The Unlucky Lottery

Münster sighed and wished he were a smoker. A smoker would have lit up at this point; as it was, he had to make do with clasping his hands behind the back of his neck and leaning still further back on his chair.

What about the disappearances? he thought. There were differences between them. Big differences. As far as Bonger was concerned, he could have disappeared in a puff of smoke at any time during the night of the murder – or even later. Nobody had seen any trace of him after he had left Freddy’s, but nobody missed him until well into Sunday. At a guess he had never arrived back at his houseboat at all, but that was only a hypothesis. There were masses of alternatives and variations.

It was different in the case of Else Van Eck. Here the margins were reduced to an hour between seven and eight on Wednesday evening, and bearing in mind her size and general profile, that was not a very large space to pass through. Witnesses should – no, must – surely turn up, Münster thought. We shall have to carry out yet another door-to-door operation tomorrow!

Then he just sat there for a while with his eyes closed, and imagined the three puzzle pieces dancing around in a deep and increasingly dark space – like that logo of some film company or other did until the letters clung on to one another and formed its name, or at least its abbreviation. He couldn’t remember the name of the film company, and the puzzle pieces Leverkuhn, Bonger and Van Eck never clung on to one another. They simply continued whirling round and round in the same unfathomable and never-ending loops, receding further and further away, it seemed, deeper and deeper into ever-blacker space.

He made a big effort and opened his eyes. Noted that it was turned five o’clock, and decided to go home.

I’d bet my bloody life, he thought as he wormed his way into his jacket, I’d bet my bloody life that if all the detective officers in the world got an hour’s extra sleep per night, five hours per day would be saved. Due to the fact that our brains would have the strength to think more clearly.

Surely it must be better to cut back on wasted time rather than on sleep? Surely sleep can never be wasted?

What’s all this buzzing around in my head? he thought. Am I growing old? And I haven’t made love for two weeks either.

19

‘I can’t shake off this feeling,’ said Rooth.

‘What feeling?’ asked Jung.

‘That I’m sort of lost as far as this investigation is concerned. I can’t get the hang of what the hell is going on. I suppose I ought to be working on a different case.’

Jung eyed him with a cool smile.

‘Such as? I don’t have the feeling that we’ve covered ourselves with glory as far as that berk in Linzhuisen is concerned either . . . Perhaps you ought to pack it in altogether?’

Rooth sighed self-critically. Rummaged around in his pockets after something to pop into his mouth, but only found a lump of elderly chewing gum wrapped up in a crumpled cinema ticket. There was a knock on the door and Krause came in with an envelope.

‘Pictures of Else Van Eck,’ he announced.

‘Okay,’ said Jung, accepting them. ‘Can you tell Joensuu and Kellerman to come to my office – and whoever else it was . . .’

‘Klempje and Proszek.’

‘Right,’ said Rooth. ‘Let’s go for broke.’

Krause left, Jung took the photographs out of the envelope and examined them. Passed one over to Rooth, who stood up and started scratching his head demonstratively.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked Jung.

‘It’s remarkable,’ said Rooth.

‘What is?’

‘That so much can disappear without trace. That everything disappears into thin air and all that, I mean, but even so?’

‘Hmm,’ said Jung. ‘You have a theory, is that what you’re trying to say?’

‘Well,’ replied Rooth. ‘Theory and theory . . . I really daren’t make any further comment about this bloody business. No, keep your own counsel, that’s best.’

‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Jung. ‘What the hell are you on about? Even if they’ve succeeded in bugging this office, there isn’t a newspaper in the whole of Europe that would print anything you say in future. Even you ought to understand that.’

‘All right,’ Rooth continued. ‘It has to do with her bulk.’

‘Bulk?’

‘Bulk, yes. I simply don’t believe that a gigantic woman like Else Van Eck could simply disappear like this.’

‘Like this? What does that mean?’

Rooth sat down again.

‘Don’t you understand?’

‘No.’

‘And yet they’ve made you an inspector?’

Jung gathered together the pictures and put them back in the envelope.

‘High and mighty, unshaven rozzer speaks with cloven tongue,’ he said.

‘I think she’s still in the building,’ said Rooth.

‘Eh?’

‘That Van Eck woman. She’s still in Kolderweg 17.’

‘What do you mean?’

Rooth sighed again.

‘Just that it’s hardly credible that she could have left the building without anybody seeing her. So she must still be there.’

‘But where?’ asked Jung.

Rooth shrugged.

‘I’ve no bloody idea. In the attic, or down in the cellar, presumably.’

‘You’re assuming she’s dead?’