The Unlucky Lottery

Something is happening, he thought.

It mustn’t happen.

16

Wednesday felt like a funeral in a foreign language. He almost crashed the car twice on the way to the police station, and for a while seriously considered driving back home and going to bed instead. He had just flopped down at his desk, propping up his head with his hands, when Jung knocked on the door.

‘Have you got a spare moment?’

Münster nodded.

‘Two, if you need them.’

Jung sat down.

‘You look tired.’

‘What did you want?’ asked Münster.

‘Well,’ said Jung, squirming on the chair. ‘Nothing much really, just a thought that struck me.’

‘Really?’

‘Hmm,’ said Jung. ‘Er, I was thinking that the simplest solution to this Leverkuhn business would be that Bonger did it.’

Münster yawned.

‘Go on,’ he said.

Jung braced himself.

‘Well, I thought that Bonger could have gone home with Leverkuhn, for instance . . . or called round later, it doesn’t really matter which . . . and killed him. I mean, they had been arguing outside Freddy’s, and if Bonger lost his temper, it could well be that he lost control of his senses, as it were.’

‘You think so?’ said Münster.

‘I don’t know. But at least that would explain why he’s disappeared, wouldn’t it? At first I thought he had jumped into the canal when he sobered up and realized what he’d done, but of course he could equally well simply be in hiding. He must realize that he would be under suspicion. What do you think?’

Münster pondered for a moment.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘God knows, it’s certainly a possibility. There’s nothing to say that’s not what happened in any case.’

‘That’s exactly what I thought,’ said Jung, looking pleased with himself. ‘I just wanted you to bear it in mind.’

He stood up.

‘Thank you,’ said Münster. ‘If Hiller agrees to let me have you for a few days, you could follow it up – check possible pals and acquaintances and so on. Regarding a hiding place, that is.’

‘I’d be glad to,’ said Jung. ‘Although he doesn’t seem all that cooperative just now, Hiller . . . Something to do with that dwarf. But let me know if he gives us the okay.’

When he had left, Münster went to stand by the window again. Pulled up the blind, rested his forehead against the cool glass and gazed out at the completely unchanged town, which hardly seemed to have had the energy to get out of bed either.

Bonger? he thought. A dead simple solution. But why the hell not? Maybe he should do what Van Veeteren used to say: always do the simplest thing first. It’s so damned easy to miss a checkmate in one move!

Then he looked at the clock and saw there was less than twenty minutes to go before his meeting with Marie-Louise Leverkuhn. He armed himself with coffee, pen and notebook. Sat down at his desk again, and tried to concentrate.

‘To tell you the truth, we’re having difficulty in coming to grips with this case, fru Leverkuhn.’

She made no reply.

‘Nevertheless, we must work on the assumption that there is a motive behind the murder of your husband, that there is something in his background or general circumstances that has resulted in this terrible crime.’

It was a heavy-handed opening, but he had decided to take that line. Marie-Louise didn’t move a muscle.

‘There is only one person who can know about such things, and that is of course you, fru Leverkuhn. Have you had any thoughts about such matters in the last few days?’

‘None at all.’

She stared vacantly at him.

‘You must have been thinking about what has happened.’

‘I suppose I’ve been thinking about it, but nothing has come of it.’

‘Have you talked to many people you know?’

She shook her head.

‘I don’t know all that many people. My children. Emmeline. A few neighbours.’

‘But can you give me the names of your closest friends? Apart from Emmeline von Post, that is. That you and your husband used to socialize with.’

She looked down at the floor. Aha, Münster thought. So that’s how it is. That’s where the problem lies.

The most shameful thing in life, he’d read somewhere, was not having any friends. Being on your own. You can be as stupid as they come, a racist, a sadist, obese and stink like a skunk, a practising paedophile – but you have to have friends.

‘We didn’t socialize much,’ she said without looking up. ‘He had his friends, I had mine.’

‘No mutual friends?’

She shook her head.

‘What about relatives?’

‘Our children,’ she said again.

‘You don’t have any brothers or sisters?’

‘No, not any more.’

‘Who did your husband use to meet, apart from the gentlemen at Freddy’s?’

She thought for a moment.

‘Nobody else at all, I think. Maybe herr Engel now and then.’

‘Ruben Engel? In the same block of flats?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what about you?’ Münster persisted. ‘You used to meet fröken von Post a few times a month. Who else?’

‘Nobody else,’ said Marie-Louise.

‘Are you sure?’ said Münster. ‘No former colleagues, for instance? You were working at that department store until a couple of years ago, isn’t that right?’