The Unlucky Lottery

At Lene Bauer’s suggestion they had ensconced themselves in a screened booth in Rüger’s bar in Wiijsenweg, diagonally opposite the church. Moreno took an instant liking to the woman, who had apparently taken time off from her post at the library in Linzhuisen in order to attend the funeral. Her connection with Marie-Louise Leverkuhn was not especially strong: she and Lene’s mother had been cousins, but there had been no contact at all during the last twenty to twenty-five years.

However, Lene had followed what had happened in the papers and on the television: they had socialized quite a bit in the sixties.

‘Holidays by the sea,’ she explained. ‘A few weeks in Lejnice, Oosterbrügge and similar places. I assume it was cheaper if we all went together. My mother and Marie-Louise and us children. Me and Ruth, Irene and Mauritz . . . But I used to play mainly with Ruth, we are exactly the same age. Our fathers – my dad and Waldemar – only came to join us for an occasional evening or at the weekends . . . That’s about it, really.’

‘You haven’t kept in touch with the children either?’ asked Moreno.

‘No,’ said Lene, looking a bit guilty. ‘A few letters to Ruth at the beginning of the seventies, but I got married quite early and had other things to think about. My own children and so on. And for several years we lived down at Borghem as well.’

Moreno thought for a while. Sipped the wine they had ordered and tried to work out how best to continue. It certainly seemed as if this woman had something she wanted to say, but it might be something that wouldn’t be mentioned unless she was asked the right questions.

Or was it just imagination? Questionable female intuition? Hard to say.

‘Did you enjoy those summer holidays?’ she asked cautiously. ‘How many were there, incidentally?’

‘Three or four,’ said Lene. ‘I can’t remember, to be honest. Each of them several weeks. I was between ten and fifteen in any case. We used to listen to The Beatles – Ruth had a tape recorder. Yes, I enjoyed it – apart from with Mauritz.’

‘Really?’ said Moreno, and waited.

‘He was so terribly difficult to shake off,’ she said. ‘You had to feel sorry for him, of course – the only boy with three girls. And he was younger as well, but there seemed to be no limit to his determination to cling to his sisters, especially Irene. She didn’t have a second’s peace, and she never turned him away either. She mollycoddled him and built sandcastles for him, painted pictures and read him bedtime stories. For hours on end. Ruth and I kept well out of the way, as I recall it, only too glad to off-load the responsibility; but I know I found it extremely difficult to put up with Mauritz. They never said anything to him, and he never showed the slightest bit of gratitude. A cry-baby and a moaner, that’s what he was.’

‘Hmm,’ said Moreno. ‘This is what you wanted to tell me, isn’t it?’

Lene shrugged.

‘I don’t really know,’ she said. ‘I just started to think about them again when I heard about the terrible things that have happened. I simply couldn’t believe it was true.’

‘No,’ said Moreno. ‘I suppose it must have been a shock for you.’

‘Two,’ said Lene. ‘First the murder. Then the fact that she’d done it. She must have hated him.’

Moreno nodded.

‘Presumably. Did you have any idea of what their relationship was like? Then, thirty years ago, I mean.’

‘No,’ said Lene. ‘I’ve been thinking about it now, in view of what’s happened, but I was only a child in those days. I had no conception of things like that – and anyway, I hardly ever saw Waldemar. He only turned up very occasionally. No, I really don’t know.’

‘So it’s the children you remember?’

Lene sighed and fished a cigarette out of her handbag.

‘Yes. And then all that business of Irene’s illness. I’ve somehow always felt that it was connected. Her illness and her being over-protective of Mauritz. There was something wrong, but I suppose it’s easy to speculate. Darkness swallowed her up more or less all at once, if I understand it rightly. Just over twenty years ago, so it was a few years after our holidays together and I’ve no idea what it was all about. One can only guess, but it’s so easy to be clever with hindsight.’

She fell silent. Moreno watched her as she took out a lighter and lit her cigarette.

‘You know that Ruth is lesbian, I take it?’ she asked, mainly because she didn’t really know how to continue the conversation. Lene inhaled deeply, and nodded slowly several times.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But there are so many possible reasons for being that. Don’t you think?’

Moreno didn’t know how to interpret that answer. Did this stylish woman have a similar bent? Had she had enough of men? She took another sip of wine and thought about it, then realized that she was beginning to drift a long way away from the point.

Mind you, what was the point?

That’s certainly a good question, she thought. But she could think of nothing that might approximate to an answer. Not for the moment. Just now.