The Square of Revenge (32 page)

“Where did he live before that?” Van In snarled after a full minute’s silence.

Commandant Evrard was fortunately a very patient man.

“One moment, Commissioner.”

Van In would have given his right hand for an ice-cold Duvel.

“Schaarbeek,” he said after a couple of seconds.

Van In now had no other option than to play his final trump. If he was wrong, Mr. Forsyth could expect an angry letter signed Van In.

“Can you check if Aquilin Verheye applied for a new identity card before he died?”

Commandant Evrard gulped.

“Start three months before he moved to Fleurus and if that draws a blank, then we’ll have to check further back,” said Van In.

“Do you realize what you’re asking, Commissioner?”

Van In knew exactly what he was asking. And when he announced that he wanted the information within the hour, even Evrard started to lose his patience.

“Call in the Ministry of the Interior if need be, or the National Records Office.”

“Okay, Commissioner, but I hope you’re right.”

Evrard ended the conversation and put his radio man to work.

“If I’m to be honest, Holmes, I’m finding it hard to follow your line of reasoning,” said Hannelore. Her knuckles were white and the hair of her fringe was sticking to her forehead.

Van In stretched his legs, insofar as that was possible in the limited space, and breathed a deep sigh.

“I’m taking it for granted that he hatched his plan a long time ago. His obsession with getting his revenge on Degroof probably dates back to their student days. Verheye knew he needed a different identity to be sure that Degroof couldn’t track him down. He planned it that Degroof would know from the outset who was responsible for this act of revenge, but would be left powerless and forced to look on as destiny unfolded in front of him. Don’t forget, only the sower knows the burdens and vicissitudes of life. And if the sower is the one who devised the plan, then our Latin riddle suddenly becomes crystal-clear. Billen’s explanation led me astray for a while. You remember, the concierge at the basilica.”

“Do you think someone would take so much trouble just to exact revenge?”

Jesus Hanne
, he thought to himself,
surely you’re not that naïve
.

“For certain types of people, exacting revenge is a sacred task. They’re like religious fanatics. It is their only goal, and no cost is too great.”

“The way you describe him, our friend Verheye must be totally psycho,” she said, still finding his explanation a little hard to take. “But good, I interrupted you. Continue.”

“So he’s faced with a question: what’s the best way to ‘legally’ adopt a different identity?”

“And Forsyth had the answer?” she sniggered.

“I told you that Forsyth tested his ideas against reality. You can be sure that anyone with a bit of creativity would find a solid answer to such a question. And we can hardly accuse Verheye of not being creative.”

“Fine,” she said. “I believe you.”

Van In lit another cigarette. The excitement of the preceding hours had taken its toll on his good intentions.

“I hope you do,” he said.

“Go on. I’m listening.”

Van In felt she was making a fool of him. After all, his chances of being wide of the mark yet again were pretty high.

“Surely you don’t think I’m winding you up,” said Hannelore, half serious. “For me you’re the smartest detective on the force.”

“If you say so. Try to picture it: Verheye befriends an old man in Schaarbeek, roughly his own age, unmarried and on his last legs. He discovers the man has no family. Major cities are awash with people like that. After a couple of months, he works his way into the man’s life, becomes his prop and stay. He goes to the store, makes meals, keeps him company. On a given day—he’s turned into a close confidant by this time—he informs the police that the old man has lost his ID card. Under normal circumstances, the person who lost the card has to take care of the formalities. But everyone knows that exceptions are made now and then for the elderly. The police provide him with a certificate and he takes the document to the Records Office. But instead of a photo of his elderly friend, he hands in a photo of himself. After a couple of weeks Verheye collects a genuine ID card in his friend’s name but with his photo. A while later he repeats the procedure, but this time the other way round. From then on Verheye takes the place of his elderly friend. Once that’s done, he persuades his ‘victim’ to come and live with him in the Ardennes. Maybe he threatened to abandon the old man, who knows, but as we said, he’s on his last legs, so he agrees to move to Fleurus. From that point on, all Verheye has to do is wait until his buddy dies. It wouldn’t even surprise me if Verheye made over all his property to the old guy in his will before the exchange of identity. That way he would inherit it all back after the man’s death.”

“And you think you can get away with such an operation in Belgium,” she said skeptically.

“Anything’s possible in Belgium,” Van In responded, sure of his answer.

“But something doesn’t fit,” she said hesitatingly.

“What doesn’t fit?”

Hannelore bit her bottom lip. She found disappointing Van In painful.

“Even if Verheye managed to change his identity as you suggest, there’s still a problem. I can believe he switched the photographs, but he would never have been able to change the other details held at the Records Office.”

“Sorry, I’m not following,” said Van In on edge.

She took a deep breath and placed her hand on his thigh.

“If Aquilin Verheye had the identity card of an unknown man at his disposal, the old man’s details would also be on the card and vice versa,” she said with a regretful smile. “The date of birth on the grave would have to correspond with that of the real Aquilin Verheye, namely 17.05.1914.”

“And yet it reads 15.10.1914,” Van In persisted.

“Unless …”

Hannelore grabbed the wheel with both hands. She beamed.

“Say Aquilin Verheye made a mistake,” she said triumphantly. “Every criminal makes a mistake sooner or later. It’s common knowledge …”

“Hannelore, you’re trying my patience,” Van In groaned.

“Okay,” she said with a hint of caution, “let’s say your theory is right.”

Van In nodded eagerly.

“The old man who has to pass for Verheye dies. He has no family. Who takes care of the funeral?”

“Verheye, of course.”

“Correct. And who takes care of the grave stone?”

“Verheye of course … Jesus H. Christ! The idiot used his victim’s date of birth!”

“Exactly,” she laughed.

“So I was right after all,” Van In stammered incredulously.

“Let’s hope so,” she said softly.

D
ANIEL VERHAEGHE HAD BEEN STARING
spellbound at the ever-expanding crowd on Zand Square for more than an hour and a half.

The turnout had surpassed everyone’s expectations. Aerial observers estimated the number of people at fifty thousand. Bruges was indeed a city under siege.

Daniel watched the spectacle with a glass of champagne in his hand, enjoying this ultimate triumph with every fiber of his being.

He turned up the TV with the remote. Almost every European broadcaster would soon be transmitting the bonfire live to the world. Dozens of cameras zoomed in on the paintings, which were displayed on a long, improvised easel. Sotheby’s experts discussed the value of the canvases and, as usual, disagreed. Estimates fluctuated between sixty and a hundred million Belgian francs.

Four hundred local and federal police had been deployed to keep order. Their presence seemed unnecessary at first sight as the crowd was exceptionally well-behaved. But the atmosphere on Zand Square was high-spirited. On the road encircling the square, which had been closed to traffic for the occasion, stalls selling hot dogs, French fries, and kebabs had sprung up like dandelions on a freshly watered lawn. Local shop owners were selling beer and sodas on the sidewalk. Greedy curiosity had made the crowd thirsty, and the closer it got to nine o’clock, the rowdier it became. Everyone had his own opinion on what was about to happen.

Patrick Delahaye was waiting in a local police car, a vacant expression on his face. Charlotte had stayed home. She was watching TV and counting the minutes. Her thoughts were reserved for her son alone. She prayed the Lord’s Prayer, awkward but sincere, begging God to listen to her plea.

Van In contacted Captain D’Hondt at eight-fifty.

He had received word from Commandant Evrard five minutes earlier. In Schaarbeek police station, officers searched at fever pitch through piles of forms submitted to report the loss or theft of an identity card. They were forced to do it manually because the computer that stored the information was acting up.

They had work on their hands. Everything depended on the date Verheye had reported the ID card loss; then they had to check the addresses of those who would have been eligible for the exchange.

“Hello, Van In here. I have a message for Captain D’Hondt. And it’s urgent.”

“I’m afraid Captain D’Hondt is unavailable right now,” said the duty sergeant on the other end of the line.

His instructions had been crystal-clear. Captain D’Hondt was giving an interview to a BBC reporter. D’Hondt was a huge anglophile, and his heart skipped a beat when he was asked for an interview. Appearing in front of the camera for British television was the greatest honor he could imagine. Some of his colleagues would be green with envy when they saw him, and he would finally be able to demonstrate that he was the only one among them who spoke decent English.

Van In paled around the nostrils when the arrogant subordinate brushed him off. The hand in which he was holding the receiver started to shake. Hannelore could see that he was about to explode.

“Let me repeat my request one more time,” he snarled. “I have the minister of the interior here beside me. If D’Hondt doesn’t get to the phone in one minute, I’ll let you deal with the minister in person.”

His words were met with a steely silence, and for a moment Van In thought that the sergeant had hung up on him. Hannelore was in tears and held a handkerchief to her mouth to conceal her laughter.

“Hello, D’Hondt.”

The captain’s heart was pounding loud enough to hear and he was clearly out of breath from running.

“I need you to delay the spectacle for one more hour,” Van In snorted.

D’Hondt registered the words but was unable to grasp their significance.

“What did you say?” he croaked.

“I want you to postpone the bonfire for one more hour. Make up a story for the press, whatever you want … but give me one more hour.”

“You must be kidding. Make up a story? What story?”

“Put the minister on,” Hannelore whispered, still giggling.

“A second, D’Hondt.”

Van In racked his brain for a solution. The kidnappers were sure to be watching the whole thing on TV, and Long-legs was almost certainly somewhere on Zand Square. He doubted they would kill the boy for a minor delay, but he wasn’t certain by any means.

“Ask Delahaye to pretend to pass out just as he about to put a match to the first painting. Have him carried away on a stretcher and make sure the cameras pick it all up.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Van In,” said D’Hondt, who had managed to get his breath back and get ahold of himself.

“Don’t worry about me, friend. And one more thing … tell Delahaye to make it as realistic as possible.”

From nine onwards, the police station in Schaarbeek was in contact with the Federal Records Office, where the computer was working as it should.

Fifteen minutes later, it spewed out a name: Laurent De Bock, Les Heids, Vezin.

As the name was being passed round, Van In was chain-smoking next to a neo-gothic monument in the cemetery of Fleurus. Every thirty seconds he looked at his watch.

Hannelore was close by, chatting with Commandant Evrard. The commandant, a respectable husband and father, found it hard to stay focused on the task at hand. Like so many others, he was convinced that the attractive Deputy didn’t belong in their world. He was also taken by her exceptionally melodious French. She could easily make a career for herself in Paris. He was convinced of it.

Bertrand Delahaye was awakened from his feverish anesthesia by the sound of slamming car doors and wheels spinning on gravel.

He had dreamed that he was standing on top of a steep hill. He was on a mountain hike with the scouts and had lost his companions. He had decided to climb higher until he reached the top, but when he didn’t find his companions there he figured it best to head back down to the valley on his own. But the hill he had just climbed suddenly appeared incredibly steep. He was standing at the edge of an almost vertical ravine and he was terrified. No one was likely to find him where he was, so he made up his mind not to wait and started his descent step by careful step.

He felt loose stones slip away under his feet and tried to keep his balance. When he started to fall into the empty void below, he suddenly realized that the sound of crunching gravel didn’t square with the sensation of free fall.

The sound was coming from outside.

People were surrounding the house.

A force of fifty armed policemen had surrounded the chalet of Aquilin Verheye, alias Laurent De Bock. Van In read the name that had been written on a wooden board and nailed to the chalet wall:
de Molay.

Every residual doubt evaporated.

Jacques de Molay, he remembered from Billen’s lengthy exposé, was the last grand master of the Templars. He had cursed Philip the Fair, Pope Clement V, and Guillaume de Nogaret before being burned at the stake.

Here was the man they were after.

Evrard waited until his men had taken their positions and then winked at Van In and Hannelore. The summer tranquility of the pinewood forest was restored. Everyone held their breath.

“Help, help,” they heard someone shout. The voice was weak, but it was clearly coming from inside the chalet.

Van In and Evrard glanced at each other and sprinted toward the front door like a pair of aging joggers. Van In knocked the door from its hinges with a well-aimed kick. Evrard stormed inside, pistol at the ready, somersaulted forward, landed on his belly, and sought cover behind a copper umbrella stand.