen most things and more besides.

A better television set?

No point. The one they had was only a couple of years old, and in any case, he only used it as something to sit in front of and fall asleep.

A new suit?

For his own funeral, or what?

No, the first thing to stick its head over the parapet inside his mind was that there was nothing he really needed. Which no doubt said a lot about what a miserable old git he’d become. Couldn’t even work out how to spend his own money any longer. Couldn’t be bothered. What a berk!

Leverkuhn slid the newspaper to one side and poured himself another cup of coffee with a dash of gin.

That was surely something he could allow himself? Another cup? He listened to the pigeons as he sipped his coffee. Maybe that was how he should deal with the situation? Allow himself a few things? Buy an extra round or two at Freddy’s. Rather more expensive wines. A decent bite to eat at Keefer’s or Kraus.

Why not? Live a bit of the good life for a year or two.

Now the phone rang again.

Palinski, of course.

‘Dammit all, a knees-up in Capernaum is called for tonight!’

The very same words as Wauters. How odd that he wasn’t even capable of thinking up his own swearwords. After his opening remark he roared with laughter down the phone for half a minute, then finished off by yelling something about how the wine would be flowing at Freddy’s.

‘… half past six! White shirt and new tie, you old devil!’

And he hung up. Leverkuhn observed his newly wed wife again for a while, then returned to the kitchen. Drank up the rest of the coffee and belched. Then smiled.

He smiled at last. After all, five thousand was five thousand.

Bonger, Wauters, Leverkuhn and Palinski.

It has to be said they were a long-standing, ancient quartet. He had known Bonger and Palinski since he was a boy. Since they were at school together at the Magdeburgska, and the war-time winters in the cellars on Zuiderslaan and Merdwick. They had drifted apart for a few decades in the middle of their lives, naturally enough, but their paths had crossed once again in their late middle age.

Wauters had joined them later, much later. One of the lone gents who hung out at Freddy’s, herr Wauters. Moved there from Hamburg and Frigge and God only knows where else; had never been married (the only one of the quartet who had managed to avoid that, he liked to point out – although he now shared the bachelor state with both Bonger and Palinski) – and he was probably the loneliest old bugger you could possibly imagine. Or at least, that’s what Bonger used to confide in them, strictly between friends of course. It was Bonger who had got to know him first, and introduced him into their circle. A bit of a gambler as well, this Wauters – if you could believe the rumours he spread somewhat discriminately about himself, that is. But now he restricted himself to the football pools and the lottery. The gee-gees nowadays were nothing but drugged-up donkeys, he used to maintain with a sigh, and the jockeys were all on the make. And as for cards?… Well, if you’d lost nearly twelve hundred on a full house, huh, let’s face it – it was about bloody time you took things easy in your old age!