The Unlucky Lottery by Håkan Nesser Page B

‘Viscous.’
    ‘That’s right,’ said Münster. ‘It’s not even certain that the murderer would get any blood on his hand. Not very much, in any case.’
    ‘Great,’ said Jung. ‘So we haven’t got a single bloody clue from the forensic boys . . . Is that what you’re saying?’
    ‘Hrrm,’ said Münster, ‘I’m afraid that’s the way it looks, yes.’
    ‘Good,’ said Rooth. ‘In that case we’d better all have a cup of coffee. Otherwise we’ll get depressed.’
    He looked benevolently round the table.
    We could do with a chief inspector here, thought Münster as he rose to his feet.
    But that’s the way it was . . . Münster leaned back in his chair and raised his arms towards the ceiling while Rooth and fröken Katz passed round mugs and saucers.
    Exactly the way it was. For just over a year now their notorious chief inspector had been on leave, devoting himself to antiquarian books rather than to police work – and there were indications that he had no intention of returning to police duties at all.
    Quite a lot of indications, to be honest. It was Chief of Police Hiller who had insisted on what he called ‘leave of absence’. Van Veeteren himself – as Münster understood it at least – had been prepared to resign once and for all. To burn all his bridges.
    And in fact Münster couldn’t help envying him just a little. The last time he had popped into Krantze’s – a cloudy afternoon in the middle of September – he had found Van Veeteren lounging back in a worn leather armchair, right at the rear of the shop under overloaded bookshelves, with an old folio volume on his knee and a glass of red wine on the arm rest. With that peaceful expression on his face he had looked not unlike a Tibetan lama.
    So there was good reason to assume that Van Veeteren had drawn a line under his police career.
    And Reinhart! Münster thought. Detective Intendent Reinhart had spent the last three weeks at home babbling away to his eight-month-old daughter. Rumour had it that he intended to continue doing that until Christmas. An intention that – it was said – made Chief of Police Hiller froth at the mouth and turn cross-eyed in frustration. Temporarily, at least.
    There had been no question of appointing replacements, not for either of these two heavyweights. If there was an opportunity to cut down on expenditure, that was of course what was done. No matter what the cost.
    The times they are a-changin’, Münster thought, taking a Danish pastry.
    ‘The wife’s a bit odd though, don’t you think?’ suggested Krause. ‘Or at least, her behaviour is.’
    ‘I agree,’ said Münster. ‘We must talk to her again . . . Today or tomorrow. But of course it’s hardly surprising if she seems a bit confused.’
    ‘In what way has she seemed confused?’ asked Heinemann.
    ‘Well,’ said Münster, ‘the times she gave are obviously correct. She did travel on the train she said she was on, and there really was a power failure last Saturday night. They didn’t get to the Central Station until a quarter to two, an hour late, so she should have been at home roughly when she claims. One of the neighbours thinks he heard her as well. So, she finds her husband dead a few minutes past two, but she doesn’t ring the police until 02.43. During that time she was out – she says she was going to report the incident at Entwick Plejn police station. But she goes back home when she discovers it’s closed . . . I suppose one could have various views about that. Does anyone wish to comment?’
    A few seconds passed.
    ‘Confused,’ said Rooth eventually. ‘Excessively confused.’
    ‘I suppose so,’ said Moreno. ‘But wouldn’t it be more abnormal to behave normally in a situation like this? Mind you, she’d have had plenty of time to get rid of the knife – half an hour, at least.’
    ‘Did anybody see her while she was taking that walk?’ Heinemann wondered.
    Münster shook his head.
    ‘Nobody has reported