The Unlucky Lottery

‘In the lottery. Wauters bought the ticket, it was his turn. We were going to get five thousand each . . . But with Leverkuhn out of the picture it’s almost seven.’

‘And minus Bonger, it’s ten,’ said Moreno.

‘Yes, by God,’ said Palinski. ‘But surely you don’t believe it’s as your colleague suggested? Surely you can see that we would never do anything like that?’

Moreno didn’t reply. She leaned back on her chair and observed the nervous twitches in Palinski’s face for a while.

‘Just at the moment we don’t think anything at all,’ she said. ‘But you are in no way cleared of suspicion, and we don’t want you to leave Maardam.’

‘Good God,’ said Palinski. ‘It’s not possible. What the hell is Wauters going to say?’

‘You don’t need to worry about that,’ said Moreno. ‘We’ll take care of him. As far as you are concerned, you can go now – but we want you back here tomorrow morning so that you can sign the transcript of what you’ve said.’

She switched off the tape recorder. Palinski stood up, his legs shaking.

‘Am I a suspect?’ he asked.

Moreno nodded.

‘I apologize . . . I really do apologize. If I’d had my way, we’d have told you this straight away, of course. But Wauters . . .’

‘I understand,’ said Moreno. ‘We all make mistakes. Off you go now, this way.’

Palinski slunk off through the door like a reprimanded and penitent schoolboy – but after a few seconds he reappeared.

‘It’s Wauters who has the lottery ticket,’ he said. ‘He hasn’t cashed it in yet. Just so that you know.’

The he apologized again and left.

Detective Inspector Moreno noticed that she was smiling.

15

Erich Reijsen was a well-groomed gentleman in his sixties with a wife and a terraced house in the same good condition as himself. Moreno had telephoned and made an appointment, and when she arrived the tea tray was already waiting in the living room, where a realistic electric fire was burning in the hearth.

She switched off her soul, and sat down on the plush sofa.

‘We don’t eat anything sweet,’ said herr Reijsen, gesturing towards the coarse rye bread and red pepper rings. ‘We’ve started to live a healthy life as we grow older.’

His weather-beaten face and neatly trimmed moustache bore witness to that – as did his wife’s tight tracksuit and mop of blonde hair kept in place by a red and gold headband.

‘Help yourself,’ she said, demonstrating her successful facelift by opening her eyes wide. ‘My name’s Blenda.’

‘Inspector Moreno,’ said Moreno, fishing up her notebook from her briefcase. ‘Please take as much time as you like, but of course it’s mainly herr Reijsen I need to speak to.’

‘Of course,’ said Reijsen, and Blenda scampered off to some other part of the house. After only a few seconds Moreno could hear the characteristic whining noise of an exercise bike at full speed.

‘It’s about Waldemar Leverkuhn,’ she said. ‘I take it you know what’s happened?’

Reijsen nodded solemnly.

‘We’re trying to piece together a more all-round picture of him,’ said Moreno, as her host poured out some weak tea into yellow cups. ‘You were a colleague of his for . . . for how long?’

‘Fifteen years,’ said Reijsen. ‘From the day he started work at Pixner until he retired – 1991, that is. I carried on working for five more years, and then the staff cuts began. I was offered early retirement, and accepted it like a shot. I have to say that I haven’t regretted that a single day.’

Neither would I, Moreno thought in a quick flash of insight.

‘What was he like?’ she asked. ‘Can you tell me a little about Waldemar Leverkuhn?’

It took Erich Reijsen over half an hour to exhaust the topic. It took Moreno rather less time – about two minutes – to realize that the visit was probably going to be fruitless. The portrait of Waldemar Leverkuhn as a reserved and grumpy person (but nevertheless upright and reliable) was one she had already, and her attentive host was unable to add any brush strokes that changed it, or provided anything new.

Nor did he have any dramatic revelations to make, no insightful comments or anything else that could be of the slightest relevance to the investigation.

In truth, she had difficulty at the moment in envisaging what a relevant piece of the puzzle might look like, so she dutifully noted down most of what herr Reijsen had to say. It sapped her strength, there was no denying it – both to write and to keep awake – and when she stood up after three slices of rye bread and as many cups of tea, her first instinct was to find her way to the bathroom and sick it all up. Both herr Reijsen and the sandwiches.

Her second instinct was to take a hammer and batter the exercise bike that had been emitting its reproachful whining for the whole of her visit, but she managed to restrain herself. After all, she did not have a hammer handy.

I’m a bloody awful police officer at the moment, she thought shortly afterwards, sitting at the wheel of her car again at last. Certainly nothing for the force to be proud of . . . It’s a good job we’re not busy with something more serious than this case.