The Unlucky Lottery

She had walked only a hundred metres or so when her bad knee started to make itself felt – the typical prickling sensations and shooting pains were hurting whenever she put her right foot down into the loose sand, and it was clear that it would be risky to continue much further.

But in all probability it wouldn’t be necessary anyway. The river bank was covered in alders and brushwood, and the belt of reeds extended a long way out into the water, fifty metres or more in places. She could hardly have asked for anything better. When she came to the first side-track leading inland, she paused and looked around. No sign of anybody. She turned off along the muddy path down to a jetty that ran in a sort of diamond shape round a tumbledown boathouse. Walked carefully along the shaky, slippery planks to where it changed direction like the apex of a triangle, and leaned against the boathouse wall while she pressed the air out of the package and tied the string tightly. Listened attentively, but there was no sound save for the distant, mournful cries of birds and the hum of traffic a long way off on the motorway. No sign of any people. No boats on the river. She took a deep breath and hurled the package out into the reeds. Heard the rattling noise as the brittle stalks snapped, and the dull plop when it dropped into the water.

That’s that, then, she thought. Looked around once more. Nothing. She was alone, and the deed was done.

She put her hands back into her pockets, and started to retrace her steps.

It took longer than she had expected. After all, she had walked quite a long way, and her knee was causing her serious pain now. She slowed down and tried to avoid putting any weight at all on her heel, but that just felt odd and unusual, and didn’t help much in the loose sand. By the time she returned to the built-up area it had started raining quite hard again, and she decided to allow herself a few minutes’ rest. She found a run-down and graffiti-covered bus shelter, sat down on the bench and tried to keep as warm as possible in the circumstances while observing the few people who had ventured out of doors on such a rainy morning. Three or four grim-faced dog owners. A jogger in a red tracksuit wearing headphones, and a down-and-out old man searching for empty bottles in the rubbish bins, dragging a shopping trolley behind him . . . A few steamed-up cars drove past, but no bus. But that didn’t matter – she wouldn’t know which one to catch anyway. After a while she really did feel freezing cold, and although she knew full well that signs of the rain easing off were mostly wishful thinking, she stood up and set off again. She noticed that she wasn’t thinking straight: thoughts were buzzing around inside her head like restless, nervous dreams; but before long everything was dominated by a desire to drink something hot. Or strong.

Or both.

When she finally returned to the neat little terraced house in Geldenerstraat it was ten minutes past one, and Emmeline von Post was accompanied at her kitchen table by Ruth Leverkuhn.

As soon as she saw her mother in the doorway, Ruth stood up. Cleared her throat, smoothed down her skirt, and made a sort of half-hearted gesture with her hands.

Marie-Louise stood still and stared at her daughter with her arms hanging down by her sides.

Neither of them said a word. Five seconds passed. Emmeline scraped her coffee cup against the saucer and watched the raindrops her friend had brought in with her dripping down onto the threshold and parts of the linoleum.

Do something, for God’s sake, she thought. Why does nobody say anything?

12

‘Well?’ said Münster. ‘I hope you caught them in your trap?’

They had bagged one of the window booths at Adenaar’s, and had made a start on the salad of the day.

‘Yes, of course,’ said Ewa Moreno. ‘Kicking and screaming in a net of lies . . . No, I don’t know. I only spoke to Wauters really. Palinski was about to leave for hospital for some sort of check-up. But I had the impression . . .’

She hesitated and stared out of the window.

‘What?’ said Münster. ‘What sort of an impression?’

‘That they are concealing something. I asked Wauters straight out if they’d won some money, and to tell you the truth I thought his reply seemed rehearsed. Raised eyebrows, broad gestures, the whole caboodle. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve hit the jackpot.’

‘But you didn’t press him?’

‘I’m not on form,’ said Moreno apologetically. ‘I told you that. I didn’t want to mess things up, I thought it would be better to question them one at a time at the police station instead. A lamp shining into their faces and all that. But they both seemed to be genuinely at a loss regarding Bonger. Wauters claimed he’d been to the boat, looking for him, and Palinski said he intended to call in on the way home from the hospital.’

Münster thought that over.

‘So your guess is that they’ve won some money, but that it hasn’t got anything to do with Bonger’s disappearance?’

Moreno nodded.