The Unlucky Lottery

Mauritz didn’t reply, but Münster could see from his reaction that the guess was probably spot on. It was the same old story. Just as when a game of patience is about to be resolved, and the cards seem to turn up in a predictable order.

‘Shall I tell you what happened next?’ he asked.

Mauritz stood up with difficulty.

‘No, thank you,’ he said. ‘I want you to leave immediately. You are coming out with a mass of sick fantasies, and I have no intention of listening to you any longer.’

‘I thought you had just agreed that Irene really did tell you this?’ Münster said.

Mauritz stood there for a few seconds, swaying back and forth indecisively.

‘Your mother caught you in the act, didn’t she?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Did she come home while you were stabbing him, or did you meet her on the way out?’

I’d give a fortune for his thoughts just now, Münster thought. Surely he’ll give up now?

‘I suspect there are a few other things you don’t know about,’ said Münster. ‘About what happened next, that is.’

Mauritz stared at him for a few blank seconds again. Then he sat down.

‘Such as what?’ he said.

‘Fru Van Eck, for instance,’ said Münster. ‘Did you see her that night, or was it just she who saw you?’

Mauritz said nothing.

‘Have you any explanation for the murder of Else Van Eck? Did your mother tell you what happened? I’m asking because I don’t know.’

‘You know nothing,’ said Mauritz.

‘Then I’ll have to speculate,’ said Münster. ‘But it’s only of academic interest. Fru Van Eck saw you when you came to Kolderweg to kill your father. She told your mother she’d seen you a few days later: I’m not certain, but I assume she tried to use that knowledge to her own advantage. To earn money, in fact. Your mother reacted in a way she had never expected. She killed fru Van Eck.’

He paused for a few seconds, but Mauritz had no comment to make. He knew about it, Münster thought.

‘She killed the caretaker’s wife. Then she needed a few days to butcher the body and get rid of it. Then, when all that was done, she confessed to the murder of your father, so that we would stop investigating and you would go free. A cold-blooded woman, your mother. Very cold-blooded.’

‘You’re out of your mind,’ said Mauritz for the second time.

‘Obviously she couldn’t confess to the murder of Else Van Eck as well because she wouldn’t have been able to give a motive. It all fits together, you see – I think you have to admit that. She commits one murder, but confesses to another one: perhaps there is some kind of moral balance there. I think that’s the way she thought about it.’

Mauritz muttered something and scrutinized his hands. Münster watched him for a while without saying anything. Surely he’ll crack any minute now, he thought. I don’t have the strength to sit through all this again at the police station. I simply don’t have the strength.

‘I’m not sure either why she committed suicide in her cell,’ he said. ‘But it’s not difficult to sympathize with her. Perhaps it’s not difficult to understand anything of what she did. She was protecting you from being discovered as the murderer of your father, and she murdered another person in order to continue protecting you. She did a lot for your sake, herr Leverkuhn.’

‘She owed a debt.’

Münster waited, but there was no continuation.

‘A debt for what your father did to your sisters, d’you mean? For allowing it to happen?’

Mauritz suddenly clenched his fists and thumped them down on the arms of the chair.

‘Hell and damnation!’ he said. ‘He made Irene ill and she didn’t do anything to stop him! Can’t you understand that he wasn’t worth having a natural death? The bastard! I’d do it again if I could. I was prepared to accept responsibility for it as well. I was going to do so, and that’s why . . .’

He fell silent.

‘Why she committed suicide?’ asked Münster. ‘Because you were thinking of confessing?’

Mauritz stiffened, then seemed to crumple, and nodded weakly. Münster took a deep breath and closed his eyes. Opened them again and looked at the hunched-up figure slumped in the chair opposite him: he tried to decide what he really felt about him.

One of those losers, he thought. Yet another one.

He must have been damaged by his childhood, he as well, even if it didn’t make itself felt as dreadfully as in his beloved sister.

Those accursed, inescapable birth marks which could never be operated away. Which could never be glossed over or come to terms with.

And that accursed, pointless evil, Münster thought. Which kept on asserting itself, over and over again. Yes, he felt sorry for him. He would never have believed it even an hour ago, but he did now.

‘Are you going to arrest me now?’ said Mauritz.

‘They’re waiting for us at the police station,’ said Münster.

‘I don’t regret a thing. I’d do it again, can you understand that?’