From Bruges with Love (15 page)

Van In nodded. The idea of choking to death with a clothespin on your nose didn't seem like a pleasant way to shuffle off this mortal coil.

“It looks as if the killer tickled him first for a while.”

Versavel turned in surprise.

“Explain yourself,” said Van In.

“There was a floor lamp in Provoost's study, one of those expensive Italian jobs. You know what they're like. Cost a bloody—”

“Get to the point, Leo, to the point!”

“OK, OK. The cable had been cut close to the base and the bare wires deliberately tucked back under. The technical crew found a fragment of insulation in the siphon under the sink and tiny splinters of copper in Provoost's pubic hair.”

“Welcome to Latin America.” Van In whistled.

He now understood what Leo's reference to tickling meant. He had recently seen a movie on TV in which a prisoner was tied to a metal bedspring. A man in a doctor's coat poured water over the poor bastard and laid into him with electrodes. Music by Schubert could be heard in the background. Van In thought instinctively of Linda Aerts. Perhaps she had also seen the film and her night in the cell had left her terror-stricken.

“Isn't that a bit far-fetched for your average S-and-M fan?” asked Versavel.

“Of course,” said Leo. “Most S-and-M aficionados have a code. If the pain is too much to bear, they stop … love-play over. Sadists on the other hand …”

“Have no limits,” Versavel finished his sentence.

Van In thought about Linda again. He felt a little guilty, and he also had to admit that he had enjoyed the moment when she succumbed to the full effects of his method. “Unless Provoost's killer was looking for information. That's what torture's­ for, isn't it?”

“Every sadist has the same excuse,” said Versavel dryly.

“Torture is one of the classic methods for extracting information,” said Leo matter-of-factly.

“Or a confession?” said Versavel. For a brief moment he forgot the harrowing pain that was threatening to tear open his chest. He was happy that the discussion had been able to distract him.

“Do you think Provoost killed Herbert?”

Leo and Versavel turned to Van In in surprise. Why hadn't they thought of that?

A pale bolt of lightning illuminated the purple sky. A few seconds later, a clap of thunder rolled over the rooftops. Day suddenly turned into night as a legion of clouds covered the city in darkness. Versavel rushed to the window and slammed it shut. Van In rolled his chair closer to his desk, as if he was safer there.

“In that case, Pieter …”

“I know, Leo. If Provoost killed Herbert, the shit will hit the fan. The other clients at the Love will sense the threat and close ranks.”

Leo belonged to the judicial police, which fell under the public prosecutor's office. His reaction was understandable. There had been so many scandals of late and yet another would be likely to shut down his department for good. The public prosecutor's office was under serious fire these days.

Van In tried to defuse the situation. “Gentlemen, let's focus. If heads have to roll, then I'll take care of it myself.”

Versavel nodded. He knew what Van In meant. The commissioner had exposed some major players in the past, and in a pretty unorthodox way. All the same, Versavel was determined to defend his boss.

“Could William Aerts be behind this?” asked Versavel. The sergeant thought that Van In hadn't given enough attention to Aerts as a line of inquiry.

“Aerts is a pawn, Guido. He organized the orgies at the Love. I'm interested in the big fish, not the small ones.”

“But small fish catch big fish,” Versavel insisted. “If you ask me, Aerts knows the whole story. Why would he disappear in such a hurry otherwise?”

Van In couldn't simply ignore the question.

Forked lightning and crackling thunder followed in quick succession. A curtain of rain limited visibility to less than a couple of yards.

“Guido might be onto something,” said Leo, filling his cup with coffee.

Van In covered his face with both hands. In democracies the majority always had the last word. But whether they had the right word remained open to question. “OK, OK,” he said with barely concealed sarcasm. “I hereby declare hunting season to be open. Do whatever you think is necessary. Inform Interpol, call the federal boys, pray to Mother Teresa. I don't give a rat's ass what you do, but I think we need to make the best of what we have.”

“So we should start with the clients who frequented the Love.” Versavel sighed. “That's good news for Herbert, but what about Provoost? Who took him out? The same clients?”

“Pretty unlikely,” said Leo. “Why would they get rid of their buddy?”

“An outsider then?” asked Versavel, unconvinced. “But who else had access to the Love's membership list?”

Van In had never touched an electric eel before, but he had a fair idea what it would feel like. Provoost had been killed the day Linda spilled the names, and she had consulted with Provoost that same day.

“Linda Aerts,” said Van In under his breath. “But why?”

Leo scowled and gulped his coffee. “By the way … our forensic friends discovered something remarkable at Provoost's place. The killer apparently took the time to vacuum the entire house and mop the floors.”

“You're kidding …” said Van In.

Leo nodded, sure of his information. “Someone also removed the vacuum cleaner bag, and Miss Calmeyn insists that one of her mops is missing. You should check it out in the file. Killers sometimes take the time to vacuum the scene of the crime, but I've never read anything about mopping.”

“A woman after all,” Van In hissed.

“Or someone who's well informed about the methods we use to detect evidence,” said Versavel matter-of-factly.

Van In was on the ball. “I'll call Hannelore,” he said. “If this isn't enough to make the public prosecutor issue an arrest warrant on Linda Aerts …”

Just as he was reaching for the phone, it rang.

“Van In.”

He could hear hysterical screaming in the background.

“Mr. Vermast, good afternoon. How are you?”

“I'm fine; thanks, Commissioner.”

The screaming in the background continued unabated and didn't incline Van In to ask after the rest of the family.

“Sorry to disturb you, Commissioner. It's probably nothing important,” said Vermast hesitatingly. “But …”

“You can never tell what will be important, Mr. Vermast. And you're not disturbing me at all.” Van In made a weary face and an obscene gesture. What did the blundering garden gnome want this time?

“Well … it's like this, Commissioner. Just before the police arrived, my daughter took a couple of bags from the grave. We only found out this morning.”

Van In gestured that Versavel should listen in. Judging by his boss's widening eyes, something serious was going on. Leo poured himself a third cup of coffee.

“Tine hid her discovery from us all this time,” Vermast continued in an apologetic tone. “Perhaps—”

“Would you mind coming to the point, Mr. Vermast?” said Van In, his patience thinning.

Versavel heard the poor man gulp.

“Tine found two small bags. My wife thinks they're breast prostheses,” said Vermast, not entirely sure of what he was saying.

“Jesus H. Christ.”

“What was that, Commissioner?”

“Breast prostheses?”

“Isn't that what I said, Commissioner?”

Versavel stroked his mustache.
Pure Kafka,
he thought.

“Never mind, Mr. Vermast. We'll be there in ten minutes.”

The Air Malta 737 landed at the Luqa airport at two thirty p.m. The aircraft taxied over the bumpy tarmac and parked two hundred yards from the modern terminal. Jos Brouwers waited until it emptied its load of sun-seeking tourists. An overtired flight attendant urged him to get a move on. Brouwers grunted. It wasn't the first time he'd been on a plane. She didn't have to lump all the passengers in the same box.

The heat embraced him like a dry sauna, but it didn't take long before the sweat was running down his back. The breeze was warm and did nothing to help.

He passed through customs without a hitch. The island was clearly begging for tourists. It took less than fifteen minutes for the pack of impatient vacationers to fill the colorful buses awaiting them and disappear.

Brouwers walked through the terminal, happy the Maltese had discovered the advantages of air-conditioning. Inside, it was bliss. When the stream of tourists had come to a standstill and tranquility had returned, Brouwers inspected the building. The Avis car-rental office was no bigger than the illuminated red-and-white company logo that announced its presence. The clerk in attendance compensated with a broad smile.

Brouwers opted for a compact Suzuki. The friendly Avis clerk waved him off. Brouwers had read in a tourist guide that the Maltese were crazy for ready cash, but that wasn't the main reason he had paid for the car with hard currency. Credit cards and checks left an electronic trail, and that wasn't smart for someone traveling on a false passport.

The trip from Luqa to Valletta, the island's capital, took less than fifteen minutes. The divided highway was broad, and the road signs were pretty clear for the Mediterranean, but that changed when he drove into the city. Its chaotic streets and traffic reminded him of Athens.

Brouwers had bought a map of the city before leaving Belgium. He had studied it in detail at home but lost his way within minutes. Driving on the left was the biggest hurdle. Luckily the locals reacted politely when he took a bend too wide or veered too far to the right. They appeared to be used to foreigners and their clumsy driving. And they had devised an ingeniously simple way of spotting them in the traffic. License plates of rental cars all started with an
X
, which made them easy to identify even from a distance.

Van In sounded his horn when they arrived at the Love. Versavel was about to get out and open the gate, but Van In held him back.

“This is the twentieth century, Guido.”

He might just as well have said “open sesame.” Before Versavel had relaxed back into his seat, the ten-foot-wide gate swung open as if by magic.

“Time was always of the essence.” Van In grinned. “When the big boys wanted a quick screw, every second counted.”

“I've never really understood what a quick screw is all about,” said Versavel, his mind drawn back to endless evenings with Frank, grilled lobster, and cool almond oil.

Van In maneuvered the Golf over the bumpy terrain. “Those guys fuck like they talk,” he said. “Too fast and without passion.”

“How come you know so much?”

“Because I'm a commissioner, of course. What did you think?”

“So you see yourself as one of the big boys?”

“Big is relative.”

“So this is a size thing?”

“Let's not go there,” said Van In. “You're the last person I want to have
that
conversation with.”

Hugo Vermast welcomed the gentlemen of the police with a nervous smile. “That was fast,” he said. “I hope I didn't bother you for nothing. I'm sure it's not really so urgent.”

Van In held up his hand. “The police are here to serve, Mr. Vermast,” he said. “It's our duty to investigate every tip.”

His words appeared to put Vermast at ease. Versavel bit his bottom lip. Van In was clearly in one of his manic dips. Or did he have his tongue in his cheek?

“I normally pay no attention to these things, but my wife—”

“Your wife is a nurse,” said Van In before Vermast had the chance to remind him.

“Nice of you to remember, Commissioner.”

Vermast led them into the kitchen. It was tidier than the last time. The bags were lying on the table like a pair of deflated balloons. “That's what she found,” said Vermast.

Van In picked up one of the bags. It felt like jelly wrapped in thick cellophane. “Hard to believe that women are willing to pay a small fortune for these things,” he said.

Versavel resisted comment. He had never understood what attracted men to breasts.

“Joris hid them in his secret box. He's crazy about special objects. Did I mention that Joris is on the autistism scale?”

Van In nodded emphatically, hoping Vermast wouldn't stray from the point.

“The intellectual capacities of people with autism are often underestimated,” said Vermast, straying from the point. “Have you seen
Rain Man
?”

Vermast was a proud father. Joris was a special boy because a clever screenwriter had elevated an exception to become the norm.

“With Dustin Hoffman?” asked Versavel diplomatically when Van In didn't respond.

“That's the one.” Vermast turned to Versavel. “Unbelievable, don't you think? Our Joris has a long way to go, but he'll get there.”

“I thought it was your daughter who found the bags,” said Van In, letting the blubbery bag slip through his fingers. Vermast's initial unease appeared to have vanished. He seemed more self-assured than ever.

“Tine knows that her brother likes to collect unusual things. That's why she took them from the grave and gave them to him. She wanted to do Joris a favor. No one can blame her.”

“Of course not,” said Van In.

Vermast beamed. “Coffee, gentlemen?”

Versavel jumped at the chance, not catching Van In's glare. Vermast grabbed three cups and an oversized thermos from the kitchen counter. The coffee tasted like stewed chestnuts.

“Is there still a drop of cognac, Hugo?”

Van In used Vermast's first name deliberately. His host smiled conspiratorially.

“Leen won't be back for another hour. Let me see what I can do.”

He disappeared into the living room. Van In poured his coffee into a planter containing a sickly looking sansevieria. Versavel followed his example without blinking.