Free The Unlucky Lottery by Håkan Nesser Page A

one or two warm drinks.
    In order to keep healthy, of course.
    The place looked reasonably clean and tidy, Rooth thought benevolently. More or less like his own flat. Only a few days’ dirty dishes, a few weeks’ newspapers, and a layer of dust about a month thick on the windowsills and television set.
    ‘Anyway, I’m here in connection with herr Leverkuhn, of course,’ he began, and took a swig of the steaming drink. ‘You said last Saturday night that you knew him slightly. That you socialized occasionally.’
    Engel nodded.
    ‘Only to the extent that we were good neighbours,’ he said. ‘I mean, we’ve been living in the same block of flats for over twenty years. We went to a football match occasionally. Had a drink together occasionally.’
    ‘I see,’ said Rooth. ‘How often?’
    ‘Football once a year,’ said Engel. ‘Old age is creeping up on us. There are so many hooligans. A drink now and then. I usually drink at Gambrinus just down the road, but then I always have Faludi with me.’
    ‘Who is Faludi?’
    ‘An old colleague of mine. An Arab, but a bloody great Arab. He lives a bit further up the block. Cheers.’
    ‘Cheers,’ said Rooth.
    ‘Aren’t you on duty, by the way?’
    ‘Never when I have a drink,’ said Rooth. ‘Have you thought back again to last Saturday night, as I asked you to?’
    ‘Eh? . . . Oh yes, of course,’ said Engel, licking his lips. ‘But I don’t remember any more than I told you last time.’
    ‘So you didn’t hear anything or notice anything unusual?’
    ‘Nope. I came home at round about half past eleven and went to bed like a shot. Listened to our pair of lovebirds for a while, then fell asleep not far short of midnight, or thereabouts. It’s not bad good-night music for an old fart like me, I can tell you! Hehe.’
    He raised his eyes to heaven and lit a cigarette.
    Rooth sighed.
    ‘Nothing else to add?’
    ‘Not a jot, as I’ve already said.’
    ‘Who do you think did it?’ Rooth asked.
    That was an old Van Veeteren ploy. Always ask people what they think! They tend to pull themselves together when they are trusted to use their own judgement; and then there’s a bloody good chance that if three out of five think the same thing, they’re right.
    In some cases even two out of five.
    Engel inhaled and thought it over. Scratched his nose and drank a little more mulled wine.
    ‘It’s not anybody living in this building,’ he said in the end. ‘And not one of his mates. So it has to be some bloody madman from the outside.’
    Rooth scratched at the back of his neck.
    ‘Do you know if he had any enemies, people who didn’t wish him well?’
    ‘Of course he bloody well didn’t,’ said Engel. ‘Leverkuhn was a good man.’
    ‘What about his wife?’
    ‘A good woman,’ said Engel laconically. ‘She moans a bit, but that’s the way they are. Are you married, Inspector?’
    ‘No,’ said Rooth, emptying his glass. ‘I never got round to it.’
    ‘Neither did I,’ said Engel. ‘I’ve never managed to hang on to a woman for more than three hours.’
    Rooth suspected he was dealing with a kindred spirit, but he refrained from exploiting the vibrations.
    ‘Okay,’ he said instead. ‘Many thanks. We’ll probably be in touch again, but it’s not certain.’
    ‘I hope you can solve it,’ said Engel. ‘There are too many murderers on the loose nowadays.’
    ‘We shall see,’ said Rooth.
    At least nobody seems to be taking all this especially hard, he thought as he emerged into the stairwell again. If they really were looking for a madman – a lunatic drop-out – one might have expected to find traces of fear and uncertainty. But not in this case, it seemed. Unless of course he chose to interpret herr Engel’s parting words literally.
    Perhaps people in general have grown just as accustomed over the years to violent deaths and perversities as he had himself. That wouldn’t surprise me, Rooth thought sombrely.
    Hardly had he left