The Unlucky Lottery

‘Meusse hasn’t got anything wrong for the past fifteen years,’ said Rooth. ‘So, between a quarter to two and two. She must have been pretty damned close to bumping into him. Have we checked if she noticed anybody?’

‘Yes,’ said Krause. ‘Negative.’

‘She could have been the one who did it, of course,’ Heinemann pointed out. ‘Perhaps we shouldn’t exclude that possibility. Sixty per cent of all men are murdered by their wives.’

‘What the hell are you saying?’ wondered Rooth. ‘Thank God I’m not married.’

‘What I mean is . . .’ said Heinemann.

‘We know what you mean,’ said Münster with a sigh. ‘We can discuss fru Leverkuhn’s credibility later, but we’ll take the report from the lab first.’

He fished the relevant papers out of the folder.

‘There was a hell of a lot of blood,’ he continued, ‘both in the bed and on the floor. But they haven’t found any leads. No fingerprints, apart from the victim’s and a couple of old ones of the wife’s – and the only mark on the floor was also from her: a footprint she made when she went in and found him. They had separate bedrooms, as I said earlier.’

‘What about the rest of the flat?’ Moreno asked.

‘Only her fingerprints there as well.’

‘Excuse me,’ said Heinemann. ‘Did she really go right up to the bed? Surely that wasn’t necessary. She must have seen that he was dead before she entered the room. We’d better look into whether she really needed to rummage around at the scene of the crime like that—’

Krause interrupted him.

‘It was dark when she went in, she claims. Then she realized something was wrong and went back to switch on the light.’

‘Aha,’ said Heinemann.

‘That fits in with the footprints in the blood,’ explained Münster. ‘You might think it seems odd that the murderer could flee the scene without leaving any trace, but Meusse says that wouldn’t be anything remarkable. There was an awful lot of blood, but it wasn’t spurting out: most of it apparently ran out when the attack was over and done with, as it were. Evidently it depends on which sort of artery you happen to hit first.’

‘An old man’s blood,’ said Rooth. ‘Viscous.’

‘That’s right,’ said Münster. ‘It’s not even certain that the murderer would get any blood on his hand. Not very much, in any case.’

‘Great,’ said Jung. ‘So we haven’t got a single bloody clue from the forensic boys . . . Is that what you’re saying?’

‘Hrrm,’ said Münster, ‘I’m afraid that’s the way it looks, yes.’

‘Good,’ said Rooth. ‘In that case we’d better all have a cup of coffee. Otherwise we’ll get depressed.’

He looked benevolently round the table.

We could do with a chief inspector here, thought Münster as he rose to his feet.

But that’s the way it was . . . Münster leaned back in his chair and raised his arms towards the ceiling while Rooth and fröken Katz passed round mugs and saucers.

Exactly the way it was. For just over a year now their notorious chief inspector had been on leave, devoting himself to antiquarian books rather than to police work – and there were indications that he had no intention of returning to police duties at all.

Quite a lot of indications, to be honest. It was Chief of Police Hiller who had insisted on what he called ‘leave of absence’. Van Veeteren himself – as Münster understood it at least – had been prepared to resign once and for all. To burn all his bridges.

And in fact Münster couldn’t help envying him just a little. The last time he had popped into Krantze’s – a cloudy afternoon in the middle of September – he had found Van Veeteren lounging back in a worn leather armchair, right at the rear of the shop under overloaded bookshelves, with an old folio volume on his knee and a glass of red wine on the arm rest. With that peaceful expression on his face he had looked not unlike a Tibetan lama.

So there was good reason to assume that Van Veeteren had drawn a line under his police career.

And Reinhart! Münster thought. Detective Intendent Reinhart had spent the last three weeks at home babbling away to his eight-month-old daughter. Rumour had it that he intended to continue doing that until Christmas. An intention that – it was said – made Chief of Police Hiller froth at the mouth and turn cross-eyed in frustration. Temporarily, at least.

There had been no question of appointing replacements, not for either of these two heavyweights. If there was an opportunity to cut down on expenditure, that was of course what was done. No matter what the cost.

The times they are a-changin’, Münster thought, taking a Danish pastry.

‘The wife’s a bit odd though, don’t you think?’ suggested Krause. ‘Or at least, her behaviour is.’

‘I agree,’ said Münster. ‘We must talk to her again . . . Today or tomorrow. But of course it’s hardly surprising if she seems a bit confused.’

‘In what way has she seemed confused?’ asked Heinemann.