The Unlucky Lottery

Before the trial began, when she counted up the visits, she concluded that Mauritz had been three times, and Ruth and Emmeline twice each. On her birthday, the second of December, Mauritz and Ruth turned up together with a Sachertorte and three white lilies – which for some reason she found so absurd that she had difficulty in not bursting into laughter.

Otherwise she made a big effort – during all these visits and greetings – to behave politely and courteously; but the circumstances sometimes meant that the atmosphere inside her pale yellow cell often felt tense and strained. Especially with Mauritz, there were a few occasions when heated words were exchanged about trivialities – but then she hadn’t expected anything else.

On the whole, however, her time in prison – the six weeks of waiting before the trial began – was a period of rest and recovery, so that when she went to bed the evening before the proceedings started, she felt inevitably a bit worried about what lay in store, but also calm, and quite confident that her inner strength would carry her through these difficult times.

As it had done thus far.

The trial began on a Tuesday afternoon, and her lawyer had promised her that it would be all over by the Friday evening – always assuming that no complications arose, and there was hardly any reason to expect that they would.

However, the first few hours in the courtroom were characterized by ceremonial posturing and a slow pace that made her wonder. She had been placed behind an oblong wooden table with bottles of mineral water, paper mugs and a notepad. On her right was her lawyer, smelling of his usual aftershave; on her left was a youngish woman dressed in blue, whose role was unclear to Marie-Louise Leverkuhn. But she didn’t ask about it.

This was not one of the bigger courtrooms, as far as she knew. The space for members of the public and journalists was limited to about twenty chairs behind a bar at the far end of the rectangular room. Just now, on this first afternoon, the audience was restricted to six people: two balding journalists and four women reassuringly well into pensionable age. It was a relief to find that there were so few: but she suspected that there would be rather more people sitting on the high-backed chairs later on in the performance. Once it was properly under way.

Sitting opposite her, enthroned on a dais barely a decimetre high, was Judge Hart behind a broad table covered in a green cloth hanging down to the floor on all sides – so that one didn’t need to look at his feet. Or up skirts, she fantasized, if the judge happened to be a woman. But she didn’t know. In any case, her own administrator of justice was a man of generous proportions in his sixties. He reminded her very much of a French actor whose name she couldn’t remember, no matter how hard she tried. Ended in - eaux, she seemed to recall.

On the right of the judge were two other officers of justice – young and immaculately groomed men wearing glasses and impeccable suits – and on the left was the jury.

In the early stages everything was aimed at the six members of this jury: four men and two women, and as far as she could make out it was all intended to establish the irreproachable and impartial nature of their characters when it came to the trial that was about to start.

When they had all been approved, Judge Hart declared that proceedings could begin and handed over to the prosecutor, fru Grootner, a woman in late middle age wearing a beige costume and with a mouth so wide that it sometimes seemed to continue for some distance outside the face itself. She stood in front of her table on the other side of the central aisle, leaning back with her ample bosom as a counterbalance, and pleaded her cause for over forty-five minutes. As far as Marie-Louise Leverkuhn could understand it was based on the premise that in the early hours of 26 October she had stabbed to death Waldemar Leverkuhn with malice aforethought and in full control of her senses, so that the only crime she could possibly be accused of was first degree murder. And hence this was the count that she would have to answer for.

Does she really believe what she’s saying? Leverkuhn wondered to herself: but it was hard to judge what was hiding behind the torrent of words and the streamlined spectacles which, on closer examination, proved to have precisely the Cupid’s bow form that was missing from her lips.

When the prosecutor had finished, it was the defence’s turn. Bachmann stood up with all the dignity he could muster, stroked his right hand several times over his mahogany-brown hair, and then announced that the defence would contest the charge and instead plead guilty to manslaughter.

He elaborated on this forcefully and verbosely for almost as long as the wide-mouthed prosecutor had spouted forth, and Marie-Louise felt frequently as if her eyelids were closing down.

Perhaps she hadn’t slept as well as she’d thought last night?

Perhaps she was too old for this kind of thing. Would everything be over and done with more quickly if she were to plead guilty to murder?

When proceedings were suspended for the day shortly after four o’clock, she hadn’t needed to answer a single question. Or even utter a single word. Bachmann had already explained that this was how things would go on the first day, but even so she felt somewhat confused as she was led out by the lady in blue who had remained at her side all the time.

It’s like being at the dentist’s or in hospital, she thought with a mixture of relief and disappointment. One is beyond doubt the leading character, but doesn’t have a single word to say about it.

Still, that was presumably the norm in courts of law as well.

23

‘A longer racket,’ said Van Veeteren, feeling his back. ‘That’s what’s needed, dammit. I don’t understand why they don’t invent something of the sort.’

‘Why?’ said Munster.

‘So that you don’t need to bend such a bloody long way down for drop shots, of course. My back isn’t what it used to be. Never has been.’

Munster considered these words of wisdom and switched on the shower. He had won all three sets as usual, it was true, but the chief inspector – former chief inspector – had offered stiff opposition. 15-9, 15-11, 15-6 were the scores, which suggested that Van Veeteren was in better condition now than he had been before leaving the police station, rather than the opposite.

Nevertheless he surely can’t have much further to go before passing the sixty mark? Munster thought, trying to brush aside the possibility that the fairly even outcome of the match might have something to do with his own state at the moment.

‘Adenaar’s now?’ wondered Van Veeteren as they came up to the foyer. ‘I gather you need to get something else off your chest.’

Munster coughed a little self-consciously.

‘If you have time, Chief Inspector.’

‘Stop using those words, will you?’ grunted Van Veeteren.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Munster. ‘It takes time to get used to it.’

‘I know that only too well,’ said Van Veeteren, holding the door open.

‘I suppose it’s Leverkuhn that’s worrying you, is it?’

Munster looked out in the direction of the square, and took a deep breath.

‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘The trial started this afternoon. I just can’t get it out of my head.’

Van Veeteren took out his unwieldy cigarette machine and started filling it with tobacco.

‘Those are the worst kind,’ he said. ‘The ones that don’t allow you to sleep at night.’

‘Exactly,’ said Munster. ‘I dream about this accursed case. I can’t make head nor tail of it, whether I’m awake or asleep. Despite the fact that I’ve been through it hundreds of times, both with Jung and Moreno. It doesn’t help.’

‘Reinhart?’ Van Veeteren asked.

‘On paternity leave,’ sighed Munster. ‘Playing with his daughter.’

‘Ah, yes, of course,’ said Van Veeteren, pressing down the lid of the machine so that a rolled cigarette fell onto the table. With a contented expression on his face he placed the cigarette between his lips and lit it. Munster