The Unlucky Lottery

For a moment he thought she looked more than acceptably doubtful, and it was probably that – together with the increasing feeling of gravelliness behind his eyes – that made him raise his voice.

‘We intend to find the murderer, fru Leverkuhn, you can be absolutely bloody certain of that!’

She looked at him in surprise. Then rose to her feet.

‘Was there anything else?’

‘Not for the moment,’ said Münster.

The rest of Wednesday passed by in more or less the same tone. Bonger’s canal boat was as deserted as ever, testimony from people who had been out and about on Saturday night was conspicuous by its absence, and the only response from the so-called underworld came from an anonymous source, urging the police to stop rummaging around in the wrong pile of dirty laundry.

Tell us which pile of dirty laundry is the right one, then! Münster thought, aggressively.

He purposely avoided contacting Inspector Moreno, and while he was struggling with an unusually unpalatable lunchtime pasta in the canteen, Krause informed him that she had phoned in earlier that morning and reported sick. At first Münster was relieved to hear that, but then he was filled with a degree of uncertainty that he dare not analyse too closely. The dream he had experienced the previous night was still hovering in the back of his mind – like an X-rated film he had watched by mistake – and he knew that it wasn’t there purely by chance.

He spent the whole afternoon in his office, reading through all the reports and minutes connected with the case that had accumulated already, without becoming much the wiser.

The case of Waldemar Leverkuhn?

That’s the way it is, was how he summed it up in resignation as he left the police station at half past four. For some unknown reason, an unknown perpetrator (man? woman?) had killed a harmless pensioner – in the most bestial fashion imaginable. Four days had passed since the murder, and they were still nowhere near a solution.

Another elderly man had disappeared that same night, and the police knew just as much about that as well.

Nothing.

Yet again – he had lost count of how many times it had happened these last few days – some wise words from Van Veeteren came into his head.

Police work is like life, the chief inspector had announced over a Friday beer at Adenaar’s a few years ago. Ninety-five per cent of it is wasted.

Wasn’t it about time they had got round to that last five per cent? Intendent Münster asked himself as he worked his way up through the labyrinth that formed the exit from the underground garage at the police station. Shouldn’t the breakthrough be due any time now?

Or was it the case, it struck him as he emerged into Baderstraat, that those gloomy words of wisdom from Van Veeteren were a sort of nudge, encouraging him to call in at Krantze’s antiquarian bookshop?

To pay a visit to the chief inspector?

It was a bold thought, of course – probably the only one that had struck him all day – and he decided to leave it in the back of his mind for the moment, and see how it grew.

Then he put his foot down on the accelerator and began to long for Synn and the children.

TWO

17

‘What did you say your name was?’ asked Krause, furrowing his brow.

He noted down the name and telephone number. Chewed at his pencil. There was something about this . . .

‘Address?’

He wrote that down as well and stared at it.

Surely it was . . .?

No doubt about it. He asked, and had his suspicions confirmed. Could hear how his voice was becoming rather excited, and tried to cough it away. Said thank you for the call and promised that somebody would be there within half an hour. Replaced the receiver.

My God! he thought. What the hell can this mean?

He dialled Münster’s number. Engaged.

Moreno. No reply.

Van Eck? Surely it can’t be a coincidence, he thought as he rose to his feet.

Münster beckoned him to come in as he continued talking on the telephone. Judging by the expression on his face, it must be Hiller at the other end of the line. Krause nodded to Moreno, who was sitting on one of the visitor chairs, leafing through a sheaf of papers.

Rather listlessly, it seemed. She looked tired, Krause noted, and leaned back against the bookcase. Everybody was tired at the moment, for whatever reason.

Münster managed to get rid of the chief of police and looked up.

‘Well? What’s the problem?’

‘Hmm,’ said Krause. ‘I’ve just had a strange telephone call.’

‘Really?’ said Münster.

‘Really?’ said Moreno.

‘Arnold Van Eck. The caretaker in Kolderweg. He says his wife has disappeared.’

‘What?’ said Moreno.

‘What the hell?’ said Münster.

Krause cleared his throat.

‘Yep, that’s what he claimed,’ he said. ‘Vanished into thin air yesterday, it seems. I promised we’d be there pronto. Shall I? . . . Or maybe . . .?’

‘No,’ said Münster. ‘Moreno and I will follow it up. That’s . . .’

He failed to establish what it was. Collected his briefcase, scarf and overcoat and hurried out of the door. Moreno followed him, but paused for a moment in the doorway.