The Unlucky Lottery
Read The Unlucky Lottery Online
Authors: Hakan Nesser
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Suspense, #Thrillers, #Suspense Fiction, #Murder, #Lottery winners
For the man in the street, the most important thing is to realize that deeds have consequences.
For a detective they have causes.
Erwin Baasteuwel, Detective Inspector
CONTENTS
ONE
1
The last day of Waldemar Leverkuhn’s life could hardly have begun any better.
After a windy night of non-stop rain, mild autumn sunshine was now creeping in through the kitchen window. From the balcony overlooking the courtyard he could hear the characteristic soft cooing of love-lorn pigeons, and the fading echo of his wife’s footsteps on the stairs as she set off for the market. The
Neuwe Blatt
was spread out on the table in front of him, and he had just laced his morning coffee with a couple of drops of gin when Wauters rang.
‘We won,’ Wauters said.
‘Won?’ said Leverkuhn.
‘By Christ, yes, we won!’ said Wauters. ‘They said so on the radio.’
‘On the radio?’
‘Bugger me if we haven’t won twenty thousand! Five each – and not a day too soon!’
‘The lottery?’
‘The lottery, yes. What else? What did I tell you? There was something special in the air when I bought the ticket. My God, yes! She sort of
coaxed
it out! As if she really was picking out the right one – Mrs Milkerson in the corner shop. Two, five, five. One, six, five, five! It was the fives that won it for us, of course. I’ve had the feeling this was going to happen all week!’
‘How much did you say?’
‘Twenty thousand, for God’s sake! Five each! I’ll have to ring the others. Let’s have a party at Freddy’s this evening – dammit all, a knees-up in Capernaum is called for!’
‘Five thousand . . .?’ said Leverkuhn, but Wauters had already hung up.
He remained standing for a while with the receiver in his hand, feeling rather dizzy. Five thousand euros? He blinked carefully a few times, and when his eyes started to focus again they turned automatically to look at the wedding photograph on the bureau. The one in the gold frame. Settled gradually on Marie-Louise’s round and milk-fresh face. Her dimples and corkscrew curls. A warm wind in her hair. Glitter in her eyes.
That was then, he thought. She was a stunner in those days. 1948.
As tasty as a cream cake! He took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. Scratched himself a little tentatively in the crotch. It was different nowadays . . . but that’s the way it is with women . . . early blossoming, childbirth, breastfeeding, putting on weight . . . reluctant. It was sort of in the nature of things. Different with men, so very different.
He sighed and went out of the bedroom. Continued his train of thought, even though he didn’t really want to – that seemed to happen so often nowadays . . . Men, oh yes: they were still up for it much longer, that was the big difference . . . that damned big difference. Mind you, it evened itself out towards the end . . . now, well into the autumn of his life, he rarely got the urge any more, it had to be admitted. That applied to both of them.
But what else could you expect? Seventy-two and sixty-nine. He’d heard about people who could still keep going for longer than that, but as far as he was concerned it was probably all over and done with; he’d just have to make the best of it.
Apart from the odd little twitch now and then, though, which he’d have preferred to do without. A vague reminder of days long past; no more than a memory, a sad recollection.
But that’s the way it was. A little twitch. That he could have done without. He flopped down over the kitchen table again.
Five thousand!
Hell’s bells! He tried to think. Five thousand euros!
But it was hard to pin down those butterflies fluttering in his stomach. What the hell would he do with such a lot of money?
A car? Hardly. It would probably be enough for a pretty decent second-hand model, that was true, and he had a driving licence, but it was ten years since he’d sat at the wheel, and he hadn’t had any pressing desire to get out and see the world for a long time now.
Nor did he fancy an expensive holiday. It was like Palinski used to say: he’d seen most things and more besides.
A better television set?
No point. The one they had was only a couple of years old, and in any case, he only used it as something to sit in front of and fall asleep.
A new suit?
For his own funeral, or what?
No, the first thing to stick its head over the parapet inside his mind was that there was nothing he really needed. Which no doubt said a lot about what a miserable old git he’d become. Couldn’t even work out how to spend his own money any longer. Couldn’t be bothered. What a berk!
Leverkuhn slid the newspaper to one side and poured himself another cup of coffee with a dash of gin.
That was surely something he could allow himself? Another cup? He listened to the pigeons as he sipped his coffee. Maybe that was how he should deal with the situation? Allow himself a few things? Buy an extra round or two at Freddy’s. Rather more expensive wines. A decent bite to eat at Keefer’s or Kraus.
Why not? Live a bit of the good life for a year or two.
Now the phone rang again.
Palinski, of course.
‘Dammit all, a knees-up in Capernaum is called for tonight!’
The very same words as Wauters. How odd that he wasn’t even capable of thinking up his own swearwords. After his opening remark he roared with laughter down the phone for half a minute, then finished off by yelling something about how the wine would be flowing at Freddy’s.
‘. . . half past six! White shirt and new tie, you old devil!’
And he hung up. Leverkuhn observed his newly wed wife again for a while, then returned to the kitchen. Drank up the rest of the coffee and belched. Then smiled.
He smiled at last. After all, five thousand was five thousand.
Bonger, Wauters, Leverkuhn and Palinski.
It has to be said they were a long-standing, ancient quartet. He had known Bonger and Palinski since he was a boy. Since they were at school together at the Magdeburgska, and the war-time winters in the cellars on Zuiderslaan and Merdwick. They had drifted apart for a few decades in the middle of their lives, naturally enough, but their paths had crossed once again in their late middle age.
Wauters had joined them later, much later. One of the lone gents who hung out at Freddy’s, herr Wauters. Moved there from Hamburg and Frigge and God only knows where else; had never been married (the only one of the quartet who had managed to avoid that, he liked to point out – although he now shared the bachelor state with both Bonger and Palinski) – and he was probably the loneliest old bugger you could possibly imagine. Or at least, that’s what Bonger used to confide in them, strictly between friends of course. It was Bonger who had got to know him first, and introduced him into their circle. A bit of a gambler as well, this Wauters – if you could believe the rumours he spread somewhat discriminately about himself, that is. But now he restricted himself to the football pools and the lottery. The gee-gees nowadays were nothing but drugged-up donkeys, he used to maintain with a sigh, and the jockeys were all on the make. And as for cards? . . . Well, if you’d lost nearly twelve hundred on a full house, huh, let’s face it – it was about bloody time you took things easy in your old age!
According to Benjamin Wauters.
Bonger, Wauters, Leverkuhn and Palinski.
The other evening Palinski had worked out that their combined age came to 292, and so if they could hang on for another couple of years, they could look forward to celebrating their 300th anniversary at the turn of the century. Christ Almighty, that wasn’t something to be sneered at!
Palinski had patted fröken Gautiers’s generously proportioned bum and informed her of that fact as well, but fröken Gautiers had merely snorted and stated that she would have guessed 400.
But in reality these round figures had no significance at all, because this Saturday was the last day of Waldemar Leverkuhn’s life. As already said.
Marie-Louise arrived with the carrier bags of groceries just as he was on his way out.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Out.’
‘Why?’
‘To buy a tie.’
There was a clicking noise from her false teeth, twice, as always happened when she was irritated by something. Tick, tock.
‘A tie?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why are you going to buy a tie? You already have fifty.’
‘I’ve grown tired of them.’
She shook her head and pushed her way past him with the bags. A smell of kidney floated into his nostrils.
‘You don’t need to cook a meal tonight.’
‘Eh? What do you mean by that?’
‘I’m eating out.’
She put the carrier bags on the table.
‘I’ve bought some kidney.’
‘So I’d noticed.’
‘Why have you suddenly decided to eat out? I thought we were going to have an early meal – I’m going round to Emmeline’s this evening, and you’re supposed to be going—’
‘—to Freddy’s, yes. But I’m going out to have a bite to eat as well. You can put it in the freezer. The kidney, that is.’
She screwed up her eyes and stared at him.
‘Has something happened?’
He buttoned up his overcoat.
‘Not that I know of. Such as what?’
‘Have you taken your medicine?’
He didn’t reply.
‘Put a scarf on. It’s windy out there.’
He shrugged and went out.
Five thousand, he thought. I could spend a few nights in a hotel.
Wauters and Palinski were also wearing new ties, but not Bonger.
Bonger never wore a tie, had probably never owned one in his life, but at least his shirt was fairly clean. His wife had died eight years ago, and nowadays it was a matter of getting by as best he could. With regard to shirts and everything else.
Wauters had reserved a table in the restaurant area, and they started with champagne and caviar as recommended by Palinski – apart from Bonger who declined the caviar and ordered lobster tails. In a Sauterne sauce.
‘What’s got into you old devils this evening?’ fröken Gautiers wondered incredulously. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve sold your prostates to some research institute.’
But she took their orders without more ado, and when Palinski patted her bottom as usual she almost forgot to fend off his rheumatic hand.
‘Your very good health, my friends!’ proposed Wauters at regular intervals.
‘Let the knees-up in Capernaum commence!’ Palinski urged at even more regular intervals.
For Christ’s sake, I’m sick and fed up of these idiots, Leverkuhn thought.
By about eleven Wauters had told them eight or nine times how he had bought the lottery ticket. Palinski had begun to sing ‘Oh, those sinful days of youth’ about as frequently, breaking off after a line and a half because he couldn’t remember the words; and Bonger’s stomach had started playing up. For his part, Waldemar Leverkuhn established that he was probably even more drunk than he’d been at the Oktoberfest in Grünwald fifteen years ago. Or was it sixteen?
