The Unlucky Lottery

Good grief! What am I saying? Münster thought with a shudder. It sometimes seemed as if words acquired a life of their own, and lay in wait ready to ambush him.

Ruth Leverkuhn turned up at ten minutes past twelve: ten minutes late, a fact to which she devoted several explanations. She had been a bit late setting off. Lots of traffic, and then she couldn’t find a parking place, neither in the square nor down at Zwille; she finally found one in Anckers Steeg and had only put money in the meter for half an hour. She hoped that would be enough.

In view of what they had to talk about, Münster received these trivial bits of information with suppressed surprise. Observed in silence as she hung her brown coat over the back of the empty chair at their table, made quite a show of digging out cigarettes and a lighter from her handbag, adjusted her glasses and also the artificial flowers on the table.

She was about his own age, he decided, but quite a bit overweight and the worse for wear. Her brown-tinted shoulder-length hair hung down like shabby and unwashed curtains round her pale face. Restlessness and insecurity surrounded her almost like body odour, and it was only when she lit a cigarette that there was a pause in her nervous chattering.

‘Have you been in touch with your mother?’ Münster asked.

‘Yes.’ She nodded, inhaled deeply and examined her fingernails. ‘Yes, I’ve heard what happened. I phoned her after I’d spoken to you. It’s awful, I don’t understand, it felt as if it were a dream when I got into the car and drove here . . . A nightmare, rather. But is it really true? That somebody killed him? Murdered him? Is it true?’

‘As far as we can tell,’ said Münster.

‘But that’s absolutely . . . awful,’ she said again, taking another drag at her cigarette. ‘Why?’

‘We don’t know,’ said Münster. ‘I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.’

She nodded and took another drag. The waitress appeared again and took their order: café au lait for fröken Leverkuhn, black coffee for the intendent. He took out his notebook and put it on the table in front of him.

‘Did you have a good relationship with your father?’ he asked.

She gave a start.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Exactly what I said,’ said Münster. ‘Did you have a good relationship with him?’

‘Well, yes . . . he was my father after all.’

‘It does happen that children have a bad relationship with their fathers,’ Münster pointed out.

She hesitated. Scratched herself quickly on the outside of her left breast and took another drag.

‘We haven’t had all that much contact lately.’

‘Lately?’

‘Since I grew up, I suppose you could say.’

‘Twenty, twenty-five years?’ Münster asked.

She made no reply.

‘Why?’ Münster wondered.

‘It just turned out that way.’

‘Did the same apply to your brother and sister?’

‘More or less.’

‘How often did you meet your mother and father?’

‘Just occasionally.’

‘Once a month?’

‘Once a year, more like.’

‘Once a year?’

‘Yes . . . At Christmas. But not always. You might think it sounds bad, but they didn’t take any initiatives either. We simply didn’t socialize, full stop. Why should we have to observe social conventions when nobody concerned was bothered . . .?’ Her voice trailed away.

‘. . . I’m a lesbian,’ she added, out of the blue.

‘Really,’ said Münster. ‘What has that to do with it?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Ruth Leverkuhn. ‘But people talk such a lot.’

Münster watched the pigeons, which had returned, for a while. Ruth put two spoonfuls of sugar into her cup and stirred.

‘When did you last see your father?’

She stubbed out her cigarette and started fumbling for another one while she thought that over.

‘That would be nearly two years ago,’ she said.

‘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?’