From Bruges with Love (19 page)

Hannelore nodded.

“I included a letter asking if Marlon Brando had used him as an example.”

Linda was on a roll. “Vandaele rules his disciples with an iron fist. He steered Johan into the party, and Provoost would've been in jail years ago if it hadn't been for him. If you want to point the finger, point it at Vandaele.”

“What makes you think that?” asked Hannelore, unruffled.

Linda treated herself to a generous gulp of Elixir d'Anvers. She started to stammer. “D-don't tell me the j-judiciary knows nothing about the sh-shit. I'm not f-falling for that one. E-everybody knows what that f-fuck's been up to.”

Linda lit a match and suddenly lost her grip on it. It all happened in what felt like a split second. Her nylon housecoat was on fire. She leaped to her feet like an impala catching the scent of an approaching lion. But Hannelore was glued to her seat, stunned. Linda's arms flailed in every direction as the flames licked her thighs.

It's strange how observers are sometimes slow to react in emergency situations. It took Hannelore all the willpower she could muster to pull herself away from the bewitching flames. She rushed to the sink, filled a dirty pan with water, and put out the fire. Van In was sure to laugh when she told him about it later. Hannelore realized she was having trouble keeping a straight face. Linda on the other hand started to whimper, gently­ at first.

“Does it hurt?” asked Hannelore, inspecting the damage. The bottom half of her housecoat was completely burned away. The charred nylon remains filled the room with a disgusting stench.

“I'll be OK,” she said, still dazed.

Linda lifted her nightdress without the least embarrassment. She was wearing a minuscule G-string underneath, a tiny white triangle bulging between the folds of flab. One of her thighs had been badly burned. A three-by-six-inch ribbon of skin looked like a sloppily hung strip of wallpaper.

Hannelore refilled the pan and poured water over the wound. A puddle formed on the floor.

“Where's the bathroom?”

Hannelore remembered seeing a public safety film about burns. The best way to limit the damage was to hold the wound under running water.

Linda pointed upstairs.

The shower was full of unwashed laundry. Hannelore kicked it aside, pushed Linda in, and sprayed the burn with ice-cold water. Linda screamed like a banshee, but Hannelore paid no attention. She needed all her energy to keep her patient still. After ten minutes she was almost as soaked as Linda, who continued to scream “enough, enough” at the top of her lungs. She stopped when Hannelore turned off the tap. Both women were dripping wet, like a couple of dogs just in from the rain.

“Now I'm calling an ambulance,” said Hannelore resolutely.

“No!” Linda shouted, on the verge of hysteria. “No ambulance … no hospital.”

Hannelore was adamant. She had noticed the phone on the wall when she came in and ran downstairs. Linda hobbled after her.

“Please,” she begged, “don't call an ambulance. Call my doctor instead. If he says I have to go to emergency, then I'll go.”

Hannelore turned on her heels.
Quid pro quo,
she thought.

“If I can be sure you've told me everything, I'll—”

“Ask whatever you want,” Linda ranted in desperation.

Hannelore considered the pros and cons. The burn didn't look too serious. Some ointment and a couple of painkillers and Linda would be fine. If the doctor had no problem with it, then no one could point the finger of negligence in her direction.

Mdina appeared on the horizon like a pink sandcastle. The rising sun colored the old city with the shades and tints of an impressionist painting. William Aerts ignored the idyllic spectacle and concentrated on steering his souped-up Toyota toward Valletta. Brouwers had left the day before without completing his mission. Or was that a diversionary tactic? Aerts was familiar with the man's reputation. His presence on the island was incontrovertible evidence of Vandaele's determination to find him and deal with him.

Aerts had run though all the scenarios the night before in his head. It was only when he read a full report on the murder of Yves Provoost in
Het Laatste Nieuws
—the Flemish national daily always arrived on the island a couple of days late—that he made the rash decision to return to Belgium. In his mind it was the only way to save his skin. With Provoost dead he could now use Belgian law to protect himself. In certain circumstances, a defendant can appeal to the principle of exculpation. According to the Belgian penal statutes, a suspect can only be sent to prison if he fulfills certain conditions. He has to be in good mental health, for example. The rule is often used by lawyers as a handy way of keeping their clients out of jail. One of the less well-known grounds for exculpation is moral pressure. If the defense can demonstrate that their client committed a crime because they were morally forced to do so by a third party, the judge is obliged in principle to acquit him or at least give him a reduced sentence. Aerts figured he would get a couple of years max, and that was better than certain death at the hands of Vandaele's cronies. When he buried Dani, he was in Vandaele's debt to the tune of half a million. Without a postponement he would have been bankrupt in no time. Vandaele had proposed a friendly settlement if he agreed to bury the body. Under normal circumstances, a court would follow his line of argument and be less interested in the messenger than the one who sent him. And by exposing the scandal, the reason to take him out would be gone. With a bit of luck he'd be back on Malta the following spring.

13

V
an In settled for a simple lunch: a cup of coffee and a couple of cigarettes. The cream cheese sandwiches Hannelore had prepared for him that morning were in the trash, still wrapped in aluminum foil. The coffee was watery, and the cigarettes made him cough. The future appeared grim. He was saddled with two homicides, evidence was scarce, and to make matters worse, Versavel had called in sick. Van In had reluctantly phoned the two remaining hospitals only to hear the same story: no one matching Herbert's profile had undergone a sex-change operation in the eighties. It didn't surprise him. Most men intent on that kind of metamorphosis back then were older than twenty-five. But as he had said before: no one was going to accuse them of carelessness.

And then there was Dirk Baert. The man's endless explanations and crime analyses had been messing with Van In's nerves the entire morning. But what bothered him most was De Kee's insistence that he not be present when Linda Aerts was questioned, and Carine Neels's unjustified absence.

Van In considered a couple of options. He could get drunk, or he could pay a visit to Carine and find out what she was up to. The clock in the cafeteria devoured the minutes at a snail's pace. It was only twelve thirty. Another four hours in the company of Baert was a challenge he wasn't willing to face. What if he started with a couple of Duvels, then paid a visit to Neels? The prospect cheered him, but Baert would screw it up. If he disappeared without reason, Baert would blab and he'd have to explain himself the next day to De Kee. The idea didn't impress him. He needed to be creative.

Van In punched in the number of the incident room. If he wasn't mistaken, Robert Bruynoghe was on duty. “Hello, Robert. Van In here. Could you do me a major favor?”

Officer Bruynoghe grinned when Van In explained his plans. It was common knowledge that Dirk Baert had few friends in the corps. “I'll take care of it, Commissioner.”

“Thanks, Robert. I owe you one.”

Bruynoghe called Room 204. “Hello, Chief Inspector Baert. Would you be kind enough to put me through to Commissioner Van In?”

Baert hated the formal language employed by some of the lower echelons. “The commissioner is at lunch. Can I be of assistance?” he asked, maintaining the formality.

“I've just had the state governor on the line. He wants to speak with the commissioner urgently.”

Baert hung up without further questions and raced to the cafeteria to inform Van In.

Hannelore drove at a crawl down Steen Street and parked her Twingo on Market Square directly in front of one of the french-fries stands. The square had recently been redeveloped and was more or less traffic free. The connection between Steen Street and Wool Street was still accessible, but parking on the square was strictly forbidden.

A young policeman gestured that she should move along, a command she ostentatiously ignored.

A middle-aged French couple were studying the menu at the stand and chattering out loud.

“
Je n'y comprends rien du tout,
” said the woman indignantly, as if the Flemish words
frieten
,
mayonaise
, and
hotdog
were completely unrecognizable.

“A large fries with gravy and mayonnaise,” said Hannelore, pushing the jabbering
grenouille
out of the way.

“
Ça ne va pas, non
?
” the woman responded to Hannelore's rudeness.

Her husband was also about to say something unfriendly, but one glance at Hannelore made him think twice and he bit his lip.

“
Eh bien, Gerard
?
” The wrinkled
Française
treated her husband to a withering glare.

“Hoi, madam. You deaf or what?” An enraged policeman lurched menacingly in Hannelore's direction.

“Can I help you?” asked the owner of the fries stand. Bald, thirtysomething, and with a nose like a meat cleaver, the man didn't want any trouble with the police.

“A large fries with …”

The rest of her sentence was swallowed up by the drone of a pneumatic hammer. It was one thirty, and a team of dutiful construction workers were getting back to work after a break.

“Can I see your ID card, madam?” the officer snorted in a broad Bruges accent. “You know you're not allowed to park here.”

Hannelore threw back her head. “I park wherever I decide to park,” she snapped.

The
Française
immediately sided with the officer of the law, nudging her husband and nodding approvingly.

The police officer was the spitting image of Clint Eastwood, complete with holster and Dirty Harry Magnum. For a moment he was at a loss for words. “So madam wants to be difficult,” he said, his accent thinning.

“I want a large fries with gravy and mayonnaise,” Hannelore growled as she turned back to the owner of the fries stand.

The poor man stared at her in despair.

“And throw on some gherkins while you're at it.”

Hannelore smiled triumphantly and looked the young cop up and down. “I'm pregnant and I'm hungry.”

Three Elixirs on an empty stomach were clearly taking their toll. Hannelore reeled and just managed to grab hold of the French tourist who had shuffled closer unnoticed.

“I suggest you explain yourself at the police station, madam. If you ask me, you're drunk as a skunk,” said the officer, his accent thickening again.

“Me, drunk?”

Hannelore continued to hold on to the stranger for support, much to the annoyance of his faithful battle-ax.

The officer unclipped his radio mic and called the incident room.

“Problems, Delille?” said a voice in his other ear before Bruynoghe had the chance to respond.

Officer Delille recognized the voice instantly and didn't protest when Van In took the mic from his hand.

“Van In here. I'm onto it, Robert. Everything completely under control. Over and out.”

“Commissioner, I didn't know—”

“Take it easy, Delille. You haven't done anything wrong. I know the lady. She lives with a loser of a husband who rattles her every day and drives her crazy.”

Officer Delille nodded understandingly. At least he hadn't made a fool of himself.

“I want fries,” Hannelore begged. A carousel was turning in her head with horses moving up and down.

“Monsieur,” the tourist pleaded. Hannelore was still leaning heavily on his shoulder, and he was struggling to keep her upright. Van In stepped forward and took over, grabbing her under the arm and dragging her to the nearest bench. “Take care of the fries, Delille.”

Hannelore sunk to the bench like a wax statue that had been standing too long in the sun. All the color had drained from her cheeks.

“Do you want me to call a doctor?”

Hannelore thought about Linda Aerts. A hospital was the last place she wanted to land. “First food, Pieter. A couple of bites and I'll be right as rain.”

With her eyes half-shut, she peered over Van In's shoulder at a ghostly figure in blue holding out a portion of fries. She gobbled the warm snack in no time—gravy, mayonnaise, and all. When she was finished with the fries, Van In had Delille fetch a Coke, then nervously lit a cigarette.

“Feeling better?” he asked after a moment or two.

Hannelore licked a splotch of mayonnaise from her upper lip. “Much better,” she said grinning.

Agent Delille urged a number of nosey tourists to move along. There was nothing for them to see.

Van In gave Hannelore the Coke. She smiled and emptied it in one go. The sugar pepped her up.

“That's the first and the last time I follow in your footsteps, Pieter Van In. Your way of doing things is backbreaking.”

Hannelore told him the whole story.

“My fault as usual,” said Van In resignedly. “You're lucky I happened to be in the neighborhood or you'd been sleeping it off in a cell.”

“Doesn't every maiden deserve the assistance of a handsome knight?”

The influence of the Elixir clearly hadn't worn off. Van In looked around. A couple of Japanese tourists had settled on the bench beside them. Ten seconds later they had attracted the rest of the group, and Van In and Hannelore found themselves surrounded by a pack of chattering Asians. Luckily they had no idea what Hannelore was talking about.

“Are you still drunk?”

“Me, drunk? After three liqueurs? Are you crazy? I was nauseous, Pieter Van In, because I was hungry.”

“Of course you were,” said Van In.

“I was nauseous,” she insisted.

“Mea culpa. Drunk or not, you're lucky I was in the neighborhood.”

“That's what you think.”

Hannelore rummaged in her handbag and produced her court ID card. “I've never heard of a deputy public prosecutor being arrested for a parking offense, have you?”

“Emancipation.” Van In sighed. “You're not an inch better than the men.”

“Really? What would you have done?”

“Nothing, sweetheart. All the cops know me personally. I don't need a card.”

“Dirty pigs.” She giggled.

Van In stuck out his tongue. The Japanese recognized the gesture and laughed at him in unison. Hannelore was having the time of her life.

Van In glared at the Japanese and stuck his tongue out at them too.

“I'd rather you told me what you achieved with your drunken capers.”

Wilfried Buffel, a retired teacher, lived in a prewar house on Maria of Burgundy Avenue. A low wall and similar gate formed a symbolic division between his neatly maintained garden and the sidewalk.

Hannelore parked her Twingo on the grass verge beside the canal. The noise of a drainage sluice a couple hundred yards away sounded like a waterfall somewhere in the Ardennes. The murmur of water gave the drowsy row of houses an idyllic air.

“I'm asking myself how a retired teacher's going to help us with our inquiries,” said Van In skeptically.

Hannelore shrugged her shoulders. Men just didn't understand a woman's intuition. “Let's just see if the man's at home first,” she said crisply.

Buffel was reading a book by the window and saw Van In and Hannelore heading toward his front door. He himself was invisible behind the stained glass, as long as they didn't press their noses against it. Just to be sure, he slipped carefully into the corridor. A couple of smooth-talking imposters had tricked him out of fifty thousand francs the year before and left him suspicious of strangers.

Hannelore rang the bell. The elderly teacher had been waiting for it to ring, but it still made him jump.

“I have a feeling there's nobody home,” he heard the man outside say.

“Patience, Pieter. The man is seventy-two. How fast would you react at that age?”

The woman had a pleasant voice.

“And you expect that old bugger to remember something about a student he taught thirty years ago?”

Buffel snorted indignantly. Who did that man think he was? He might have been having trouble with his legs, but his memory was just fine, thank you very much. He made a racket with the door from the living room to the corridor, waited for a couple of seconds, then opened the front door.

“Mr. Buffel?” asked the woman, with a glint in her eye.

“Yes, can I help you, Miss …”

“Hannelore Martens. I work for the public prosecutor's office. And this is Commissioner Van In of the Bruges police department. May we ask you a few questions?”

Buffel led them into the living room. He took his usual chair by the window. You never know what might happen. There was an earthenware tobacco jar on the windowsill. If he threw it through the window, his neighbors would hear the broken glass. That's what he hoped at least.

“We're interested in a former pupil and colleague of yours, Lodewijk Vandaele,” said Hannelore coming straight to the point.

Buffel raised his hand to his head and ran his fingers through his thin gray hair. Why in God's name had he opened the door? Damn professional pride!

“Lodewijk Vandaele,” Hannelore repeated patiently.

Van In fiddled with his nose.
This could take a while
,
he thought, not exactly optimistic.

“It's all so long ago, miss.”

“Come now, Mr. Buffel. Teachers tend to have excellent memories. My old teacher can remember exactly what kind of dress I was wearing for my first communion.”

Her smile was so disarming that Buffel could no longer resist. He grabbed his pipe from a side table and filled it with tobacco from the jar on the windowsill. Van In stood and offered his lighter, comforted by the fact that the old bugger smoked. That gave him permission to do the same.

“I worked with Lodewijk Vandaele for close to ten years. He taught in the elementary school—fourth grade if I'm not mistaken. Lodewijk said farewell to the classroom after his father died. He took over the family business.”

Buffel puffed at his meerschaum pipe. “He did quite well for himself after that.”

“What was he like as a teacher?” asked Hannelore.

Buffel had been waiting for the question. Now he knew the reason for their visit. “I thought such matters had limitations, miss.”

Both Van In and Hannelore stared at the elderly teacher in astonishment. “What matters, Mr. Buffel?”

The old man blew a thick cloud of smoke into the room. He didn't want his visitors to be able to look him in the eye. “Teachers crossed the boundaries of permissible affection often enough in those days.”

Van In had heard a variety of definitions of pedophilia, but Buffel's euphemistic description almost made it sound safe for children.

“And was he convicted?” asked Hannelore, maintaining her cool.

Buffel sighed. The woman was too young to know what happened with scandals back then. “Lodewijk taught at a Catholic school, miss. The parish priest placated the parents, and the charges were dropped. That's how things were arranged in those days.”