The Square of Revenge (27 page)

“There’s still some cognac left over from yesterday,” Charlotte added with a melancholic smile.

“And why not, ma’am,” Van In quipped.

As she made her way to the kitchen area, Van In noticed she wasn’t wearing a bra. He cursed himself for noticing and staring against his will.

“Mrs. Delahaye!”

“Yes, Commissioner?”

“Has your father been here long?”

“Daddy spent the night here.”

She sounded surprised at his question. Hannelore wondered why he wanted to know.

The sliding doors that gave out onto the terrace and the back yard were wide open. A gentle breeze stirred the curtains. The unmistakable smell of freshly mown grass mixed with kerosene drifted into the room. Delahaye had gotten up that morning at five-thirty to mow the lawn, and none of the neighbors had complained about the noise.

As they made their way out onto the terrace, Patrick Delahaye slid open the bedroom window. In contrast to the day before, he was wearing threadbare jogging pants and a T-shirt with the logo of the company of which he was a director and a shareholder. He was unshaven and his eyes were sunken and dull. He came to meet them barefoot.

Van In shook the man’s limp and listless hand. He seemed to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. It wouldn’t be long before the protective elation Beheyt had told him about disappeared. He was going to need the professor’s help. Without it he was never going to be in a fit state to “pay” his son’s ransom the following day.

Degroof senior was sitting on a stool, his back straight, his tie knotted flawlessly.

“Commissaire, Madame,” he said with a sparing nod of the head.

Deleu was scribbling enthusiastically and barely made the effort to say hello.

Van In had no idea what he was writing so frenetically. He sat down next to Degroof and pensively rubbed his nose trying to figure out his opening line. He had to admit yet again that the Bruges special investigations department had no experience with this sort of case.

The public tended to believe that some ingenious system swung into action when there were crimes to be solved. In the soaps and the movies, criminals always left conspicuous clues behind; either that or some star witness appeared at the last minute. Reality, of course, was quite different. The majority of crimes were solved by accident or after months of detailed and methodical detective work. Van In had been given no more than forty-eight hours, almost half of which had now expired.

Success in kidnap cases often depends on a tip from the criminal underworld. The procedure is simple. The police carry out arbitrary raids until someone gets fed up and makes an anonymous phone call. There are two reasons for this: real criminals don’t like kidnappings, and raids in gambling joints and brothels are bad for business. Money in their world is more important that solidarity.

But Van In had no evidence at his disposal that could demonstrate a link between the abduction and organized crime. The kidnappers were working alone. That was the only thing he was sure about.

“Are Mr. and Mrs. Delahaye’s statements ready?” he asked, suddenly authoritarian. Even Degroof momentarily raised his eyebrows. Deleu watched him like a hyena waiting for its prey to give up the ghost.

“Can I please have a look?” Van In insisted when Deleu didn’t respond to his question. He enjoyed making a fool of Deleu, but this time it was a delaying tactic. He still wasn’t sure how to approach Degroof senior.

Hannelore could feel Degroof looking at her. The sun’s slanting rays filled the room, and she was aware that they made her blouse almost see-through.

Deleu muttered an incomprehensible curse and reached for his expensive briefcase.

“Your silence leads me to presume there has been no progress,” Degroof snapped.

Jesus H. Christ
, Van In thought. He’s on to me. Deleu handed him a pile of papers.

“I’m afraid I can’t deny it, Mr. Degroof. That’s why I’m here. I think it makes sense to deal with the question of the ransom first. If something new surfaces between now and tomorrow, we can always adjust our plans.”

“Fine,” Degroof snorted. “So what do you propose?”

Van In glanced at the first lines of the official report on which Deleu—as usual—had wasted so much time and effort.

“Mrs. Delahaye will be here in a moment. I prefer both parents to be present.”

Degroof winced like a diver being stung by an electric eel. Delahaye could hardly believe his eyes. His father-in-law wasn’t used to being put in his place.

But Van In couldn’t back off. He had made a major decision that night. If he was right, Degroof senior would soon be changing his tune. And if he was wrong, he could look forward to a new career as a parking attendant.

A chilly silence settled on the terrace as Van In leafed through the report. Deleu’s pompous prose didn’t make him any wiser. He hadn’t expected it to.

During the holidays, Bertrand went skating on Thursdays and Saturdays at the Boudewijn Park ice rink. In the month of July he was forced to use roller-skates because the management considered it too expensive to keep the ice rink functional in hot weather. On Thursday afternoons he always went with a friend, but on Saturday mornings he went alone. He usually got back at two in the afternoon. He would stay later on occasion, but neither of his parents had let it worry them. The remainder of the report described events from the reception of the first fax to the arrival of the police. The hypothesis that Bertrand was prone to a practical joke now and then and may have set up the whole thing to needle his parents had been undermined by the testimony of the driver who spotted the camouflaged patrol van and provided a detailed description of Long-legs.

Bertrand lay on his bed. It was stifling hot in the chalet and he had taken off his T-shirt. The old man had gone to get a bottle of lemonade. He had been gone ten minutes, and Bertrand was beginning to wonder what had happened to him.

They had played three games, and his opponent had turned out to be exceptionally strong. He stared at the pieces on the board. As the man was now playing, he was going to need four moves at most to beat him, and Bertrand smelled a rat. Was he letting him win on purpose? He rehearsed his strategy. Whatever the old man tried, he could checkmate him in four moves and that was too good to be true.

The chessboard occupied his attention for the best part of fifteen minutes. It was only then that he started to feel uneasy.

He yanked at the chain out of sheer frustration. The protective foam under the handcuff began to irritate him. His wrist had swollen in the heat. He threw himself on the bed in desperation and stared at a passing cloud through the dormer window with tears in his eyes.

The last thing he needed was to panic. He decided to count to a hundred and then start to scream.

He listened carefully to the sounds in the house as he counted. Maybe the old man had fallen asleep. Maybe the lemonade was gone and he’d gone to the store for more. By why hadn’t he said anything?

In the distance Bertrand heard a truck struggling to accelerate. The wind rustled in the bushes outside and a couple of sparrows chirped in the roof gutter. But inside the house there was an eerie silence: no shuffling footsteps, no creaking hinges, no clatter of cups and plates. Bertrand emptied the lukewarm bottle of lemonade. It tasted awful. He gave up the count at 78, stood in the middle of the room as close to the door as he could, formed a bullhorn round his mouth with his hands, and started to yell.

“Hello, mister, wake up, mister … wake up!” He waited for a moment and then repeated the same thing every thirty seconds.

But there was no reaction, not even after the hundredth time.

Bertrand was soaked in sweat. His throat was sore from shouting and all he could manage was a hoarse whisper. Trembling with rage, he jumped onto the bed and started to yank at the chain until he gasped for breath and fell forward, hurting his head on the wall. He sobbed and buried his face in the pillow.

When he had cried himself out, he sat upright on the bed. Bertrand had his mother’s character. No matter what the problem, there was always an answer, she had told him often enough. But if you lose heart you don’t stand a chance. He tried to think, to stay calm. He looked at his watch and jumped. It was only ten to nine. The house was probably far from civilization. Kidnappers always choose a lonely place to hold their victims.

Victims, brrr, what a scary word. The house had to be far from the main road, otherwise they would have gagged him.

Bertrand kept his head up until the middle of the afternoon.

Panic, like fear, hits you unawares. It engulfs you like a wave and can reduce even the single-minded to a jabbering miserable wreck. The relative calm of the first hours of his abduction had been due to the haloperidol, but Bertrand was unaware of the fact. The old man had left him behind and God alone knew when he’d be back. Maybe he had wanted to punish him for his insolent behavior. Or for beating him at chess. The boy concocted the weirdest explanations.

In the afternoon he had trouble with dizziness. His dry tongue felt like sandpaper on his chapped lips. The temperature in the room was unbearable. The foam around his wrist had caused an irritating rash. In desperation he tried to sleep, but the tears filled his eyes once again and all he could do was repeat the word “mommy” under his breath.

Charlotte served coffee without a word, placed the bottle of Otard next to Van In, and sat down.

“What if we had photographs made of the paintings?” Deleu suggested. “We could have them printed on canvas and use the original frames. No one would notice the difference.”

“Out of the question,” Charlotte snapped. She glared first at Deleu and then at Van In, as if she expected him to put Deleu in his place.

“The kidnappers are a step ahead of us on that,” said Van In. “Why do you think they insisted that Mr. Delahaye scratch a strip of paint from each canvas?”

Deleu was stupid, but for some strange reason it didn’t bother Van In that day. He had in fact had the same idea himself.

“If there had been more time we could perhaps have had copies made,” he said.

Delahaye scratched nervously at his unshaven chin. Van In was right. The kidnappers had left them no choice. He had worried himself sick the night before, trying to come up with an alternative.

“I think we should first arrange matters for tomorrow,” said Van In. “But in the meantime I have a question. What do we do if we manage to arrest Long-legs before the bonfire?”

“What do you mean, Commissioner?” asked Delahaye, in spite of the fact that he understood Van In perfectly.

“Do we continue, or do we wait?”

“No waiting,” Charlotte whispered, her voice hoarse. This time, the rage in her eyes was intended for Van In.

“Relax, sweetheart,” said Delahaye. “The commissioner is convinced they won’t touch a hair on Bertrand’s head, even if we don’t hand over the paintings.” He used the expression “hand over” because he couldn’t bring himself to say “burn.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Delahaye, but that’s not what I said. I told you I was convinced they wouldn’t carry out their threats. Professor Beheyt agrees with me on the question, but we can never be one hundred percent certain. There’s always a possibility they might panic.”

“Enough! I refuse to allow my grandson to be put at the slightest risk,” Degroof cut in, sparks flying from his eyes. Hannelore could see that he was ready to skin his son-in-law alive. Delahaye’s questionable attitude left her at a loss.
Jesus
, she thought,
we’re talking about your own son!

“Okay.”

Van In slammed the table with the flat of his hand.

“Whatever happens, we don’t call off the bonfire, unless young Bertrand is found before then and brought to safety. All agreed?”

“Of course we all agree,” Charlotte snarled.

“Good. Then here’s the procedure. Tomorrow at seven
A.M
., four men will come and collect the paintings in an armored vehicle. Mr. Delahaye will accompany them. They’re expecting a serious crowd on Zand Square and we have to be sure he gets through.”

Van In poured himself a drop of cognac and lit his first cigarette of the day.

“I presume the paintings are ready for transport.”

“I put them all in the guest bedroom earlier this morning. I didn’t need to wrap them, did I?”

Her words were close to comical. But only one thing mattered as far as Charlotte was concerned: the safe return of her son.

Van In smoked another three or four cigarettes as they discussed the details. Hannelore kept a close eye on him. It was only when Degroof got to his feet and announced that he had a couple of things to take care of at home that Van In made his move.

“There might be one other way to get the young man free before tomorrow,” he said abruptly.

Delahaye’s jaw dropped and Charlotte almost knocked over her cup. Deleu, who was on the point of going to the toilet, was glued to the spot.

“I hope this isn’t some kind of tasteless joke,” said Degroof, his tone frosty.

“Nothing of the sort, Mr. Degroof. As a matter of fact, the success of my plan depends entirely on your cooperation.”

Degroof turned pale around his nose, and Van In realized there was no turning back.

“Don’t be a fool, man,” Degroof snorted. “Of course you have my cooperation, although I’ve no idea what I can do to help you. But you only have to ask.”

Van In emptied his glass in a single gulp.

“In that case, Mr. Degroof, I would like to have a word with you in private.”

Charlotte was on the point of tears, and a sparkle of hope glistened in Delahaye’s eyes.

“Perfect timing, Commissioner,” Degroof snapped. “Let me have my chauffeur collect us. We can talk at my place.”

T
HE AIR-CONDITIONING IN DEGROOF’S LIMOUSINE
was working perfectly. With the assistance of a motor officer, his chauffeur piloted the Mercedes deftly around the vehicles parked criss-cross the length of the street. In spite of the low temperature, Degroof dabbed his forehead with a paper handkerchief.