The Unlucky Lottery

‘How can you be sure that she hasn’t just gone to visit somebody?’ Moreno asked.

‘I just know,’ said Van Eck. ‘It was Wednesday yesterday, and we always watch Gangsters’ Wives on a Wednesday. It’s a television series.’

‘Yes, we know,’ said Moreno.

‘Gangsters?’ wondered Munster.

‘She massages my legs as well,’ continued Van Eck. ‘Always on a Wednesday. It helps to prevent vascular spasms.’

He demonstrated rather awkwardly how his wife would grasp and rub his thighs and calves. Munster couldn’t believe his eyes, but he saw that Moreno was making notes without turning a hair, so he assumed for the time being at least that there was nothing to worry about. This was presumably how people behaved with each other in the autumn of their lives.

But how could Ewa Moreno know that?

‘When did you see her last?’ he asked.

‘Five past five,’ said Van Eck without hesitation. ‘She went out to do some shopping, but she hadn’t come back when I left to attend my course.’

‘What course is that?’ Moreno asked.

‘Porcelain painting. Six o’clock at Riitmeeterska, so it only takes a few minutes to get there. I left at about ten to.’

‘Porcelain painting?’ said Munster.

‘It’s more interesting than you might think,’ Van Eck assured him, sitting up a bit straighter. ‘I’m only an amateur, I’ve only been going for four terms; but then the main idea isn’t to produce masterpieces. Mind you, one day, perhaps…’

For a brief second the caretaker’s face lit up. Munster cleared his throat.

‘What time did you get home?’

‘Five past eight, as usual. Else wasn’t at home, and she hadn’t come by the time Gangsters’ Wives started either. It begins at half past nine, and that was when I became really worried.’

Moreno continued writing everything down. Munster recalled his dream from the last night but one, and pinched himself discreetly in the arm to make sure that he really was sitting here in this yellow-and-pink-painted kitchen.

He didn’t wake up, and hence assumed that he hadn’t been asleep.

‘Where do you think she’s gone?’ asked Moreno.

Van Eck’s cheek muscles twitched a couple of times, and once again he looked as if he were about to burst out crying.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. He produced a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and blew his nose. ‘It’s beyond belief, she would never simply go away without saying where she was going to… She knows I’m not all that strong.’

He folded his handkerchief meticulously, and blinked several times behind his strong glasses. Love despite everything? Munster thought. There are so many kinds…

‘A good friend, perhaps?’ he said.

Van Eck made no reply. Put away his handkerchief.

‘A good friend or relative who’s suddenly fallen ill?’ Moreno suggested.

Van Eck shook his head.

‘She doesn’t have many friends. She would have phoned – she’s been missing for half a day now, more in fact.’

‘And no message?’ Moreno wondered.

‘No.’

‘Has she ever gone away like this before?’

‘Never.’

‘Have you rung the hospitals? Something might have happened to her – a minor accident, it doesn’t need to be anything serious.’

‘I’ve spoken to both Rumford and Gemejnte. They knew nothing – and in any case, she would have been in touch.’

‘Had you fallen out, perhaps? Quarrelled?’

‘We never quarrel.’

‘What was she wearing?’ Munster asked.

Van Eck looked confused.

‘Why do you want to know that?’

Munster sighed.

‘Haven’t you wondered about that?’ he asked. ‘Have her outer clothes vanished as well, for instance? Has she taken a suitcase with her? Anyway, if you haven’t checked that perhaps you would be so kind as to do so now.’

‘Excuse me,’ said Van Eck as he hurried out into the hall. They could hear him rummaging around among coat-hangers and shoes for a while, and then he came back.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘both her hat and coat are missing, and her handbag.’

‘So she must have gone out,’ said Moreno. ‘Could you please check if she’s taken a bag with her – apart from her handbag, that is.’

It took several minutes for Van Eck to investigate this question, but when he returned he was in no doubt.

‘No bag,’ he said. ‘Both the suitcase and the shopping bag are in the wardrobe as usual. And she hasn’t been down into the storeroom in the basement. And what’s more, I know she came back home after doing her shopping – she has put things into the fridge and the larder. Milk and potatoes and a few tins of stuff. And other odds and ends. Diegermann’s caviar for instance – we always buy that, the unsmoked variety. With dill.’

‘It’s pretty good,’ said Munster.

‘Have you mentioned this to any of the neighbours?’ Moreno asked.

‘No,’ said Van Eck, squirming in his chair.

‘Any acquaintances?’

‘No. I don’t want this to come out, I mean, if it’s nothing important… I mean…’

He said nothing more. Munster and Moreno exchanged glances, and she was evidently on the same wavelength – she gestured with her head, then nodded. Munster cleared his throat.

‘Well, herr Van Eck,’ he said. ‘I think it would be best if you came to the police station with us. We can go through it all properly, and write a report.’

Van Eck took a deep breath.

‘I agree,’ he said, and it was obvious that he was not in complete control of his voice. ‘Can I go to the bathroom first? My stomach’s a bit upset, thanks to all this.’

‘Please do,’ said Moreno.

While they were waiting they took the opportunity of looking round the cramped two-roomed flat. It contained nothing that surprised them. A bedroom with an old-fashioned double bed with a teak headboard, and net curtains in light blue and white. Living room with television set, glass-fronted display cupboard and a drab three-piece suite in hard-wearing polyester. No books apart from a reference work in ten bright red volumes – but lots of magazines and a mass of landscape reproductions on the walls, and hand-painted porcelain vases on bureaux and tables. The kitchen where they had been sitting was barely big enough for three people: refrigerator, cooker and sink from the late fifties, by the looks of it, and the potted plants on the windowsills seemed to have grown and multiplied of their own accord. The artificial flower on the table looked much more natural. All the floors were covered in carpets of different styles, colours and qualities, and the only thing that Munster could possibly interpret as an expression of personal taste was a stuffed giraffe’s head over the hat shelf in the hall – but that was probably because he had never seen a detached giraffe’s head before.

Moreno shrugged, with a sigh of resignation, and they went back to the kitchen.

‘What about the neighbours?’ she said. ‘Should I stay here and listen to whatever they have to say? I suppose it would be helpful if we could establish when she was last seen.’