From Bruges with Love (10 page)

Linda shook her head stubbornly. “You'll have to ask my husband. If you can find the bastard.”

“Fine,” said Van In frostily.

He leaned back in his chair, opened a drawer, and produced a bottle of whiskey and a glass.

“If that's the case, then you might as well go back to your cell.”

The gurgle of the whiskey in the neck of the bottle had the same effect on Linda as a bag of blood to a waking vampire. Her nostrils trembled. She had to fight not to drool.

Van In raised the glass to his lips and took a sip.
If this isn't an excuse for a drink during working hours,
he thought.

“Care for a little nightcap, Mrs. Aerts?”

Carine raised her eyebrows. Had the commissioner lost his mind?

Linda stared longingly at the bottle of Haig. Van In fished a second glass from the drawer and filled it halfway. He lit a cigarette and placed the pack in the middle of his desk. Linda hit it like a diving duck. Carine grabbed her arm, but Van In gestured that she should let go. He was holding a lighter in his left hand.

“A light, Mrs. Aerts?”

He held out the flame. Linda cradled the useless cigarette in her quivering hand. This was too much.
What the fuck,
she thought,
half of Bruges knew who frequented the Cleopatra. And what went on in the Love wasn't a crime
.

“Yves Provoost, once every two weeks.”

“The lawyer?”

“Who else?” she snapped.

Van In pushed the whiskey closer. Linda grabbed the glass and emptied it in a couple of swigs.

“Now that wasn't so hard, was it, Mrs. Aerts?”

Van In held out the lighter and poured a second drink. He then took out a pen and a sheet of paper. The page filled with names as the bottle emptied.

“Hah, Alexander De Jaegher. Now who would have expected De Jaegher?”

“
Doctor Blowjob,
” Linda sneered. “He sometimes came twice a week.”

In the space of thirty minutes, Van In had filled two sheets of a legal pad. He now realized precisely why Vandaele had installed an electric gate. Some of the Love's “clients” were so well known they demanded the utmost discretion. Speedy entry and exit was an indispensible condition for guaranteeing their celebrity privacy.

Van In crossed the Zand in the center of Bruges. The square was bathed in an unearthly light. The open surface dotted with wrought-iron street lamps reminded him of a Paul Delvaux nude. The association wasn't so crazy; this was where the train station used to be and a naked woman was now sleeping off her hangover in a cell around the corner. A chilly east wind made him shiver. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, bent his back, and braved the cold fall breeze. He had struggled through many a night shift in his life and had learned that those who held out till five a.m. rarely wanted to go straight home. So he made his way to the Egg Market only to find everything closed. His only option was Villa Italiana.

Mario the barman recognized Van In at a glance. “On your way home or on your way to work?” he asked in a thick Bruges accent.

He mixed two measures of Glenfiddich with half a bottle of Coke. Four listless fortysomethings were making fools of themselves on the dance floor. Their wooden movements were in complete contrast to the infectious beat of the place's signature disco music. Fortunately there was no one to hiss at them.

“One for the road,” said Van In dryly.

He took a sip. Mario knew his trade. The drink cleared his head. Question one: How was Hannelore going to react to his nocturnal escapade when he got home? Question two: What kind of hornet's nest had he stirred up? The answer to question one was imminent, but it was question two that bothered him most. Lodewijk Vandaele, one of Bruges' most respected citizens, had run a luxury brothel in the vicinity, and the cream of West Flanders had made use of its services. Twenty-four hours after the discovery of Herbert, William Aerts, one of Vandaele's sidekicks, had skipped town.

Van In emptied his glass. A drop of whiskey could be inspiring at times. Mario was on the ball and promptly mixed a filler.

“From the
patron
,” he said, grinning.

Questions, more and more questions. If Vandaele knew there was a corpse buried on his property, why did he hand it over to a charity like Helping Our Own? Or was it Humping Our Own? What was the charity all about? And what role did Benedict Vervoort have to play, the realtor with the air of a washed-out Mafioso?

Van In scribbled his thoughts on the back of a beer coaster. That way he was sure to remember the day before the morning after. Or was today already the morning after?

“Coffee, sweetheart?”

Hannelore was about to leave for court when Van In arrived home more dead than alive. Luckily there were no mirrors around. His face was puffy and swollen, and the bags under his eyes were big enough to house a garrison.

“Please,” he said, yawning.

“A pleasant night?” She prodded his ribs none too gently. “Did the water torture have the desired effect?”

Van In rubbed his eyes.

“Guido called me yesterday,” she said dryly. Her engaging smile made way for grim determination. “He asked me with his usual politeness to put an end to your medieval shenanigans.”

“What shenanigans?”

Van In sipped the coffee. It tasted thin and watery.

“If I were you, I'd want the ground to open up and swallow me.”

“Why didn't you send in the feds?”

An argument was brewing. Hannelore took off her jacket and sat down at the table opposite Van In.

“I considered it, Pieter Van In. Have you lost your mind completely?”

“She was completely smashed,” Van In retorted.

“Look who's talking.”

“I'm tired,” he protested. “Versavel's exaggerating. No one ever died from a drenching. In the old days—”

“In the old days they took a beating as well,” she said. “Those days are gone for good.”

Van In understood what she meant. Twenty years ago the police extracted confessions, the magistrates evaluated them, and they did their best to mimic the wisdom of Solomon by delivering sentences that were acceptable to both parties. Nowadays, the judiciary had to account for public opinion. The jury of the people, ten million strong, was no longer willing to acknowledge that arguments were more important than emotions—and not without reason. It had been demonstrated more than once in the past that the same arguments had been used to serve the interests of the moneyed, propertied classes. The ordinary man or woman in the street was subjected to the letter of the law.

“You have to admit the old-fashioned approach can be productive,” said Van In as he fished the list of names from his inside pocket and slipped it across the table. He then got to his feet and tossed the undrinkable coffee into the sink.

Hannelore examined the sheets of paper. Men were depraved creatures by nature, and she was aware that the odd black sheep had been spotted among the so-called upper crust, but this suggested a flock.

“Did Linda Aerts give you all these names?” she asked in amazement.

Van In grinned. It took a lot to impress Hannelore. She grabbed a cigarette without asking.

“I thought you were in a hurry to get to court.”

He kicked off his shoes and snuggled into the sofa. Hannelore smoked her cigarette, headed into the kitchen, spooned four large measures of coffee into the percolator, and half filled it with water.

“We have a problem!” she shouted from the kitchen.

“What's new?”

“Didn't you get my fax yesterday?”

“What fax?”

Hannelore stood in the doorway. “What's with you?” she grumbled.

Van In listened to her story about Koen Versnick, the police doctor's loose-lipped assistant, without opening his eyes.

“If De Jaegher's been deliberately withholding evidence, he has to have had a good reason. I'll check it out in the morning,” said Van In.

“According to Versnick's father, it should be pretty easy. Plastic surgery was still in its infancy back then, and operations of the sort our Herbert underwent were few and far between.”

“Excellent,” said Van In. “Sounds like the perfect job for Chief Inspector Baert. If he screws up this time, I have a good excuse to send him to Siberia.”

“Siberia?”

“Lost and Found, Hanne. Didn't I explain that to you before?”

Hannelore ignored the dig.

“But De Jaegher is small change compared to the other names on the list,” she said, concerned. “Provoost is a prominent lawyer, and Brys is the minister of foreign affairs. If the case is moving up to a different level, I'm not sure if—”

“Don't let it worry you, Hanne. The judiciary isn't inclined to protect government ministers as much as they were in the past. One imprisoned excellency more or less makes little difference. The public can't get enough of it.”

In contrast to the boarding school coffee he had poured down the drain, Hannelore's second attempt was like liquid tar.

“Drink … it'll sober you up,” she said, her tone authoritarian. “I want my holiday in Portugal, and you need to get your act together and get down to Hauwer Street in half an hour.”

Van In stirred three lumps of sugar in the coffee. Hannelore didn't comment.

“Vervoort's also on the list,” he said in passing.

“Who's Vervoort?”

“The treasurer of our distinguished charity and administrator of Lodewijk Vandaele's property portfolio.”

“Jesus,” said Hannelore.

“Don't let it bother you, honey. If it all goes wrong, we can always appeal to the king for clemency.” Van In gulped his coffee, and his stomach reacted as if it were nitric acid.

7

Y
ves Provoost stared at Linda Aerts and shook his head. Her ruined hairdo and lack of makeup made her appear even less appealing than usual, if that were possible.

“Your story is in very bad taste, Mrs. Aerts.”

Provoost gritted his teeth, causing all the color to drain from his face.

“First you sully my good name, and then you ask me to start proceedings against a senior police officer because he threw a bucket of water over you.”

“Is that allowed?”

“Of course not,” Provoost growled. He was in an awkward­ predicament. The Belgian public didn't give a damn when the powers that be overstepped the mark now and then. There wasn't a case to answer, and the press wouldn't touch it. The Love's clients were among the elite of Bruges society. There wasn't a single chief editor who would even think of publishing an article with the names of those involved. Constructing a scandal on top of a scandal wasn't enough these days to make heads roll. Without evidence, her story was just a rumor, and people could handle rumors. It was also clear that Linda Aerts had made her statement under pressure, making it more or less worthless. But his primary concern was that Van In might dig his teeth into the case. If the commissioner made a connection between the orgies and the discovery of the corpse, there was every chance he would keep digging.

“You should never have made a statement, Mrs. Aerts. I wonder what William will have to say about this.”

“William left me,” she grunted.

“Come now, Mrs. Aerts. Let's be serious for once. It's not the first time William has taken off for a few days. He's sure to reappear.”

Provoost was certain that no one was ever going to see William Aerts alive again.

“With sixteen million in his pocket,” she said, sneering. “Why the fuck do you think I called the cops? The bastard robbed me, and I want my money back. I don't give a fuck about the other stuff.”

“Sixteen million.” Provoost whistled.

“Exactly, your honor, as if you didn't know where he earned it.”

Provoost gulped and did the math in his head. Over the years he had coughed up almost an eighth of that amount.

“I can't compensate you for the full amount of course, but what would you say if I were to write you a check for a hundred thousand francs? You could take a vacation. Enjoy yourself a little.”

Provoost tried to conjure an engaging smile. Playing for time seemed to be the best strategy.

Linda didn't budge an inch for a moment or two. His generous offer seemed to have warmed her. Provoost produced a pen from his breast pocket and opened the top drawer of his desk, where he kept his checkbook.

“I want that baton fucker dragged into court,” Linda hissed.

Provoost closed the drawer and returned the pen to his pocket.

“Of course, Mrs. Aerts.”

The hag suddenly gave him a brilliant idea.

“Why don't you tell me again what happened last night, Mrs. Aerts, and don't spare the details,” he said with a demonic grin.

Linda liked his change of tack. She stretched out her legs and started to talk.

Versavel heard the news that afternoon. Linda Aerts had submitted a complaint to the federal police accusing Van In of assault and attempted rape. In Van In's absence, he decided to call Hannelore but to no avail. Deputy Martens was unavailable, the operator told him with a hint of malicious delight. Versavel didn't insist, resigned to the fact that the public prosecutor's office always gave the brush off to anyone below the rank of officer. Van In appeared just as he was hanging up. He looked like Perseus ready to confront Medusa.

“Versavel.” Van In rummaged in his trouser pocket and tossed a handful of coins on the floor. “Should be thirty pieces or thereabouts, Judas.”

Versavel waited until the last coin had stopped clattering. “I considered it my duty to inform Hannelore of your outrageous behavior, Pieter. You crossed the line last night.”

Van In shrugged his shoulders. Versavel was right, but it was too late to tell him that.

“Linda Aerts submitted a complaint this morning to the federal police. She's accusing you of assault and attempted rape,” said Versavel, nervously rubbing his mustache.

“So what?” Van In grumped. He lit a cigarette and sat down at his desk.

“You're in serious shit, Pieter. Judges don't like this kind of mess these days. Times have changed … don't you get it?”

Van In didn't underestimate the problem. He recognized it, but admitting he was in the wrong was a different kettle of fish.

“I didn't touch the woman, Guido. You know that as well as I do. Anyway, I conducted the entire interview in the charming company of Carine Neels. So I'm not as crazy as you think—”

“Yves Provoost is planning to defend Mrs. Aerts,” Versavel interrupted. “Everyone knows he rarely loses a case.”

“Provoost's still milking his father's success. He's not as good as he'd like us to believe. And don't forget, he's anything but invulnerable. So do me a favor and spare me the patronizing talk. I can wet-nurse myself.” Van In dug deep into his trouser pocket. “I spent the entire afternoon going through the commercial court archives.”

He handed Versavel a thin bundle of papers. “This is a copy of the memorandum of association submitted by Helping Our Own. It makes interesting reading, I can assure you.”

Versavel read the names of the executive board, all of them from the list dictated by Linda Aerts: Vandaele, Provoost, Brys, Vervoort, and De Jaegher.

“Impressive.”

He didn't sound convinced.

“Jesus H. Christ. Think about it, Guido. Our friend Vandaele sets up a charity with a few intimate buddies. The organization's goal is to support the poor. After Herbert is killed, Vandaele hands the charity a dilapidated farmhouse, a gift he can deduct from his tax return. One remarkable detail: the farmhouse functioned for years as an exclusive brothel where the members of the board used to enjoy a bit of slap and tickle on a regular basis.”

“Remarkable indeed,” said Versavel dryly.

Van In was on marshy ground. The complaint Linda had put together against him was more serious than a couple of public figures having a bit of fun with the ladies.

“Don't you see the connection?” asked Van In in amazement. “According to its latest annual report, the charity has more than one hundred and eighty million in assets. If that doesn't stink, Christ knows what does. They spend twelve million a year on printing, twenty on trips abroad for the poor and destitute, and a little more than ten on training for the handicapped. No one in his right mind would believe that.”

“Stranger things have happened …”

“Cut it out, Guido.” Van In didn't understand why Versavel was being such an ass. “Strange indeed, Guido, and it gets stranger. I called a couple of other charities. No one's ever heard of Helping Our Own. There's no trace of their activities.”

“So what have they been spending their assets on?”

“I've been asking myself the same question, Guido.”

Versavel rubbed his upper triceps with his left hand, something he often did when he was nervous. “If I'm not mistaken, Vervoort's one of the FLASYC heavyweights. Maybe we should check them out.”

Van In looked at his friend in astonishment. Flanders Show Your Claws
was a faction within a right-wing political party that had grown in popularity in recent years. It was known in the meantime that the FLASYC boys weren't averse to a bit of violence. “Tell me you don't mean it, Guido.”

“FLASYC has to get its money from somewhere,” said Versavel.

“Let's pray our Herbert wasn't a Moroccan.”

Van In was reminded of the summer of 1996, when the Dutroux child abuse case turned Belgium on its head. The witch hunt that followed was still fresh in his memory.

“At least it'll give us an excuse to give those sickos a good going over,” Versavel growled.

Van In tried to imagine what would happen if Versavel's hypothesis was right. “It's certainly a line of inquiry we can't ignore. It wouldn't be the first time a so-called charity was manipulated to serve a ‘higher' goal.”

“Vandaele never hid his rightist sympathies,” said Versavel. “And Provoost isn't exactly a fan of Karl Marx.”

Van In got to his feet and started pacing. Hypotheses were tempting because they inclined investigators to think in a specific direction and only focus on elements that supported the proposed theory. “So where does Brys fit in to the equation?”

The minister of foreign affairs was a socialist. He had his faults, but even Versavel figured that a secret alliance with the extreme right was a bridge too far. “Perhaps he knows nothing about it. You know what socialists are like. When someone stokes the embers, they plead collective memory loss.” The sergeant was an apolitical being. As far as he was concerned, politicians were all the same.

Van In tried to line up the facts. One: Herbert murdered. Two: the connection between the killing and the clients at the Love. Three: potential financial connections between FLASYC­ and Helping Our Own. More parameters and even more unknowns.

“What if we order a review of the charity's accounts,” he blurted out.

“That would take too much time, Pieter. While we're waiting for permission, they'll just tidy up the books. Most of these organizations keep two sets. And they'll be ready with a reasonable explanation for every transaction.”

“Other ideas?”

“An unannounced visit can sometimes do wonders,” said Versavel. “Didn't you mention something about the charity running a center for the homeless?”

“Now that I think of it … What did Vervoort call the place?”

“Care House. I found the address yesterday in the telephone directory.”

“OK, let's check them out. One of us needs to inform Baert.”

Versavel shrugged his shoulders. “His wife called him in sick this morning.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

“She said he needed a couple of days' rest. Poor guy has back trouble. Too much time on the phone if you ask me.”

“And he only takes two days off?”

“His doctor is one of the new boys, determined to help clean up the social security system. His patients have to be half-dead before he's willing to prescribe a week's leave.”

“Shame.”

“Shame?”

“That Baert can't find himself an old-fashioned doctor.”

Versavel laughed. “Shall I requisition a car?”

“No,” said Van In. “A police vehicle would attract too much attention. Is Devos on duty?”

“I think so,” said Versavel. “He's manning reception.”

“Good. Then I have a question for him before we go any further.”

Van In made his way to the door but stopped and turned halfway. “Give Carine Neels a call. Ask if she can spare a couple of days to work on the case. I want her to call the plastic surgeons.”

Versavel was taken aback.

“Herbert had one of those nip and tuckers give him a face job. Sorry, Hannelore dug it up yesterday and I forgot to mention it in all the commotion.”

Van In opened the door.

“Pieter.”

“Yes, Guido.”

“I'm wondering why you know Carine Neels is on duty today but had to ask me if Devos was in the building.”

Van In stopped and gripped the door handle. Versavel's question cheered him immensely. “Because
I
know where the pretty girls hang out, Guido.”

In contrast to the Love, Care House was a neatly renovated farmstead surrounded by an abundance of well-maintained green. Visitors had to admit that Helping Our Own was anything but amateur. The place looked like an expensive spa where sagging middle-class ladies would sign in for six months to tighten their skin. But appearances can be deceptive. The tiny pavilions scattered here and there across the property offered a home to ten or so families who, for one reason or another, had found themselves on the fringes of society.

Ilse, a well-spoken social worker who appeared to be in charge, gave Van In and Versavel the grand tour.

“The charity's main concern is the fate of families,” she said with a smile that any advertising agency worth its salt would have been happy to purchase. “Initially, we try to offer people a chance to rest. We only get down to real business after two weeks. A team of specialists explores the issues and suggests appropriate solutions, which are then passed on to our clients. After a thorough evaluation, we employ a strategy designed to ensure our clients' reintegration. Our success rate is well above the national average.”

Van In had stopped listening halfway through her pitch. The social worker had a fine pair of legs, and he could see through the flowers on her linen summer dress that she didn't buy her underwear at the local supermarket.

Versavel took notes, fortunately not distracted by such details.

“That was an extraordinarily interesting tour, Miss …”

“Vanquathem, Doctor,” she said. “But call me Ilse.”

Versavel tried to keep a straight face. Impersonating doctors was Van In's idea, a tried and tested tactic. The adepts of Hippocrates still commanded respect. Ilse Vanquathem was convinced that Dr. Dupont and Dr. Praat wanted to set up a similar project in the neighborhood of Turnhout near Antwerp. Even the mangled Antwerp accent Van In had conjured up for the occasion didn't arouse her suspicions.

“It might help if we had the opportunity to chat with a couple of clients, Miss … eh … Ilse,” said Van In.

The radiant smile froze on her lips.

“I'm afraid we're not allowed to improvise in such delicate circumstances, Doctor. Confrontations of the sort you are suggesting require preparation. But I'll certainly discuss the matter at our next staff meeting.”

“That would be kind of you, Ilse. I'm sure you understand that whatever information we can acquire about this wonderful project would be most welcome.”