The Unlucky Lottery

Münster nodded. He wanted comfort and understanding now. Mün-ster recognized the situation. Very often it wasn’t confirmation of a justified crime that would provide the release the perpetrator was longing for, but words. Being able to talk about it afterwards. The ability to explain his actions face to face with another person. A person who understood, and a face that could tolerate the reflection of his desperation.

Oh yes, it had happened before.

‘It would be wrong for a bastard like him to complete his life without being punished . . . To get away with something like that.’

‘Let’s go now,’ said Münster. ‘We’ll take the rest down at the station.’

Mauritz stood up. Wiped the sweat off his brow again, and breathed deeply.

‘Can I just go to the kitchen and take another pill?’

Münster nodded.

He left the room, and Münster heard him dropping a tablet into a glass and then filling it with water. Thank God, he thought. It’s all over now. I can wash my hands of this awful business.

It was too late when Münster realized that the passive resignation displayed by Mauritz Leverkuhn for the past few minutes was not quite what it had seemed. And too late when he realized that the carving knife they had spent so much time looking for in October and the beginning of November had not in fact been thrown into a canal or a rubbish bin. It was in Mauritz Leverkuhn’s hand now, just as it had been during the night between the 25th and 26th of October. He discovered that fact via the corner of his eye looking over his right shoulder, felt for his pistol in its holster, but that was as far as he got. The knife blade entered his midriff from behind: he felt an agonizing stab of pain, then he fell headfirst to the floor without breaking the fall with his hands.

The pain was so acute that it paralysed him. Penetrated the whole of his body like a white-hot iron drill of agony. Neutralized his ability to move. Annihilated time and space. When it eventually began to ease, he heard Mauritz Leverkuhn leave and slam the outside door.

He turned his head, and thought the cool parquet floor felt pleasant against his cheek. Gentle and conciliatory. It’s my tiredness, he thought. This would never have happened if I hadn’t been so tired.

Before a black wave of oblivion flowed over his consciousness, he thought two more thoughts.

The first was to Synn: Good, I need never know how things would have turned out.

The second was just one word:

No.

40

The police station in Frigge had moved since Van Veeteren served his apprenticeship in that northern coastal town. Or rather, they had squeezed a new building into the same block and rehoused the forces of law and order in almost the same place as before. Van Veeteren didn’t think the move had improved anything. The new police station was built mainly of grey concrete and bullet-proof glass, and the duty officer was a young red-haired man with prominent ears. Not a bit like old Borkmann.

Ah well, Van Veeteren thought. At least his hearing ought to be sharp.

‘Reinhart and Van Veeteren from Maardam,’ said Reinhart. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Inspector Liebling,’ said the red-head, shaking hands.

‘Chief Inspector Van Veeteren actually used to work up here,’ said Reinhart. ‘But that was probably before you were born.’

‘Really?’ said Liebling.

‘At the dawn of recorded time,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Late nineteenth century. Have you heard anything?’

‘You mean . . .?’ said Liebling, feeling a little nervously for his thin moustache.

‘He ought to be here now, for Christ’s sake,’ said Reinhart. ‘It’s nearly eight o’clock.’

‘Intendent Münster from Maardam,’ Van Veeteren explained.

‘Yes, I know,’ said Liebling. ‘Malinowski filled me in when I relieved him. I have the details here.’

He tapped away at the computer keyboard and nodded his head in acknowledgement.

‘Intendent Münster, yes. Expected to come in with a suspect . . . but there hasn’t been one yet. He hasn’t turned up yet, I mean.’

‘When did he contact you?’ Van Veeteren asked.

Liebling checked.

‘At 17.55,’ he said. ‘Inspector Malinowski took the call, as I said. I came on duty at half past six.’

‘And he hasn’t rung again?’ asked Reinhart.

‘No,’ said Liebling. ‘We haven’t heard anything more since then.’

‘Did he give you any instructions?’

Liebling shook his head.

‘Only that we should stand by for when he arrived with this . . . person. We’ve got his number, of course. His mobile.’

‘So have we,’ said Reinhart. ‘But he’s not answering.’

‘Damn and blast!’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Give us the address, and we’ll go there! This is taking too long.’

Liebling printed it out.

‘Krautzwej 28,’ he said. ‘It’s out at Gochtshuuis. Would you like me to come with you? To show you the way?’

‘Yes, come with us,’ said Van Veeteren.

‘There’s a light on in any case,’ said Reinhart ten minutes later. ‘And that’s his car.’

Van Veeteren thought for a moment.

‘Ring one more time, to make sure we don’t barge in at a vital moment,’ he said.

Reinhart took out his mobile and dialled the number. Waited for half a minute.