The Unlucky Lottery

Münster nodded, somewhat embarrassed. It was true, in fact. On two previous occasions since Van Veeteren had left the stage, Münster had plucked up courage and discussed on-going investigations with him. The first time, nearly a year ago, he had been most reluctant to get him involved again, but he had soon realized that the old bloodhound instinct had not died out altogether. And that the chief inspector even derived a certain grim satisfaction from being consulted in this fashion.

But the fact that he would never admit as much for even a second was another matter, of course.

‘I understand,’ said Münster. ‘Thank you for being willing to help. And listen. Anyway, of course it’s about Leverkuhn, no point in denying it.’

Van Veeteren emptied his glass.

‘I’ve read about it, as I said. It seems a bit special. If you buy me another beer it would no doubt improve my sense of hearing.’

There was a slight twitch in the muscles of one cheek. Münster drained his own glass, and went to the bar.

Two beers and forty-five minutes later, they had finished. Van Veeteren leaned back in his chair and nodded thoughtfully.

‘No, this certainly doesn’t seem to be a straightforward case,’ he said. ‘Things seem to be pulling in different directions. The threads seem to be unwinding instead of coming together.’

‘Exactly,’ said Münster. ‘Leverkuhn, Bonger and fru Van Eck. I’ve been thinking about it, and there seems to be just enough that links them together to suggest that their fates were connected – but yet not enough to suggest a motive.’

‘That could well be, yes,’ said Van Veeteren mysteriously. ‘But I think you should be careful not to take that jigsaw puzzle analogy too far. It can be so damned annoying to have a piece too many.’

‘Eh?’ said Münster. ‘What do you mean by that?’

Van Veeteren didn’t answer. Sat up in his chair, and began playing with his cigarette machine instead. Münster looked out of the window again. Another of those meaningless comments, he thought, and felt a little pang of irritation that was as familiar to him as a favourite jacket.

A piece too many? No, he decided that it was just an example of the chief inspector’s weakness for smokescreens and mystification, nothing more. But what was the point of that in a situation like this?

‘What about the wife?’ said Van Veeteren. ‘What do you make of her?’

Münster thought for a moment.

‘Introverted,’ he said eventually. ‘She seems to have a lot buttoned up inside her that she’s reluctant to let come out. Although I don’t really know – there’s no such thing as normal reactions when you come home and find your husband murdered like that. Why do you ask?’

Van Veeteren ignored that question as well. Sat squeezing his newly rolled cigarette, seemingly lost in thought.

‘Anyway,’ said Münster. ‘I just wanted to talk it through. Thank you for listening.’

Van Veeteren lit the cigarette and blew smoke over a begonia that was probably just as dead as the chief of police’s acacias.

‘Tuesday afternoon,’ he said. ‘Give me a few days to think a few things over, and then maybe we can have a game of badminton. I need to get a bit of exercise. But don’t expect too much – regarding your case, that is,’ he added, tapping his brow with his knuckles. ‘I’m rather more focused on beauty and pleasure nowadays.’

‘Tuesday, then,’ said Münster, writing it down in his notebook. ‘Yes, I’d heard rumours about that – a new woman, is that right?’

Van Veeteren put the cigarette machine into his jacket pocket, and looked inscrutable.

The presents added up to nearly 500 euros, topped by a red dress for Synn costing 295. But what the hell? Münster thought. You only live once.

What had she said the other day?

What if we die soon?

He shuddered, and got into his car. However you looked at it, life was no more than the total of all these days, and at some point, of course, you start being more interested in the days that have passed rather than those yet to come.

But there are moments in life – let’s hope so in any case – when you have an opportunity to devote yourself to the here and now.

Such as a Saturday and Sunday in November like these.

Damn and blast, Intendent Münster thought. I wish to God I had one of those copper’s brains that you can switch on and off in accordance with working hours.

If there is such a thing, of course. He remembered an old conversation with the chief inspector – presumably at Adenaar’s as usual – about the concept of intuition.

The brain functions best when you leave it in peace, Van Veeteren had argued. Keep tucked away the questions and information you have, and think about something else. If there’s an answer, it will come tumbling out sooner or later.

Like hell it will! Münster thought pessimistically. I suppose there are brains and brains . . .