Free The Unlucky Lottery by Håkan Nesser

hair ribbon in the same colours. The block of granite had been greyish brown all over and at least a quarter of a century older.
    ‘I heard when he came home, as I said. Shortly before midnight, I think. Then I switched on the clock radio and listened to music until . . . well, I suppose I dozed off after about half an hour.’
    ‘Was he alone when he came in?’ Rooth asked.
    She shrugged.
    ‘No idea. I’m not even sure it was him. I just heard somebody coming up the stairs, and a door opening and closing. But it was their door, of course – I’m sure about that.’
    ‘No voices?’
    ‘No.’
    Rooth turned over a page of his notebook.
    ‘What was he like?’ he asked. ‘Leverkuhn, I mean.’
    She started fiddling with one of the thin wooden beads she was wearing in clusters around her neck while weighing her words.
    ‘Hmm, I don’t really know,’ she said. ‘Very courteous, I’d say. He was always friendly and acknowledged me; rather dapper and correct; occasionally drank one glass too many when he was out with his old mates – but never drank so much that he became unpleasant with it. I suppose I only saw him when he was on his way in and out, come to think about it.’
    ‘How long have you been living here?’
    She counted up.
    ‘Eleven years,’ she said. ‘I suppose the Leverkuhns have been living here twice as long as that.’
    ‘What about his relationship with his wife?’
    She shrugged again.
    ‘As it usually is, I suppose. Old people who’ve been living together all their lives . . . She tended to wear the trousers, but my dad had a much rougher time.’ She laughed. ‘Are you married, Inspector?’
    ‘No,’ Rooth admitted. ‘I’m single.’
    She suddenly burst out laughing. Her heavy breasts bobbed up and down, and Mussolini woke up with a start. It struck Rooth that he had never made love to a woman as big as she was, and for a few moments – while her salvo of laughter ebbed away and Mussolini slunk away in the direction of the hall – he sat there trying to imagine what it would be like.
    Then he returned to the job in hand.
    ‘Did they have much of a social life?’ he asked.
    She shook her head.
    ‘Frequent visitors?’
    ‘No, hardly ever. Not that I noticed, in any case. They live directly below this floor, and I have to say that for the most part it’s as quiet as the grave, even when they’re both at home. The only sounds you ever hear in this building come from the young couple, who live—’
    ‘I know,’ said Rooth quickly. ‘And they were at it as usual that night, were they?’
    ‘Yes, they were at it as usual that night,’ she repeated, stroking her index finger along her bare lower arm, deep in thought.
    Then she smiled, revealing twenty-four perfect teeth. At least.
    My God, Rooth thought, feeling himself blush. She wants me. Now. I’d better do a runner before I take the bait!
    He stood up, thanked her and took the same route as Mussolini.
    The screwing machines – Tobose Menakdise and Filippa de Booning, according to the handwritten note taped above the letter box – didn’t answer when he rang their doorbell, and when he pressed his ear against the wooden door he couldn’t hear the faintest sound from inside the flat. He concluded that they were not at home, and wrote a question mark in his notebook. Went back upstairs to the second floor instead, to talk to herr Engel.
    Ruben Engel was about sixty-five, and his dominant feature was a large, fleshy, red nose so striking that in profile he reminded Rooth of the parrot he’d had as a textile portrait over his bed when he was a young boy. He was not sure whether the appearance – Engel’s, not the parrot’s – was due to an excessive intake of alcohol, or whether there was some other medical cause, but in any case, he was promptly invited to sit down at the kitchen table and partake of a drop or two of mulled wine.
    It was so damned cold in the flat, Engel explained, that he always began the day with