The Square of Revenge (22 page)

Sergeant Lobelle was manning the switchboard in the company of an official from the telephone company and keeping a close eye on Delahaye’s line. He reacted immediately.

“How much time do we need?” he snarled.

“It depends,” said the nervous official as his fingers danced across his computer keyboard.

Lobelle radioed in to his colleagues on Bishop Avenue.

“We’ve got him,” the official screamed after twenty seconds or so. “Vlaming Street. The public fax in the new shopping arcade.”

A relaxed Daniel Verhaeghe strolled across Market Square as a slew of police cars with wailing sirens honed in on Vlaming Street from every direction. Just before the impressive army of police hermetically sealed the entire block, Daniel dipped his handkerchief in the fountain on Zand Square. The tension excited him, and the wet handkerchief almost sizzled when it touched his forehead.

Captain D’Hondt read the incoming fax line by line as it rolled out of the machine. He had seen some crazy things in his career, but this topped them all.

Van In and Hannelore were in the lounge trying to cheer Mr. and Mrs. Delahaye. They hurried to the fax machine, followed by Degroof senior. Public Prosecutor Lootens had already left. He had excused himself shortly after the press conference and handed Van In the number of De Karmeliet, a three star restaurant on Long Street where he had an urgent appointment. At least that’s what he said.

“Has to be a bunch of jokers,” said D’Hondt in an effort to calm everyone down. “Here, read this.”

He handed the fax to Van In. But before Van In read the first line, he caught sight of the small square at the bottom of the page. “Forget it,” Van In snarled. “Oh, my God,” Charlotte sobbed. Patrick Delahaye stood beside her and took her hand. Hannelore read the fax over Van In’s shoulder.

Your son is alive and well. If you carefully follow the instructions below, the boy will be left unharmed. One thing should be clear: there will be no negotiation on the ransom. Any attempt to delay the procedure can have potentially fatal results for Bertrand.

If you wish to see Bertrand again and in good health, you must do the following: on Monday July 8 at 8 a.m. precisely you must bring the paintings listed below to Zand Square …

A list of paintings followed, each with the name of the artist.

… at 9 a.m. Patrick Delahaye must remove a strip of paint at least four inches wide from each of the paintings with a scraper. This must take place on Zand Square in front of the cameras. The paintings are then to be piled up in front of the fountain and set alight.

The public are to be informed about this event via radio and television. On the day of the burning, the public must be given free access to Zand Square, and the distance between the first row of people and Patrick Delahaye is to be no more than six feet. During the burning, however, the distance may be increased to thirty feet.

Should this procedure not be followed to the letter, or in the absence of public or media interest, Bertrand will be killed. There will be no further communication.

The Templars’ Square served as a signature.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Van In muttered.

No one paid any attention to his exclamation. He passed the fax to Delahaye. The color drained from Patrick’s face as he read, and he leaned for support on Charlotte, who was head and shoulders taller.

Van In had noticed the paintings, of course, but hadn’t realized they were by painters like Delvaux, Permeke, Mondriaan, Peire, Magritte, Appel. There was even a work by Gustave Klimt, on its own worth tens of millions of francs.

“This can’t be true,” Delahaye screamed. “Charlotte, tell me it’s some kind of wicked prank.”

The man was beside himself and Charlotte put a reassuring arm around his shoulder.

“If I may, Mr. Delahaye,” said D’Hondt, his tone resolute. “I don’t think we have to take this seriously. No kidnapper in his right mind would insist on burning a fortune in paintings.”

He sounded so self-assured that Delahaye raised his head. Was there a glimmer of hope? A tentative smile appeared under the policeman’s obligatory moustache.

“Forget it,” said Van In for a second time. “I’m sorry, but this
is
from the kidnappers. There’s no doubt about it.”

Van In hadn’t found it necessary to fill D’Hondt in on the background. The captain glared at him.

“Is that right?” he sneered.

“Commissaire Van In is completely right.”

Everyone recognized Ludovic Degroof’s authoritarian voice. “Captain D’Hondt is probably not aware of all the facts of the case, otherwise he would never defend such a hypothesis.”

D’Hondt stood his ground, but inside his ego withered like a deflating balloon.

“What makes you so certain?” Delahaye asked, clinging to the last straw.

“Just take it from me, my boy,” said Degroof, trying to sound sympathetic. “Paintings can be replaced.”

Van In spotted Hannelore whispering something in Charlotte Degroof’s ear.

“Excuse me.” Everyone turned to the front door. Van In recognized the short, dusty man immediately.

“Professor Beheyt, perfect timing. The kidnappers have just made contact.”

Versavel had opened the door for Beheyt and now joined him with the others.

Adelbrecht Beheyt looked as if he had walked out of a comic strip. He was wearing an ill-fitting, old-fashioned three-piece suit and kept one hand tucked upright in his vest pocket, a pose that afforded him a certain degree of dignity. He was in his early sixties and small of stature, but a pair of intelligent boyish eyes sparkled behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Many a student could testify to his fiery character and his exaggerated sense of honor, but outside the classroom he was an affable man.

“I was a little late, so I decided to book a room in a hotel first.”

Making him even later
, thought Hannelore, unable to follow his crooked logic.

Beheyt spoke with a warm voice, and anyone could tell that he had spent more than ten years teaching at a Dutch university in Leiden.

“There was no need for that, Professor. You would have been most welcome chez moi.” Ludovic Degroof’s reaction was closer to that of a concerned host than a grandfather at his wits’ end.

“That’s most kind of you, Mr… .”

“Degroof, Ludovic Degroof, grandfather of the kidnapped boy.”

It took a good five minutes before everyone was introduced according to the rules of etiquette.

Van In took it upon himself to bring Beheyt up to speed. The professor listened attentively, and when Van In was done his only request was to see the fax. Charlotte handed it over and Beheyt took a moment to study the kidnappers’ demands. He was intelligent enough, however, not to draw any immediate conclusions.

There was an unearthly silence in the room as he read. The arrival of an expert always kindled a spark of hope.

“I suggest we sit down for a moment,” he said, “take time to talk things through and put together a strategy.”

His approach seemed to work. Even Patrick Delahaye breathed a little more freely.

“Shall I make a pot of coffee?” Charlotte suggested.

In contrast to an hour earlier, she appeared relieved. For her, it was an open-and-shut case. They would bring the paintings to Zand Square on Monday and burn them. Then Bertrand would be set free.

“With cognac perhaps?” she asked halfway between the lounge and the kitchen. Van In said yes on everyone’s behalf.

The lounge was in proportion to the rest of the house and took up the space of an ordinary room. There were enough armchairs for everyone. Since no one had dismissed him, Versavel likewise took a seat. He was in the mood for coffee.

“I think the time has come to collect all the available information.”

Van In took the floor, and it pleased him that Beheyt spontaneously concurred. This time he provided a comprehensive report of what had happened between Sunday and the present. He intentionally omitted a couple of details, notably the pressure Degroof had been applying to have the investigation buried. He didn’t fail to observe that Degroof had nodded approvingly in his direction every now and then. He figured the old fox must have stuck his neck out. By insisting that the public prosecutor and De Kee assign Van In to the case, he had limited the spread of a potential scandal.

“Extraordinary,” said Beheyt when Van In had had his say. “At first sight I’m inclined to agree with Commissioner Van In’s conviction that we’re dealing with a personal vendetta. The demands of the kidnappers suggest revenge rather than material gain.”

Captain D’Hondt was boiling with rage because Van In had failed to mention the information he had now provided. Hannelore considered throwing what she had discovered that Friday into the pot, but Van In had been silent about their visit to Loppem and she presumed he had his reasons.

At that moment Charlotte marched in from the kitchen carrying a wooden tray with coffee, cookies, and a bottle of Otard cognac. She had been away for the best part of twenty minutes. Hannelore saw from her eyes that she had been crying.

When everyone had been served coffee and cognac, Beheyt continued.

“The Templars’ Square points in all probability in the direction of a romantic run amok. The style and language of the fax leads me to presume that whoever wrote it is well educated. If you ask me, he’s not young either, and that would appear to tally with what I’ve just heard from the commissioner. The combination of an old man working with a young accomplice is a curious one. When an old man seeks revenge, it’s usually for something that happened a long time ago. Perhaps the young man somehow engendered his actions.”

Captain D’Hondt busily took notes. The oppressive silence reinstated itself.

“What struck me,” said Charlotte completely out of the blue, “was that the young man used eye drops when he was at my brother’s store. Isn’t that what you said this afternoon, Commissioner?”

As an eye doctor, it was logical that such a detail would draw her attention.

“He was also exceptionally tall. All the witnesses seem to agree on that point.”

Everyone turned to her in surprise.

“You have a good memory, ma’am,” said Van In, sounding like a teacher giving a gold star to his best student. She understood that he didn’t wish to be unkind when he asked her to explain the connection between the two observations.

“Indeed,” she said with a feeble laugh, “perhaps it does sound absurd, but if I’m not mistaken there’s a rare eye condition that combines both features.”

“Is that so, Charlotte?”

Ludovic Degroof sat on the edge of his chair.

“And how rare is rare?” Van In inquired.

“Pretty rare,” said Charlotte, scouring the deepest caverns of her memory in search of the condition’s name. “It’s a syndrome … something syndrome …”

She ran through the letters of the alphabet in her mind, hoping that one of them would jolt her memory. They left her to think for a while.

“Please, just ignore me,” she said when she realized everyone had fallen silent. “It’ll come to me. And it’s probably not that important. Please continue …”

“I suggest we follow Mrs. Delahaye’s example and do some brain-racking. We need to bring all the evidence together, search for a connection,” said Beheyt, still grave.

Hannelore looked at Van In, but his lips remained sealed.

“We’re pretty sure the culprits used a dark Mercedes station wagon. Isn’t that something we’ve overlooked?” said Charlotte.

“Have you any idea how many Mercedes station wagons there are on the roads in Belgium?” Van In sighed. His tone was ill-chosen and he immediately sensed Charlotte’s glare.

“But you’re right,” he resumed, correcting himself. “I believe Captain D’Hondt is exploring that line of inquiry.”

D’Hondt placed his cup on a nearby side table, taking care not to let anyone see that his hand was shaking.

“That’s news to me,” he said, his voice subdued. “Thus far the local police have not had access to the statements and official reports surrounding the Ghislain Degroof case. In the present case, however, there are no witnesses. We can’t be sure that the boy was taken in a Mercedes. But there’s no reason why we shouldn’t include this element in our description,” he said, raising his voice slightly.

“The captain is completely right.” Van In took a wicked delight in kicking, then comforting. “Let’s not forget that the perpetrators will be holed up somewhere safe by this time. The vehicle used to kidnap the boy isn’t likely to be parked at their front door.”

It had started to rain. The outside broadcast units of the national and commercial TV stations had acquired the backup of a modest Renault Espace belonging to a local TV station. A Dutch broadcasting team had joined the assemblage an hour earlier.

One thing was clear: if the kidnappers’ demands went public, Bishop Avenue would be awash. A kidnapping alone was a stroke of luck, but a kidnapping with a ransom note demanding that a bonfire be made of an art collection worth millions was enough to attract even CNN’s attention.

Versavel had sent the majority of the police home, and the two remaining officers on duty had sought the shelter of their police vehicle. The handful of curious onlookers who had remained obediently respected the barriers, and there was nothing new to excite the press. The occasional passerby peered and pointed at the bungalow’s lit windows out of curiosity.

No one paid the least attention to the scrawny young man sauntering past the bungalow. Neither the police nor the reporters gathered in deliberation noticed the derisive smile on his face as he stopped for a moment in front of the house. Daniel Verhaeghe relished the tension. He felt the adrenaline pump through his fragile aorta. Mocking death, with whom he had made friends long ago, sent him into ecstasy.

Five minutes before he went on the air, a journalist spotted an envelope taped to the door of the national TV station’s Mercedes.

Halfway through the news, the Delahayes’ telephone rang. Captain D’Hondt was the first to reach the phone and he switched on the Nagra tape recorder before lifting the receiver. Charlotte closed her eyes in nervous expectation while the others gathered in a circle around D’Hondt.