The Unlucky Lottery (12 page)

‘Ouch,’ said Bosch.

‘Shut your trap,’ said Kellerman. ‘That was far from easy, believe you me.’

‘The bastard started pissing in the car,’ said Joensuu.

‘Well done,’ said Krause. ‘You can go now.’

Joensuu and Kellerman left and Krause closed the door. Bosch had already lain down on the short sofa, with his knees raised and his head on the arm rest. Krause sat down at his desk and waited.

‘I don’t feel very well,’ said Bosch after half a minute.

‘You never have done,’ said Krause. ‘Stop putting it on, you know what’s what. If we want we can have you locked away for eighteen months . . . Unless you tell me a thing or two about certain unpleasant characters. Sit up!’

Bosch was a grass. Or an informer, as he preferred to call himself. A good-for-nothing drop-out in any case – but with just the acute lack of backbone and civil courage required for the role. Krause observed him in disgust. He had always found it difficult to accept this form of cooperation. Bosch was constantly being admitted to various clinics and institutions for detoxification and reform: nobody seriously thought he would live to be much older than the forty-five he had managed to achieve so far – but despite everything, asking him to find out information often produced results. Much more often than one would have expected.

‘When it comes to crooks, you can always rely on Adolf Bosch to stir up the shit,’ Van Veeteren used to say. ‘But never give him more than three days – he has no concept of time any longer than that.’

The threat of being locked away and reprisals from the underworld made him sit up half-straight. His eyes looked shifty and he scratched away at his armpits.

‘Are you listening?’ said Krause.

‘Any chance of a fag, boss?’

Krause took a packet out of the desk drawer where it was kept for this kind of purpose, and handed it over.

‘You can have what’s left, but wait until you’ve left the building.’

‘Thanks,’ said Bosch, taking tight hold of the packet.

‘It’s in connection with a murder,’ said Krause. ‘That pensioner in Kolderweg. Have you heard about it?’

Bosch nodded.

‘But I’ve no idea who did it. I swear . . .’

‘Spare us the swearwords,’ said Krause. ‘We think it was some junkie who had a bad trip. See what you can find out and report back to me the day after tomorrow.’

‘I’m a bit short of cash at the moment, boss,’ said Bosch, looking worried.

‘We’ll see about that on Thursday.’

‘But I’m skint,’ said Bosch.

‘Thursday,’ said Krause, pointing at the door.

‘Thursday,’ muttered Bosch, and left reluctantly.

Krause sighed and opened the window.

They stuck to the rule book with regard to Palinski. At first they considered drawing lots, but as Moreno was a woman Münster climbed down and took the first round.

‘Name?’

‘Eh?’ said Palinski. ‘You must know what it is.’

‘We’re recording this conversation,’ explained Münster impatiently, pointing at the tape recorder. ‘Please state your name and date of birth.’

‘Is this an interrogation?’

‘Of course. Name?’

‘Palinski . . . Jan. Born 1924.’

‘Date?’

‘April 10, but . . .’

‘Here in Maardam?’

‘Of course. But why are you treating me like this? Police car and everything, I’ve never been involved in anything all my life.’

‘You’re involved in this now,’ said Münster. ‘Civil status?’

‘Eh? . . . Bachelor, of course – or widower, depending on how you look at it. We were going to divorce twenty years ago, but she died before all the papers were signed and sealed. Run over by a lorry in Palizerlaan. Bloody shocking business.’

‘Current address?’

‘Armastenplejn 42. But look here—’

‘Do you understand the seriousness of the situation?’ Münster interrupted him.

‘Yes. Well, no.’

‘We suspect you are intentionally withholding important information.’

‘I would never do such a thing,’ said Palinski, clasping his hands. ‘Not from the police, at least.’

From whom would you withhold important information, then? wondered Münster, and gave an impatient snort.

‘Is it not the case,’ he went on, ‘that together with the other three gentlemen you have won quite a substantial amount of money, and that is what you were celebrating at Freddy’s last Saturday evening?’

‘No.’

Palinski looked down at the table.

‘You’re lying,’ said Münster. ‘Shall I tell you why you’re lying?’

‘No,’ said Palinski. ‘What do you mean? Huh . . .’

‘Listen to me now,’ said Münster. ‘Last Saturday there were four of you. Now there are only two of you. Leverkuhn has been murdered, and Bonger has disappeared. There is a lot to suggest that he is no longer alive either. But you and Wauters are. There are only three possibilities.’

‘Eh?’ said Palinski. ‘What do you mean by that?’

His head had begun shaking now, Münster noted, and he realized that what was about to happen was likely to be what Moreno had predicted. It was surely only a matter of time before he threw in the towel, but it seemed only fair to let his colleague look after the confession itself. More gentlemanly, if nothing else: that was why he hadn’t wanted to draw lots, after all.

‘Three possibilities,’ he repeated slowly, holding up three fingers in front of Palinski’s eyes. ‘Either you and Wauters have done them in together—’

‘What the . . .?’ exclaimed Palinski, rising to his feet. ‘Come now, Intendent, you’ve gone far enough!’

‘Sit down!’ said Münster. ‘If you didn’t do it together, it must have been Wauters on his own.’

Palinski sat down and his jaws started moving but no words came.

‘Unless of course you did it yourself!’

‘You’re out of your mind! I want to talk to a . . . Oh no, no, no! You’re suggesting that I . . .’

Münster leaned forward over the table and his eyes drilled into his victim’s.

‘What conclusion would you draw yourself?’ he asked. ‘Four elderly gentlemen win a large sum of money. Two of them decide to get rid of the other two in order to get a bigger slice of the cake. Or perhaps it’s one of the four who intends wiping out the other three and getting the whole lot for himself. Doesn’t it make you feel a little uncomfortable, herr Palinski, knowing that two of your friends are dead? Don’t you lie awake at night wondering when it will be your turn?’

Palinski had gone white in the face.

‘You . . . you . . . you . . .’ he stammered, and Münster thought for a moment that he was going to flake out.

‘How well do you know this Wauters, in fact?’ asked Münster. ‘Isn’t he a newer member of the gang than you other three?’

Palinski made no reply. He tried to swallow, but his protruding Adam’s apple stopped halfway.

‘Because if you’re not afraid of Wauters, I have to conclude that
you
are the one behind it all, herr Palinski!’

‘I have never . . .’ protested Palinski. ‘I have never . . .’

But there was no continuation. Münster’s reasoning had come home to him now, and it was obvious that his paradoxical predicament was dawning on him.

‘We’ll give you five minutes to think this over,’ said Münster, pushing his chair back. ‘If I were you I’d avoid any more evasive answers when we return.’

He pressed the pause button. Stood up, left the room and locked the door.

It only took a few minutes for Moreno to conclude the business. A certain degree of feminine concern in the questioning and a hint of compassion in her eyes were evidently exactly what Jan Palinski’s soul aspired to after Münster’s bullying.

‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Palinski, ‘what the hell did he mean? Surely we wouldn’t . . . I wouldn’t . . .’

‘Come clean,’ said Moreno. ‘You can’t keep quiet about it any longer now. It will only do you more harm if you do, can’t you see that?’

Palinski looked at her like a dog that has disobeyed its master.

‘You think so?’

‘Yes, certainly,’ said Moreno.

Palinski wrung his hands and sucked in his lips. Then he straightened his back and cleared his throat.

‘It was Wauters,’ he said.

‘Wauters?’ said Moreno.

‘Who said we should keep quiet about it.’

Moreno nodded.

‘He thought . . .’

Moreno waited.

‘. . . He thought that we would come under suspicion if it became public knowledge that we’d won.’

‘How much?’ asked Moreno.

‘Twenty thousand,’ said Palinski, looking shamefaced.

‘How?’

‘In the lottery. Wauters bought the ticket, it was his turn. We were going to get five thousand each . . . But with Leverkuhn out of the picture it’s almost seven.’

‘And minus Bonger, it’s ten,’ said Moreno.

‘Yes, by God,’ said Palinski. ‘But surely you don’t believe it’s as your colleague suggested? Surely you can see that we would never do anything like that?’

Moreno didn’t reply. She leaned back on her chair and observed the nervous twitches in Palinski’s face for a while.

‘Just at the moment we don’t think anything at all,’ she said. ‘But you are in no way cleared of suspicion, and we don’t want you to leave Maardam.’

‘Good God,’ said Palinski. ‘It’s not possible. What the hell is Wauters going to say?’

‘You don’t need to worry about that,’ said Moreno. ‘We’ll take care of him. As far as you are concerned, you can go now – but we want you back here tomorrow morning so that you can sign the transcript of what you’ve said.’

She switched off the tape recorder. Palinski stood up, his legs shaking.

‘Am I a suspect?’ he asked.

Moreno nodded.

‘I apologize . . . I really do apologize. If I’d had my way, we’d have told you this straight away, of course. But Wauters . . .’

‘I understand,’ said Moreno. ‘We all make mistakes. Off you go now, this way.’

Palinski slunk off through the door like a reprimanded and penitent schoolboy – but after a few seconds he reappeared.

‘It’s Wauters who has the lottery ticket,’ he said. ‘He hasn’t cashed it in yet. Just so that you know.’

The he apologized again and left.

Detective Inspector Moreno noticed that she was smiling.

15

Erich Reijsen was a well-groomed gentleman in his sixties with a wife and a terraced house in the same good condition as himself. Moreno had telephoned and made an appointment, and when she arrived the tea tray was already waiting in the living room, where a realistic electric fire was burning in the hearth.

She switched off her soul, and sat down on the plush sofa.

‘We don’t eat anything sweet,’ said herr Reijsen, gesturing towards the coarse rye bread and red pepper rings. ‘We’ve started to live a healthy life as we grow older.’

His weather-beaten face and neatly trimmed moustache bore witness to that – as did his wife’s tight tracksuit and mop of blonde hair kept in place by a red and gold headband.

‘Help yourself,’ she said, demonstrating her successful facelift by opening her eyes wide. ‘My name’s Blenda.’

‘Inspector Moreno,’ said Moreno, fishing up her notebook from her briefcase. ‘Please take as much time as you like, but of course it’s mainly herr Reijsen I need to speak to.’

‘Of course,’ said Reijsen, and Blenda scampered off to some other part of the house. After only a few seconds Moreno could hear the characteristic whining noise of an exercise bike at full speed.

‘It’s about Waldemar Leverkuhn,’ she said. ‘I take it you know what’s happened?’

Reijsen nodded solemnly.

‘We’re trying to piece together a more all-round picture of him,’ said Moreno, as her host poured out some weak tea into yellow cups. ‘You were a colleague of his for . . . for how long?’

‘Fifteen years,’ said Reijsen. ‘From the day he started work at Pixner until he retired – 1991, that is. I carried on working for five more years, and then the staff cuts began. I was offered early retirement, and accepted it like a shot. I have to say that I haven’t regretted that a single day.’

Neither would I, Moreno thought in a quick flash of insight.

‘What was he like?’ she asked. ‘Can you tell me a little about Waldemar Leverkuhn?’

It took Erich Reijsen over half an hour to exhaust the topic. It took Moreno rather less time – about two minutes – to realize that the visit was probably going to be fruitless. The portrait of Waldemar Leverkuhn as a reserved and grumpy person (but nevertheless upright and reliable) was one she had already, and her attentive host was unable to add any brush strokes that changed it, or provided anything new.

Nor did he have any dramatic revelations to make, no insightful comments or anything else that could be of the slightest relevance to the investigation.

In truth, she had difficulty at the moment in envisaging what a relevant piece of the puzzle might look like, so she dutifully noted down most of what herr Reijsen had to say. It sapped her strength, there was no denying it – both to write and to keep awake – and when she stood up after three slices of rye bread and as many cups of tea, her first instinct was to find her way to the bathroom and sick it all up. Both herr Reijsen and the sandwiches.

Her second instinct was to take a hammer and batter the exercise bike that had been emitting its reproachful whining for the whole of her visit, but she managed to restrain herself. After all, she did not have a hammer handy.

I’m a bloody awful police officer at the moment, she thought shortly afterwards, sitting at the wheel of her car again at last. Certainly nothing for the force to be proud of . . . It’s a good job we’re not busy with something more serious than this case.

She was not at all clear about what she meant by that last thought.

Something more serious? Was the death of Waldemar Leverkuhn not serious, or what? She shook her head and bit her lower lip in the hope of becoming more wide awake. It felt increasingly clear that all this accumulated tiredness was approaching a borderline beyond which it would probably be safer to switch over to automatic pilot as far as work was concerned. Not rely on her own judgement. Not make any decisions. Not think.

Not until she had managed to get a few nights of decent sleep, in any case.