Read Online The Unlucky Lottery by Håkan Nesser - Free Book Online Page B

‘Detective Inspector Rooth.’
    ‘Really? Anyway, no matter what, we didn’t notice a thing, neither me nor Arnold. The only thing we heard that night was those screwing machines, that nigger and his slut . . . Isn’t that right, Arnold?’
    ‘Er, yes,’ said Arnold, scratching his wrists nervously.
    ‘We’ve already explained this, both to you and that other plod, whatever his name is. Why can’t you find whoever did it instead of snooping around here? We’re honest people.’
    I don’t doubt that for a second, Rooth thought. Not for a single second. He decided to change track.
    ‘The front door?’ he said. ‘What about that? It’s usually left unlocked, I gather?’
    ‘No,’ said fru Van Eck. ‘It could very well have been locked – but it’s a crap lock.’
    ‘You can open it simply by peeing on it,’ squeaked Arnold Van Eck somewhat surprisingly, and started giggling.
    ‘Hold your bloody tongue!’ said his wife. ‘Pour some more coffee instead! Yes, it’s a crap lock, but I assume the door was probably standing ajar so that Mussolini could get in.’
    ‘Mussolini?’ said Rooth.
    ‘Yes, he’d probably gone out for a screw as usual – I don’t understand why she doesn’t castrate the bloody thing.’
    ‘It’s a cat,’ explained Arnold.
    ‘He’ll have gathered that, for Christ’s sake!’ snorted fru Van Eck. ‘Anyway, she’d no doubt propped it open with that brick like she usually does.’
    ‘I see,’ said Rooth, and started to draw a cat in his notebook while trying to recall if he had ever come across such a vulgar woman before. He didn’t think so. In the earlier interrogation, conducted by Constable Krause, it had emerged that she had worked for most of her life as a teacher in a school for girls, so there was considerable food for thought.
    ‘What do you think about it?’ he asked.
    ‘About what?’ asked fru Van Eck.
    ‘The murder,’ said Rooth. ‘Who do you think did it?’
    She opened her mouth wide and tossed in two or three small biscuits. Her husband cleared his throat but didn’t get as far as spitting.
    ‘Immigrants,’ she said curtly, and washed down the biscuits with a swig of coffee. Slammed her cup down with a bang. ‘Yes, if you take my advice you’ll start interrogating the immigrants.’
    ‘Why?’ asked Rooth.
    ‘For Christ’s sake, don’t you see? It’s sheer madness! Or it could be some young gangsters. Yes, that’s where you’ll find your murderer. Take your pick, it’s up to you.’
    Rooth thought for a while.
    ‘Do you have any children yourselves?’ he asked.
    ‘Of course we bloody well don’t,’ said fru Van Eck, starting to look threatening again.
    Good, Rooth thought. Genetic self-cleansing.
    ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I won’t disturb you any longer.’
    Mussolini was lying on his back on the radiator, snoring.
    Rooth had never seen a bigger cat, and purposely sat as far away on the sofa as possible.
    ‘I’ve spoken to the Van Ecks,’ he said.
    Leonore Mathisen smiled.
    ‘You mean you’ve spoken to fru Van Eck, I take it?’
    ‘Hm,’ said Rooth. ‘Perhaps that is what I mean. Anyway, we need to clarify a few things. To ask if you’ve remembered anything else about the night of the murder, for instance, now that a little time has passed.’
    ‘I understand.’
    ‘One thing that puzzles us is the fact that nobody heard anything. For example, you, fröken Mathisen, have your bedroom almost directly above the Leverkuhns’, but you fell asleep at . . .’
    He rummaged through his notebook and pretended to be looking for the time.
    ‘Half past twelve, roughly.’
    ‘That’s right,’ he confirmed. In fact Leonore Mathisen was not much smaller than fru Van Eck, but the raw material seemed to be completely different. Like a . . . a bit like a currant bush as opposed to a block of granite. To take the comparison further, the bush was wearing cheerful home-dyed clothes in red, yellow and violet, and an intertwined