The Unlucky Lottery

‘And hence nothing to do with Leverkuhn either,’ she said. ‘No, I reckon that would be an asumption too far. I think they are just scared of being suspected. Wauters at least is quite sharp, and he could well have realized the risk as soon as he heard what had happened to Leverkuhn . . . There are lots of old crime novels in his bookcase.’

‘They might be reluctant to give the widow a quarter share as well,’ Münster pointed out. ‘Anyway, we’ll give them a warm reception tomorrow morning. But let’s face it, it’s damned odd that Bonger should disappear in a puff of smoke the same night that Leverkuhn is murdered, don’t you think?’

‘Too right,’ said Moreno. ‘Have we issued a Wanted notice yet?’

Münster checked his watch.

‘It went out an hour ago.’

‘Does he have any relatives?’

‘A son in Africa. Nothing has been heard from him since 1985. And an elder sister with Alzheimer’s, in Gemejnte hospital. His wife died eight years ago – that was when he moved into the canal boat.’

Moreno nodded and said nothing for a while.

‘A strange crowd, this gang of old codgers,’ she said eventually.

‘They had one another,’ said Münster. ‘Shall we have coffee?’

‘Yes, let’s.’

In the end he couldn’t hold back any longer.

‘What about your personal life?’ he said. ‘How are things?’

Moreno contemplated the grey, misty view through the window once again, and Münster guessed she was weighing him up. Evidently he passed the test, for she took a deep breath and straightened her back.

‘I’ve moved,’ she said.

‘Away from Claus?’

He remembered his name in any case.

‘Yes.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Münster, and waited.

‘It’s a month ago now,’ she went on after a while. ‘I have a friend who’s in Spain for six months, so I took the opportunity of borrowing her flat . . . It took two days before I was convinced that I’d done the right thing, and that I’d wasted five years.’

Münster tried to look on the bright side.

‘Some people waste a whole life,’ he said.

‘It’s not that,’ Moreno responded and sighed again. ‘It’s not that at all. I’m quite prepared to draw a line under it all and start afresh. Experience is experience, after all.’

‘Without a doubt,’ said Münster. ‘What doesn’t kill you toughens you up. What is the matter, then?’

‘Claus,’ she said, and the expression on her face was something he’d never seen before. ‘It’s Claus that’s the problem. I think . . . I don’t think he’s going to get over it.’

Münster said nothing.

‘For five bloody years I’ve been under the impression that he was the strong half of the duo, and that it was me who didn’t dare to let go – but now . . .’

She clenched her fists so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

‘. . . now he’s so damned pitiful. I know it sounds cold and hard, but why can’t he at least stop degrading himself before me?’

‘He’s begging and pleading, is he?’ Münster wondered.

‘You can say that again.’

‘How often do you meet?’

Moreno sighed.

‘Several times a week. And he phones me every day. He’s taken sick leave as well. I did love him, but every time we talk, that love ebbs further and further away . . . He says he’s going to kill himself, and I’ve almost started to believe him. That’s what’s worst – that I believe him.’

Münster rested his head on his hands and thus came closer to her. He was suddenly aware that he would have liked to touch her: just a gentle stroke over her cheek or along her arm, but he didn’t dare. Come to think of it, he didn’t recall having seen Claus Badher more than three or four times; he’d never spoken to him, but to be honest he did not have an especially positive opinion of the young bank lawyer.

One of those pretty-pretty financial puppies, the type that changes their shirt three times a day and pours aftershave into their underpants. To tell the truth.

But there again, perhaps there was just some kind of primitive and atavistic jealousy behind that judgement. He recalled that Reinhart once said it was perfectly normal to be jealous of every bloke who went around with a woman who was more or less attractive. Healthy and natural. And you could be sure that anybody who didn’t feel that way was definitely suffering from some nasty affliction or other. Constipation, for instance.

However, it wasn’t always easy to scrutinize your own putative emotional life. Especially with regard to women.

Or so Intendent Münster thought, attempting to be honest in a melancholy sort of way.

‘I understand,’ he said simply. ‘Is there anything I can do? You sound a bit grey, if you’ll pardon my saying so.’

She pulled a face.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘It’s not that I hate the man, and I don’t want him to lose control; I just want to be left in peace. It’s so damned difficult when the whole of my environment seems to be shedding its skin like this. I haven’t slept more than three hours a night for several weeks now.’

Münster leaned back in his chair.

‘The only things that can possibly help are time and coffee,’ he said. ‘Another cup?’

Moreno managed to produce a grimace that might have been intended to be a smile.