The Unlucky Lottery

‘Fröken Svendsen,’ she said. ‘Regina Svendsen. We sometimes used to go out together, but she moved to Karpatz a few years ago. She found a new man, an old school friend who had also found himself on his own.’

‘Do you have her telephone number?’

‘No.’

Münster made a note and turned over a page.

‘Tell me about your coming home last Saturday night.’

‘I’ve already done that several times.’

‘This will be the last time,’ Münster promised.

‘Why?’

‘You never know. Things sometimes come back to you that you overlooked shortly after the event. Especially if you were in shock.’

She looked at him. Somewhat annoyed.

‘I haven’t overlooked anything.’

‘You came home at a few minutes past two, is that right?’

‘Yes,’ said fru Leverkuhn.

‘And the entrance door was standing ajar?’

‘Yes.’

‘The door to your flat wasn’t locked, right?’

‘I’ve already said it wasn’t.’

‘Did you see anybody? In the street or on the staircase, or in the flat?’

‘No.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Of course.’

‘So you went inside and discovered that something was wrong?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘How did you know that something was wrong?’

She thought for a moment.

‘There was a smell,’ she said.

‘Of what?’ Münster asked.

‘Blood.’

Münster pretended to be making notes while waiting for her to say more. But she didn’t. He tried to recall the smell of blood, and established that it was distinctly possible that she could have detected it. If his memory served him rightly, he had read somewhere amongst all the information about her that, like her daughter, she had worked for a few years as a butcher. She presumably knew what she was talking about.

‘You went into the room?’

‘Yes.’

‘And switched the light on?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did you react when you saw what had happened?’

She paused. Sat in silence again for a few seconds, then sat up straight and cleared her throat.

‘I stood there and felt like throwing up,’ she said. ‘It sort of came in waves, but then it stopped. So I went back out to report it.’

‘You set off for Entwick Pleijn?’

‘Yes, I’ve told you already.’

‘Were there many other people about?’

She shook her head.

‘I don’t remember. I don’t think so. It was raining.’

‘Did you go all the way to the police station?’

She thought that over again.

‘No. There were no lights in the windows, I could see that from the other side of the square.’

‘And so you turned back?’

‘Yes.’

‘And went the same way back home?’

‘Yes.’

Münster paused.

‘Shall I tell you something odd, fru Leverkuhn?’ he said.

She didn’t answer.

‘You say you walked nearly two kilometres through the town, and so far not a single witness has come forward to say they saw you. What do you say to that? I mean, the streets were not completely deserted.’

No reply. Münster waited for half a minute.

‘It’s not the case that you’re lying, is it, fru Leverkuhn?’

She looked up and stared at him with mild contempt.

‘Why on earth should I be telling lies?’

To save your own skin, for instance, Münster thought; but that was naturally an extremely dodgy thought, and he kept it to himself.

‘Had he fallen out with any of those old friends?’ he asked instead.

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘With herr Bonger, for instance?’

‘I don’t even know which is which of them.’

‘Have they never visited your flat?’

‘Never.’

‘But you knew that they had won some money, I take it?’

He had been leading up to that question for some considerable time, but it was difficult to draw any conclusions from her reaction.

‘Money?’ was all she said.

‘Twenty thousand,’ said Münster.

‘Each?’ she asked.

‘All together,’ said Münster. ‘Five thousand each. But that’s still quite a lot.’

She shook her head slowly.

‘He never mentioned that,’ she said.

Münster nodded.

‘And you still haven’t noticed anything missing from the flat? Apart from the knife, that is.’

‘No.’

‘Nothing at all?’

‘No . . . Mind you, I haven’t seen any trace of five thousand.’

‘They haven’t collected the money yet,’ said Münster.

‘That would explain it,’ said fru Leverkuhn.

Münster sighed. He could feel weariness creeping up on him, and suddenly – in no more than one second – the pointlessness of it all took possession of him. He suddenly felt that he could see right through this old woman’s vacant face, like looking through a pane of glass; and what he saw was a cul de sac, with himself standing there, staring at a brick wall. From half a metre away. With his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slumped in despair. In some strange way he was able to look at his own back and the brick wall at the same time. Filthy bricks covered in faded graffiti, and a smell of eternal, acid rain. It was not a pleasant picture of the situation. Not pleasant at all. I’d better retrace my steps, he thought, and blinked a few times in order to come into contact with reality again.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I haven’t any more questions for the moment, but I’d still like you to keep thinking, fru Leverkuhn. Even the tiniest insignificant detail might help us to get on the right track.’

‘I want you to leave me in peace.’

‘We want to find your husband’s murderer, fru Leverkuhn. And we shall find him.’