The Unlucky Lottery

‘I explained to him that it was all over now. Definitely over and done with. He’s off to the USA for a course tomorrow morning. He said that if I don’t change my mind, he won’t be coming back. So that’s where we’re at.’

She fell silent, and looked past his shoulder, out of the window. Münster swallowed, and for a fleeting moment acknowledged that if he had been in Claus Badher’s shoes he would probably have done the same.

‘You mean . . .?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Moreno. ‘That’s what he meant. I know it. He’s intending to take his own life.’

Five seconds passed.

‘It doesn’t have to be that serious. A lot of people say things like that.’

‘Maybe,’ said Moreno. ‘And a lot of people do it. God, I sometimes wish I could just disappear into a black hole. Everything feels so damned hopeless. I’ve tried to persuade him to at least talk to somebody . . . To seek some kind of help. To do anything at all that leaves me out of it – but you men are just the way you are.’

‘The macho mystery?’ said Münster.

‘Yes, of course. We’ve already talked about that.’

She shrugged apologetically.

‘Do you have somebody to talk to yourself?’ Münster asked.

A slight blush coloured her face.

‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘An old detective intendent I happen to know, among others. No, enough of this. Isn’t there any work I can immerse myself in?’

‘A whole ocean,’ said Münster. ‘Plus a stagnant backwater called the Leverkuhn case. Could that be something for you?’

‘You’re not going to shelve it?’

‘I can’t,’ said Münster. ‘I’ve tried, but I dream about it at night.’

Moreno nodded and took her hands out of her pockets.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘I’ve been thinking about that daughter I spoke to,’ said Münster. ‘Could that be something worth following up?’

‘Odd,’ said Rooth.

‘What is?’ said Jung.

‘Can’t you see?’

‘No, I’m blind.’

Rooth snorted.

‘Look at the other houseboats. That one . . . And that one!’

He pointed. Jung looked, and stamped his feet in an attempt to create a bit of heat.

‘I’m freezing,’ he said. ‘Tell me what you are on about, or I’ll throw you into the canal.’

‘Spoken like a true gentleman,’ said Rooth. ‘It’s not moored next to the quay, you berk. Why the hell has he anchored a metre out into the water?’

Jung registered that this really was the case. Bonger’s canal boat – which he was now gaping at for the seventh or eighth time – was not moored with its rail next to the stone quayside. Instead it was held in place by four hawsers as thick as your arm and a couple of fenders made out of rough wooden logs with car tyres fixed to the end, wedged between the hull of the boat and the quay half a metre above the waterline. The narrow gang-plank, which he had crossed a month ago, ran for a metre and a half over open water very nearly to the bows of the boat. Come to think of it, he had to admit that this was a bit odd.

‘All right,’ said Jung. ‘But what’s the significance?’

‘How the hell should I know?’ said Rooth. ‘But it’s an unusual set-up. Anyway, shall we call in on the old witch?’

Jung bit his lip.

‘Maybe we should have brought her something.’

‘Brought her something? What the hell are you on about?’

‘She’s a bit of a one-off, I’ve explained that already. We’d be more likely to get somewhere with her if we presented her with a drop of something tasty.’

Rooth shuddered.

‘A curse on this bloody wind,’ he said. ‘Okay, there’s an off-licence on the corner over there. Nip over and buy a half bottle of gin, and I’ll wait here for you.’

Ten minutes later they were ensconced in the galley with fru Jümpers. Just as Jung had predicted, the gin was much appreciated – especially as it was the coldest day so far this winter, and the lady of the boat had a visitor.

The visitor’s name was Barga – Jung couldn’t make out whether this was her first name or her surname – a robust woman of an uncertain age. Probably somewhere between forty and seventy. Despite the fact that it was relatively warm on board, both ladies were wearing rubber boots, thick woollen jumpers and long scarves, wrapped round and round their heads and necks. Without much in the way of ceremony, four tin mugs appeared on the table and were promptly filled with two centimetres of gin and three centimetres of coffee. Then a sugar lump, and a toast was proposed.

‘Aah!’ exclaimed Barga. ‘God is not as dead as they say.’

‘But He’s on His last legs,’ said fru Jümpers. ‘Believe you me!’

‘Hmm,’ said Jung. ‘In that connection, do you happen to have seen herr Bonger lately? That’s why we’ve called on you, of course.’

‘Bonger?’ said Barga, unwinding her headscarf slightly. ‘No, that’s a mystery. Makes you wonder what the bloody police do in this town.’

‘These gentlemen are from the police,’ said the hostess, with a wry smile.

‘Well, I’ll be buggered,’ said Barga. ‘Still, I suppose somebody has to do it, as the arse-licker said.’

‘Exactly,’ said Rooth. ‘So you also knew herr Bonger?’