The Unlucky Lottery

‘Are you sure this isn’t something Rooth has invented?’ she said, looking searchingly at Krause. ‘He doesn’t seem to be all that reliable at the moment.’

Krause shrugged.

‘Are you suggesting Rooth has kidnapped her, or something? You’d better go there and take a look, and find out. If I remember rightly she’s the size of a house . . . It can’t be all that easy to hide her away.’

‘Okay,’ said Moreno. ‘Stay here and we’ll keep you informed.’

‘I don’t make a habit of disappearing,’ said Krause.

Arnold Van Eck looked as if he’d sold the cream but lost the money. He must have been standing by the window, waiting for them, because he received them in the entrance hall where they also met fru Leverkuhn who was carrying bags and suitcases full of her husband’s clothes to a waiting taxi.

‘They’re going to the charity shop,’ she said. ‘I thought you lot would have been able to leave me alone for a day at least.’

‘It’s not . . . It’s . . .’ stammered Van Eck, shifting his feet nervously.

‘It’s not you we want to talk to today,’ Münster explained. ‘Herr Van Eck, perhaps we ought to go into your flat.’

The little caretaker nodded and led the way. His tiny frame looked more wretched than ever – it looked as if it could fall to pieces at any moment, so compelling were his tears and his despair. Münster wondered if he had slept a single wink that night.

‘What’s happened?’ he asked when they had sat down around the diminutive kitchen table covered by a blue-and-white checked oilcloth, with a yellow artificial flower in a vase in the middle.

Van Eck flung out his arms in a gesture intended to express his impotence.

‘She’s gone.’

‘Gone?’ said Moreno.

‘Your wife?’ asked Münster.

‘Alas, yes,’ said Van Eck. ‘That’s the way it is.’

Alas, yes? Münster thought. He must be barmy. But then he knew – through his work and in other ways – that there were people who would never have been given the role of themselves if it had been a question of a film or a play rather than life itself. Arnold Van Eck was definitely one of those.

‘Tell us about it,’ said Moreno.

Van Eck sniffed a few times and slid his thick spectacles further up his shiny nose.

‘It was yesterday,’ he said. ‘Yesterday evening . . . She disappeared some time during the afternoon. Or evening.’

He fell silent.

‘How can you be sure that she hasn’t just gone to visit somebody?’ Moreno asked.

‘I just know,’ said Van Eck. ‘It was Wednesday yesterday, and we always watch Gangsters’ Wives on a Wednesday. It’s a television series.’

‘Yes, we know,’ said Moreno.

‘Gangsters?’ wondered Münster.

‘She massages my legs as well,’ continued Van Eck. ‘Always on a Wednesday. It helps to prevent vascular spasms.’

He demonstrated rather awkwardly how his wife would grasp and rub his thighs and calves. Münster couldn’t believe his eyes, but he saw that Moreno was making notes without turning a hair, so he assumed for the time being at least that there was nothing to worry about. This was presumably how people behaved with each other in the autumn of their lives.

But how could Ewa Moreno know that?

‘When did you see her last?’ he asked.

‘Five past five,’ said Van Eck without hesitation. ‘She went out to do some shopping, but she hadn’t come back when I left to attend my course.’

‘What course is that?’ Moreno asked.

‘Porcelain painting. Six o’clock at Riitmeeterska, so it only takes a few minutes to get there. I left at about ten to.’

‘Porcelain painting?’ said Münster.

‘It’s more interesting than you might think,’ Van Eck assured him, sitting up a bit straighter. ‘I’m only an amateur, I’ve only been going for four terms; but then the main idea isn’t to produce masterpieces. Mind you, one day, perhaps . . .’

For a brief second the caretaker’s face lit up. Münster cleared his throat.

‘What time did you get home?’

‘Five past eight, as usual. Else wasn’t at home, and she hadn’t come by the time Gangsters’ Wives started either. It begins at half past nine, and that was when I became really worried.’

Moreno continued writing everything down. Münster recalled his dream from the last night but one, and pinched himself discreetly in the arm to make sure that he really was sitting here in this yellow-and-pink-painted kitchen.

He didn’t wake up, and hence assumed that he hadn’t been asleep.

‘Where do you think she’s gone?’ asked Moreno.

Van Eck’s cheek muscles twitched a couple of times, and once again he looked as if he were about to burst out crying.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. He produced a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blew his nose. ‘It’s beyond belief, she would never simply go away without saying where she was going to . . . She knows I’m not all that strong.’

He folded his handkerchief meticulously, and blinked several times behind his strong glasses. Love despite everything? Münster thought. There are so many kinds . . .

‘A good friend, perhaps?’ he said.

Van Eck made no reply. Put away his handkerchief.

‘A good friend or relative who’s suddenly fallen ill?’ Moreno suggested.

Van Eck shook his head.