The Unlucky Lottery

Bonger’s canal boat didn’t seem to be in any better condition. Just as dilapidated as it had looked the previous day, Jung decided. He tugged at the bell rope several times without success, and looked around to see if there was any sign of life elsewhere on the dark canal. The woman on the boat next door seemed to be at home: a thin, grey wisp of smoke was floating up out of the chimney, and the bicycle was locked to the railings under the lime tree, in the same place as she had parked it yesterday. Jung walked over to her boat, announced his presence with a cough and tapped his bunch of keys on the black-painted rail that ran around the whole boat. After a few seconds she appeared in the narrow doorway. She was wearing a thick woollen jumper that reached down as far as her knees, high rubber boots and a beret. In one hand she was holding the gutted body of an animal – a hare, as far as Jung could tell. In her other hand, a carving knife.

‘Sorry to disturb you,’ said Jung.

‘Huh,’ said the woman. ‘It’s you again.’

‘Yes,’ said Jung. ‘Perhaps I should explain myself . . . I’m a police officer. Detective Inspector Jung. I’m looking for herr Bonger, as I said . . .’

She nodded grumpily, and suddenly seemed to become aware of what she was holding in her hands.

‘Stew,’ she explained. ‘Andres bumped it off yesterday . . . My son, that is.’

She held up the carcass, and Jung tried to give the impression of looking at it with the eye of a connoisseur.

‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘We all end up like that eventually . . . But this Bonger – you don’t happen to have seen him, I suppose?’

She shook her head.

‘Not since Saturday.’

‘Didn’t he come home last night, then?’

‘I very much doubt it.’

She came up on deck and peered at Bonger’s boat.

‘No lights, no smoke,’ she said. ‘That means he’s not in, as I explained yesterday. Anything else you want to know?’

‘Does he often go away?’

She shrugged.

‘No,’ she said. ‘No, he isn’t often away for more than an hour or two. Why do you want to find him?’

‘Routine enquiries,’ said Jung.

‘And what the hell is that supposed to mean?’ said the woman. ‘I’m not an idiot, you know.’

‘We just want to ask him a few questions.’

‘What about?’

‘You don’t seem to be too fond of the police,’ said Jung.

‘Too right I’m not,’ said the woman.

Jung thought for a moment.

‘It’s about a death,’ he explained. ‘One of Bonger’s friends has been murdered. We think Bonger might have some information that could be useful for us.’

‘Murder?’ said the woman.

‘Yes,’ said Jung. ‘Pretty brutal. With something like that.’

He pointed at the carving knife. The woman frowned slightly, no more.

‘What’s your name, by the way?’ Jung asked, taking a notebook out of his pocket.

‘Jümpers,’ said the woman reluctantly. ‘Elizabeth Jümpers. And when is this murder supposed to have taken place?’

‘On Saturday night,’ said Jung. ‘In fact herr Bonger is one of the last people to have seen the victim alive. Waldemar Leverkuhn. Perhaps you know him?’

‘Leverkuhn? No . . . I’ve never heard of him.’

‘Do you know of any relatives or friends he might be staying with? Bonger, that is.’

She thought for a moment then shook her head slowly.

‘No, I don’t think so. He’s a pretty solitary character.’

‘Does he often have visitors on his boat?’

‘Never. At least, I’ve never seen any.’

Jung sighed.

‘Ah well,’ he said. ‘I expect he’ll turn up. If you see him, could you please tell him we’ve been looking for him. It would be good if he could contact us as soon as possible. He can ring at any time.’

He handed her a business card. The woman put the knife down, took the card and put it in her back pocket.

‘Anyway, thank you for your help,’ said Jung.

‘You’re welcome,’ said the woman. ‘I’ll tell him.’

Jung hesitated.

‘Is it a good life, living on a boat like this?’ he asked.

The woman snorted.

‘Is it a good life, being a detective inspector like you?’ she asked.

Jung gave her a quarter of a smile, and took his leave.

‘Good luck with the stew!’ he shouted as he passed by Bonger’s boat, but she had already gone inside.

Not an easy person to make contact with, he thought as he clambered into his car.

But with a heart of gold under that rough exterior, perhaps?

Being a detective inspector like you?

A good question, no doubt about that. He decided not to consider it in any detail. Checked his watch instead, and realized he would be hard pressed to get to the update meeting in time.

7

It was in fact true that Emmeline von Post had been a colleague of Marie-Louise Leverkuhn’s for twenty-five years.

And it was also true that they had known each other for nearly fifty. That they had never really lost contact since they left Boring’s Commercial and Office College at the end of the 1940s. Despite getting married, having children, moving house and all the other things.