The Unlucky Lottery

‘Well?’ snorted Hiller, hurling the Neuwe Blatt onto the table so that Münster could see at last what the problem was.

The headline ran across all eight columns, and was followed by three exclamation marks:

THE POLICE ARE SEARCHING FOR A RED-HEADED DWARF!!!

and underneath, in less bold type:

IN CONNECTION WITH THE PENSIONER MURDER

Heinemann put on his glasses.

‘That’s odd,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I’ve been informed.’

Hiller closed his eyes and clenched his fists. Evidently in an attempt to calm himself down, for his next comment came through clenched teeth.

‘I want to know the meaning of this. And who is responsible.’

Moreno glanced at the newspaper and cleared her throat.

‘Red-haired dwarf?’ she said. ‘It must be a joke.’

‘A joke?’ snarled Hiller.

‘I agree,’ said Rooth. ‘Surely none of you is looking for a dwarf?’

He looked enquiringly around the table, while Hiller chewed at his lower lip and tried to stand still.

‘I’m not,’ said Heinemann.

Münster glanced at Jung. Realized that a disastrous burst of laughter was on the point of breaking out, and that he had better intervene before it was too late.

‘It’s just a newspaper cock-up,’ he said as slowly and pedagogically as he could. ‘Some bright spark has no doubt phoned the editorial office and spun them a yarn. And some other bright spark has swallowed the bait. Don’t blame us!’

‘Exactly,’ said Rooth.

Hiller’s facial colour went down to plum.

‘What a bloody mess,’ he muttered. ‘Krause!’

Krause sat up straight.

‘Yes?’

‘Find out which prize idiot has written this drivel – I’ll be damned if they’re going to get away with it!’

‘Yes sir!’ said Krause.

‘Off you go, then!’ the chief of police roared, and Krause slunk out. Hiller sat down at the end of the table and switched off the overhead projector.

‘Moreover,’ he said, ‘we have too many people working on this case. Just a couple of you will be sufficient from now on. Münster!’

‘Yes?’ said Münster with a sigh.

‘You and Moreno will sort out Leverkuhn from now on. Use Krause as well, but only if it’s really necessary. Jung and Rooth will look after the rapes in Linzhuisen, and Heinemann – what were you working on last week?’

‘That Dellinger business,’ said Heinemann.

‘Continue with that,’ said Hiller. ‘I want reports from all of you by Friday.’

He stood up and would have been out of the room in two seconds if he hadn’t stumbled over Rooth’s briefcase.

‘Oops,’ said Rooth. ‘Sorry about that, but I think I need to have a quick word with Krause.’

He picked up his briefcase and hurried off, while the chief of police brushed off his neatly creased knee and muttered something incomprehensible.

‘Well, what do you think?’ said Münster as he and Moreno sat down in the canteen. ‘A memorable performance?’

‘There’s no doubt about the entertainment value,’ said Moreno. ‘It must be the first time for a month that I very nearly burst out laughing. What an incredible idiot!’

‘A boy scout, perhaps?’ said Münster, and she actually smiled.

‘Still, he says what he means,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t try to fool anybody. Shall we get down to work?’

‘That’s the idea, no doubt. Have you any good ideas?’

Moreno swirled her cup and analysed the coffee lees.

‘No,’ she said. ‘No good ones.’

‘Nor have I,’ said Münster. ‘So we’ll have to make do with bad ones for the time being. We could bring Palinski in, for instance?’

‘Not a bad idea,’ said Moreno.

14

After two days out at Bossingen, Marie-Louise Leverkuhn returned to Kolderweg 17 on the Tuesday afternoon.

The children had been, commiserated and gone back home. Emmeline von Post had lamented and sympathized in every way possible, the heavens had wept more or less continuously. It was high time to return to reality and everyday life. It certainly was.

She began by scrubbing the blood-soaked room. She was unable to get rid of the blood that had penetrated the floorboards and walls, despite her best efforts with strong scouring-powder of various makes; nor was there much she could do about the stains on the woodwork of the bed – but then again, she didn’t need the bed any more. She dismantled it and dragged the whole caboodle out onto the landing for Arnold Van Eck to take care of. She then unrolled a large cowhair carpet that had been stored up in the attic for years and covered the floorboards. A couple of tapestries hanging quite low down took care of the wall.

After this hard labour she started going through her husband’s wardrobe: it was a time-consuming and rather delicate undertaking. She didn’t like doing it, but she had no choice. Some stuff ended up in the dustbin, some in the laundry basket, but most of it was put into suitcases and plastic sacks for taking to the charity shop in Windemeerstraat.

When this task was more or less taken care of, there was a ring on the doorbell. It was fru Van Eck, inviting her down for coffee and cake.