From Bruges with Love (5 page)

“Hello,” she said with a quavering voice.

“Is William there?”

“William isn't home. Who's calling?” she asked, still dazed from her dream.

Provoost cursed under his breath and hung up.

Chief Inspector Dirk Baert put down the receiver.

“Any luck?” he asked Versavel.

Sergeant Versavel had just notched up his thirty-seventh call to a dentist.

“The same story every time. Either they can't remember and ask you to call back tomorrow or you get their answering service telling you they're on vacation. No wonder it costs a month's salary to have a crown fixed. In the old days, that used to pay for a nugget of gold in your gob. They need us like a hole in the head … so to speak.”

The word
gob
wasn't part of Versavel's usual vocabulary. It was a sign that he was pissed, and not only because of the dentists. Baert's endless whining was driving him up a wall.

“I managed to get an orthodontist on the line. The man's name was Joyeux,” said Baert. He waited patiently for a reaction. Versavel knew that Baert would repeat himself if he said nothing. “I managed to get an orthodontist on the line. The man's name was Joyeux.”

“And?” asked Versavel wearily.

“Not even remotely
joyeux
. The man was furious. He insisted he was still a student back in 1985 and couldn't have been involved. He said we should have checked first before we interrupted him.”

Versavel glanced at his watch. “I suggest we stop for coffee. This is getting us nowhere.”

Versavel popped a filter into the machine, switched it on, and returned to his desk. Baert rolled his chair a little closer. This wasn't the kind of detective work he had expected.

“I wonder if Van In's made any progress.”

The first drops of boiling water exploded in the coffee filter.

“Is he as good as they say?”

The tone of Baert's question was halfway between hesitation and admiration.

“Van In is the best,” Versavel answered, sure of his words. He wasn't in the mood to pick a fight with the chief inspector. The man had a bad reputation. He tried to sow dissension wherever he went. A few colleagues were even convinced he had a couple of bats in his belfry. For a moment, the
drip
-
drip
of the coffee machine was all that broke the silence.

“I've heard,” Baert whispered with a feigned smile, “that—”

“I don't give a shit what you've heard, Chief Inspector.”

Baert was taken aback by Versavel's reaction. His nostrils started to quiver as he readied himself to read him the riot act.

“Speak of the devil,” said Versavel, relieved at the sight of Van In in the doorway. “Any luck?”

Van In popped a chocolate toffee into his mouth hoping no one would notice. He was starving. Versavel served coffee as Van In delivered his report, ending with the name of the benefactor who'd previously owned the property. Baert listened eagerly.

“I think I need to have a word with our friend Vandaele. It may be sheer coincidence, of course, but according to the coroner, Herbert was killed between 1985 and 1986 …”

“And Vandaele donated the farm to the charity in 1986,” Versavel finished his sentence. They could read each other's thoughts after so many years of intensive teamwork.

“Something like that, Guido. And it bugs me for some reason.”

Versavel stirred his coffee. The name
Vandaele
brought him back in time to a period full of good memories. “Perhaps Jonathan can help us.”

Who the fuck is Jonathan?
Van In wanted to ask.

“If I'm not mistaken, Jonathan worked for Vandaele back then. He was his accountant for years.”

“One of your ‘buddies'?”

“Long ago,” said Versavel with a twinkle in his eye. “Shall I give him a call?”

“Poor Guido. You'd do just about anything for king and country.”

Dirk Baert stared at the two like a pygmy looking up at the Eiffel Tower for the first time.

“It's a deal.” Versavel beamed. “I'll call him right away.”

Every Tuesday evening, Van In and Hannelore headed to their favorite restaurant, the Heer Halewijn, on Wal Square. Diet or no diet, Tuesdays were sacrosanct. Hannelore was nuts about their grilled sirloin, and it gave Van In a valid excuse to down a bottle of Medoc with impunity.

The small idyllic square, one of the most romantic locations in Bruges according to those in the know, was a hive of activity. Waiters in long aprons did their professional thing with flair, and the tourists nodded approvingly. Strangers are inclined to feel at home in Bruges. They're served hand and foot, and even when they're difficult, tireless waiters are ready to engage them in their native language. And if the occasional expletive slips out in the local dialect, the tourists just laugh along good-humoredly. A little local color is vital if you want to cultivate that sense of being abroad.

The terrace in front of the Heer Halewijn was packed. In contrast to the other bars and restaurants on the square, most of the customers had a Bruges accent and spoke the local dialect—no beer-swilling Germans, cackling French, English Chunnel trippers, loud Americans, or equally loud Hollanders hunting the smell of food. There was actually something Dantesque about the place. You could ascend from hell into heaven in a heartbeat.

The owner, Suzanne, came to welcome them personally. Van In had known the boss at the Heer Halewijn for years. She kissed him fleetingly on the cheek. There had been a time when she would have lingered. A card on their favorite table read
reserved
.

“I'm guessing an extra portion of pickles?” said Suzanne with a wink.

Hannelore nodded eagerly. Van In gallantly pulled back her chair. She sat and fixed her dress.

“You look like a girl of eighteen,” said Suzanne.

“Don't overdo it, Sue.”

“I'm not overdoing it.” She meant it. Hannelore was truly breathtaking. Her dress concealed a body that Pythias would have killed for. Although Hannelore appeared to dismiss the compliment, she clearly wasn't indifferent to it.

“Come. Put your hand here. He's been kicking all day long.”

Hannelore smoothed her dress as Suzanne leaned over and rested her hand on the elegant bulge.

“Unbelievable,” said Suzanne.

Van In sat upright and pushed out his belly.

“And what about mine?”

Suzanne turned. You could see from the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes that she had a snappy remark at the ready.

“Eight months. Or am I mistaken?”

“But the poor soul is really doing his best,” said Hannelore. “Before long he'll weigh less than me.” It was impossible to tell from her tone whether she was jesting or not.

“In your case the extra pounds are only temporary, thank God. He's stuck with them for a good twenty years.” Suzanne grinned.

Everyone on the terrace who had been listening to the conversation burst into laughter. Van In looked like a naughty puppy. Hannelore leaned forward, caressed his neck, and gave him a resounding kiss. Plenty of the men present would happily have cut off their little finger to be in his place.

Served on a plate to share, the grilled sirloin, a good twelve ounces and more than an inch thick, was warm, juicy, and tender. Van In put a generous amount of butter on his baked potato. He then washed it all down with a glass of 1989 Château Corconnac. Hannelore gobbled the gherkins and the salad drenched in vinaigrette. Only a tiny morsel of beef remained on the plate.

“So, any news from the front?” She pushed the plate in Van In's direction, and he didn't hesitate to accept her generous offer.

“Not much. Without Herbert's identity we're groping in the dark. But it became clear to me this morning that this world of ours is being overrun by little brats, and one of them goes by the name of Tine.” Van In told her about his visit with the Vermast family.

“OK, then we can scratch the name from our list. If it's a girl, we'll call her Godelieve. Happy?”

Van In poured himself another glass of wine.

“Don't the experts say that children turn into their parents when they grow up?” Hannelore teased.

“If that's the case, then I hope she turns into you. Perish the thought that—”

“Don't go there, Pieter Van In. I was winding you up. You're certainly not the worst of them. The same experts insist with the same vigor that the fathers of most geniuses were over thirty at conception. If you don't believe me, check it out in the encyclopedia.”

“I'm one step ahead of you,” said Van In sullenly. “Herr Hitler wasn't the youngest either when little Adolf was born.”

“Here we go.” She sighed. “Time for a cigarette. At least then I'll be spared your grousing for ten minutes.”

Van In lit up without missing a beat.

“Back to the question, Pieter: Is there any news about our skeleton?”

The “our” part gave her the creeps.

“I thought the public prosecutor's office was in charge of the case,” Van In stalled.

Hannelore smiled engagingly as her foot shot forward. Van In was too slow to react.

“Ouch. Jesus.” His hand disappeared under the table to sooth the afflicted shin, his face twisted with pain.

“Did it hurt?” She grinned.

Suzanne, who had watched it all happen, figured it was the ideal moment to serve her chocolate mousse.

Van In attacked the dessert without responding, only returning to the conversation after he had licked the last trace of chocolate mousse from his spoon. He told Hannelore what he'd discovered about Vermast's farm. Van In was a talented investigator who had solved more than a few sensational crimes in his day, most of the time by steering clear of orthodox procedures. According to his philosophy, every capitalist was a potential killer. Van In was at his best when he got the chance to pillory one or another respected citizen, but he sometimes forgot that conclusive evidence was necessary to nail a suspect. In modern crime prevention, intuition was about as worthless as ten million deutsch marks after the Second World War.

“Only an imbecile would sell property knowing there was a corpse under the grass. And Vandaele is no imbecile.”

Hannelore pushed her chocolate mousse to one side. Van In glared at it with hungry eyes.

“Nothing's stopping me from having a serious chat with Mr. Vandaele, even if he has nothing to do with Herbert. Why the generous do-gooder? That's what I want to know,” said Hannelore, consciously setting aside Belgian judicial process. “It's still a free country, eh, Pieter?” She treated herself to another tantalizing spoonful of chocolate mousse.

“OK, I get your point. But explain to me why Vandaele would outfit his property with an expensive remote control gate. The damn thing's worth more than the pigsty Vermast's trying to salvage.”

“I don't understand where you see the connection between a gate and a murder.” Hannelore pushed her plate to Van In's side of the table. “Help me finish?”

Van In dug in. Tuesday evenings only came once a week.

“I don't believe in coincidence, Hanne. I want to know why Vandaele handed over his farm in 1986 to an obscure charity.”

Lodewijk Vandaele welcomed Yves Provoost, the lawyer, with a thin smile. Provoost looked exhausted. He hadn't slept for the best part of twenty-four hours.

“I'm not happy, Lodewijk. We should never have taken William Aerts into our confidence.”

Vandaele puffed at his expensive cigar, his face devoid of emotion. His tiny, lusterless eyes blinked at regular intervals, but that had more to do with the smoke from his Davidoff than anything else. “Relax, Yves. Every problem has its solution.”

Vandaele accompanied Provoost to the drawing room. Both men installed themselves by the window. It was still reasonably warm outside, but the ochre-yellow rays of the setting sun bore the full promise of fall.

“Aerts has disappeared, Lodewijk, and I want to know why.”

Vandaele poured Provoost a drink and himself a fruit juice. One of them had to keep his cool.

“You know Aerts. He read the news in the paper and panicked. He's probably scared we'll want to punish him. He should never have buried the body on the farm. That wasn't the deal, and Aerts knows damn well that we paid him plenty for his services. Let's wait and see what happens,” said Vandaele in an effort to reassure Provoost. “We need to stay calm. He'll be back, mark my words, and with his tail between his legs.”

“Did you talk to Brys?” Provoost asked abruptly.

“Johan is in Burundi for the moment. I'll call him as soon as he gets back.”

Provoost gulped unashamedly at his whiskey.

Vandaele sat down beside him and rested a paternal arm on his shoulder. “Why would Aerts kill the goose that lays the golden eggs? I practically
gave
him the Cleopatra. William Aerts makes a healthy enough living. He has no reason to betray us, none whatsoever.”

Provoost felt the weight of Vandaele's arm on his shoulder. He knew all about Vandaele's generosity. Aerts had coughed up a paltry five million francs for the Cleopatra. The dilapidated villa on the Maalsesteenweg was a third-rate bar in those days, where retired whores from Brussels could enjoy a well-earned rest. The occasional traveling salesman frequented the place, usually frustrated, always convinced that a bottle of lukewarm bubbly was a ticket to paradise.

Aerts had done a professional job. He turned the place around, importing young agile girls: mulattas, Filipinas, Polish blondes, Thai masseuses. In less than six months, he had the cream of Bruges and its immediate vicinity banging on his door.

“What if the police identify the skeleton and connect it with Aerts? It doesn't bear thinking about. The bastard will turn us in without a second thought, rest assured.”

Vandaele stubbed out his expensive cigar. “You mean Aerts will turn
you
in,” he said. “After all, you're responsible for—”