The Unlucky Lottery

there… Come to think of it, it was just Munster and me. Anyway, we arrived at Kolderweg to talk to Van Eck. We met fru Leverkuhn in the entrance hall. She was clearing away stuff that had belonged to Waldemar, carrying out suitcases and sacks with his old clothes. She was going to take them to the charity shop in Windemeerstraat. She was busy doing that for most of the time we were there. But of course… of course, it wasn’t just clothes she was carrying out.’

Rooth froze, with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth.

‘What the hell are you saying?’ he exclaimed. ‘Are you suggesting… are you suggesting that she was carrying out the Van Eck woman before your very eyes? Butchered and packaged? That’s the most… Who was it who said something about a blind boy a few minutes ago?’

‘It’s not possible,’ said Reinhart. ‘Or maybe that’s exactly what it is,’ he added after a few seconds. ‘Do you really believe this?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Moreno. ‘What do you all believe?’

‘Believing is something you do in church,’ said Rooth. ‘You were the one there, watching. How the hell could we know what she had in the bags?’

‘It’s a bit steep,’ said Jung. ‘It sounds incredible.’

Nobody spoke. Moreno stood up and started walking back and forth in front of the window. Reinhart watched her as he scraped out his pipe and waited. Rooth swallowed his Danish pastry and looked round for another. When he failed to find one, he sighed and shrugged.

‘Okay,’ he said. ‘As you all seem to have been struck dumb, I’ll take over the baton. Shall we go there again? For the seventy-fourth time? In any case we need to check if there’s anything left of that magazine. And see if we can find any blood-stained suitcases. Although we ought to have found those already if they exist. If it is as Moreno says, it would be the most… Christ Almighty, the most…’

He couldn’t think of what it would be. Reinhart put down his pipe and cleared his throat demonstratively.

‘Jung and Moreno,’ he said. ‘You know the way?’

‘Haven’t you left yet?’ said Rooth.

‘There’s just one thing I don’t understand,’ said Moreno after they had established that there wasn’t so much as a quarter of a square centimetre left of the Breuwerblatt’s September issue – or any sign of blood-stained suitcases – in the Leverkuhns’ flat in Kolderweg. ‘If it really was her who did it, that is.’

‘What?’ said Jung.

‘Why?’ said Moreno.

‘Why what?’

‘Yes. Why on earth would she want to kill Else Van Eck as well?’

Jung thought for three seconds.

‘Where do you think she did it?’ he said. ‘The butchery, I mean. If we ignore why for the moment.’

Moreno shook her head.

‘How should I know? The bathtub, perhaps. Yes, she hit and killed her with a frying pan, then butchered her in the bathroom – that sounds about right, don’t you think? That’s what I’d do. Afterwards you only need to rinse everything down, maybe a bit of soap or scrubbing powder. But why? Tell me why! We can’t just ignore the cause, there must be a reason.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Jung. ‘I’m just one of the blind boys.’

At a quarter to two – that same rain-free January day – there was a discreet knock on the door of Intendent Reinhart’s room.

‘Come in,’ said Reinhart.

The door opened slowly, and Winckelhube the linguist popped his head round it.

‘Ah, yes,’ said Reinhart, looking up from his pile of papers.

‘Well, I’ve made a little analysis,’ said Winckelhube, scratching his stomach. ‘I’m not a hundred per cent certain, but I’m prepared to bet on it being about seals. The text, that is.’

‘Seals?’ said Reinhart.

‘Yes, seals,’ said Winckelhube.

‘Hmm,’ said Reinhart. ‘Bang on. That’s exactly what we suspected. Thank you very much. Send your invoice to the police authorities.’

Winckelhube remained standing there, looking slightly confused.

‘Would you like a lollipop as well?’ asked Reinhart. ‘I’m afraid we’ve run out.’

It was obvious that the therapist Clara Vermieten treated several of the patients at the Gellner Home. In the bookcase of the cramped office deBuuijs showed Munster into, four of the shelves were marked with initials. It said I.L. on the top shelf, where there were several cassettes, neatly sorted into stacks of ten. Munster counted sixty-five of them. The shelves lower down contained significantly fewer.

On the tiny desk was a portrait of a dark-haired man of about thirty, a telephone and a cassette recorder.

Aha, Munster thought. I’d better get going, then.

He lifted down one of the stacks. He noted that there was a date on the spine of each cassette. 4/3, 8/3, 11/3… and so on. He took one out at random and inserted it into the cassette player. It seemed to have been rewound to the beginning, as it started with a voice he assumed was Clara Vermieten’s, stating the date on which the recording was made.

Conversation with Irene Leverkuhn, the fifteenth of April, nineteen ninety- seven.

Then a short pause.

– Irene, it’s Clara. How are you today?

– I’m well today, said Irene in the same monotonous tone of voice that he had been listening to not long ago.

– It’s good to see you again, said the therapist. I thought we could have a little chat, as we usually do.

– As we usually do, said Irene.

– Has it been raining here today?

– I don’t know, said Irene. I haven’t been out.

– It was raining when I drove here. I like rain.

– I don’t like rain, said Irene. It can make you wet.

– Would you like to lie down, as usual? Clara asked. Or would you prefer to sit?

– I’d like to lie down. I usually lie down when we talk.

– You can lie down now, then, said Clara. Do you need a blanket? Perhaps it’s a bit cold?

– It’s not cold, said Irene.

Munster pressed fast forward, then pressed play again.

– Who is that? he heard the therapist ask.

– I can’t really remember, said Irene.

– But you know his name, do you?

– I know his name, Irene confirmed.

– What’s he called? asked Clara.

– He’s called Willie.

– And who’s Willie?

– Willie is a boy in my class.

– How old are you now, Irene?

– I’m ten. I’ve got a blue dress, but it has a stain on it.

– A stain? How did that happen?

– I got a stain when I had ice cream, said Irene.

– Was that today? Clara asked.

– It was this afternoon. Not long ago.

– Is it summer?