The Square of Revenge (4 page)

“The Deputy’s a ‘she,’” Versavel clarified. “And not just any old ‘she,’ if you ask me.”

“Thanks, Sarge.” Three pairs of eyes flashed in the direction of Deputy Martens, who had returned unheard to the front of the shop. A few seconds of painful silence followed.

“Mr. Degroof thinks that the culprit dissolved the entire collection in an aqua regis bath,” she said earnestly. “I suggest one of you help him put together an inventory of the damaged goods. In the meantime, if you could can call one of the forensic guys at the National Institute for Criminalities, Sergeant, that would be much appreciated.”

They stood there a like a bunch of schoolboys caught red-handed. Even Versavel, who was rarely short for words, was speechless. This was the moment Hannelore had long been preparing for. Finally she had the chance to exercise her authority and reap the benefits of the degree she had worked so hard to obtain.

“Of course, ma’am,” said Versavel. He knew her affability with them wouldn’t last. But how would
he
behave if they had made
him
Deputy? It was a stubborn thing, class difference.

Just then, Degroof appeared from the back.

“I need to make a phone call. Will you excuse me?”

Versavel retreated, and Degroof sat down at his desk. He looked exhausted and dismayed. He had taken off his jacket. His left cuff was soaked with aqua regis. His eyes were bloodshot, and what remained of his hair stuck to his balding scalp. He was sweating like a marathoner, but that had nothing to do with the millions he had lost in the robbery. Degroof was afraid of what daddy would say.

“Let’s go outside for a moment, gentlemen,” said Hannelore diplomatically. The exercise of authority pleased her more with every passing minute. Degroof thanked her with an inconspicuous nod.

Once outside, she lit a cigarette. She offered the others the chance to join her, but only Decoster accepted. Both Versavel and Vermeersch were zealous non-smokers.

“Strange business,” said Hannelore after taking her first drag and inhaling deeply. “If you ask me, magistrates should do more ‘on the scene’ work.”

The three men smiled politely.

“We’re not dealing with an amateur, that’s for sure,” Versavel observed. Decoster and Vermeersch appeared to have been struck dumb. “It’s the motive that intrigues me. The whole thing seems absurd. Don’t you agree, ma’am?” he asked.

A group of laughing Japanese tourists gaped at them inquisitively from the other side of the street. Their guide had made up one or other story on the spot. Guides always make something up if they don’t know what’s going on.

The Japanese immediately recorded the façade of Degroof Diamonds and Jewelry for posterity. The cameras and camcorders clicked and whizzed to their heart’s content.

P
IETER VAN IN’S TELEPHONE STARTED
to ring after he had been in the shower for five minutes. He cursed under his breath, but didn’t hurry himself. He took the time to rinse the suds from under his arms. He then stamped his feet nominally dry on the rubber mat, stood in front of the mirror in a cloud of steam, and shook his head. The fuzzy image in the steamed-up mirror wasn’t a pretty sight.

He wrapped himself in his old, checkered bathrobe with a sigh of resignation.

It was Sunday morning, nine-fifteen. The light of the sun charily penetrated the faded curtains. Eight years of chain-smoking had given them an extraordinary patina, or was that too fine a word for nicotine deposits? The ivory ceiling and the drab wallpaper were no better off. They had once been white.

Van In dragged himself downstairs. The telephone was still ringing. The white beech stairwell connected the bedroom to the living room on the ground floor where the only telephone in the house was located. Van In hated telephones in the bedroom. He lit a cigarette before lifting the receiver.

“Van In,” he barked.

“Hello, Van In, De Kee here, good morning.” Nothing sounded more sarcastic than your boss wishing you good morning on a Sunday. “Sorry for bothering you so early.”

The chief commissioner’s sarcasm apparently knew no bounds. Van In took a bad-tempered drag of his cigarette. There was trouble on the way.

“I’ve just had a call from Ludovic Degroof. You know who I’m talking about?”

“Of course,” Van In replied resignedly.
Everyone knows Hitler too
, was what he wanted to say.

“Good. Listen carefully to what I’m about to say, Van In.” De Kee couldn’t resist informing him that Degroof had called him out of bed. He was anything but comfortable with the entire business of police work arising outside of normal working hours.

“One of our night patrols observed a break-in a couple of hours ago at the son’s jewelry store on Steen Street,” De Kee explained. “I imagine you’re asking yourself why I’m bothering you with a common break-in, and on a Sunday morning no less.”

No, he wasn’t. Van In was, in fact, asking himself why someone would bother
De Kee
with a common break-in on a Sunday morning.

“But there’s more to it,” De Kee continued. “According to initial findings, nothing was stolen. The culprit dumped the entire collection into a tank full of aqua regis. Ghislain Degroof, the jeweler, claims the acid destroyed the lot.”

De Kee paused for an instant.

The first cigarette of the day usually tasted so-so, but this one tickled Van In’s throat and made him cough.

“Hello, Van In?”

“A moment, commissioner,” Van In hawked. It really was high time he stopped smoking.

De Kee betrayed a hint of irritation

“If Deleu hadn’t been on holiday, I wouldn’t have troubled you, of course. But I’m sure you understand that we need to deploy a seasoned detective in such circumstances, especially when someone like Degroof is involved.”

Deleu was De Kee’s son-in-law. Van In had shown him the ropes when he joined the force.

“Of course, Commissioner,” he said, almost submissively.

Deleu was usually given the more sensational cases. If he screwed up, and most of the time he did, Van In was always on hand to clear up the debris. This time De Kee had no alternative than to turn first to Van In.

“So you don’t mind standing in?”

“If I have to.”

De Kee heaved a sigh of relief.

“Excellent, Van In,” he said in good spirits. “I would genuinely appreciate it if you could get to the station as quickly as possible. Then we can start work without delay.”

Van In was speechless. He was certain De Kee was calling from his apartment.
Degroof must be a serious heavyweight
, he thought to himself.
Lesser mortals wouldn’t dare bother De Kee on a Sunday morning
.

“I’ll be there in thirty minutes, sir,” he said.

“Excellent, Van In. I knew I could rely on you.” The line broke with a dry click.

Van In took a second bad-tempered drag. On the other hand, the extra money would come in handy. Double time for Sundays, and he was two months behind on his mortgage payments.

Van In stared for a full minute at the large contemporary mirror above the mantelpiece. He had given up the fight against his dictatorial vanity long ago. The carelessly knotted cord around his bathrobe had worked itself loose. The reflection of his chubby gut and sunken navel didn’t exactly cheer him. He pulled a face, as he had in the bathroom moments earlier. Was this his reward for eight months of grueling training? Those women’s magazines were right. Men enter senility, among other unpleasantries, when they turn forty.

He stubbed out his cigarette in a plant pot. The scrawny ficus plant trying to survive in it was on its last legs. He then let his bathrobe slip from his shoulders and stood in profile in front of the enormous mirror. He inspected himself anew with a critical eye. If he took a deep breath and pinched his buttocks, his belly looked flat and hard. Van In held the pose for twenty seconds, enjoying every one of them. Ritual complete, he climbed the wooden stairs to his bedroom heavy-footed. He had to. His clothes were still in the bathroom.

“Fucking Duvels,” he grumbled as he wriggled into his pants.

To give De Kee the impression that he had hurried, Van In deliberately didn’t shave.

From the Vette Vispoort where he lived to the police station on Hauwer Street was a ten-minute walk. Van In had sold his dented BMW three years earlier. You needed an expensive private garage in Bruges since it was impossible to park on the street, and Van In had decided after one too many tickets that it simply wasn’t worth it.

 “Good morning, Commissioner Van In,” said Benny Lagrou with a toothless smile from behind the reception desk.

“Morning, Benny. Has De Kee been here long?” asked Van In nonchalantly.

Lagrou was old school, a heavy drinker and a gossipmonger. De Kee had taken him off the beat five years earlier. His usual job was “Lost Property,” known among his colleagues as “Siberia.”

“Did he call you in for the Steen Street robbery?” he said evasively.

“How long has he been here?” Van In reformulated his question.

“He stormed in half an hour ago,” Lagrou whispered in a conspiratorial tone. “And I don’t think he’s in a good mood.”

“Is he ever?” said Van In.

Lagrou grinned. More gums.

Van In pushed open the dividing door and took the stairs to the third floor. He was alone. Most people took the lift.

Chief Commissioner De Kee, a former barber who had worked his way to a Master’s in criminology, responded almost simultaneously to Van In’s discreet knock on the door.

“Enter.”

The chief commissioner was behind his desk. He was short, like most dictators. He had put on his uniform for the occasion. Exceptional, since most of the time he wore expensive tailored suits. Vera, his mistress, painstakingly monitored his look.

“Take a seat, Van In,” said De Kee in a toneless voice. He peered at him through non-reflective lenses in an eighteen-karat gold frame. He wasn’t comfortable with his son-in-law’s absence. He preferred to keep Van In on the sidelines.

“Cigarette?”

“Please,” said Van In.

De Kee slid a packet of Players in Van In’s direction, tax-free, naturally. Van In took his time. De Kee ran his fingers nervously through his thinning hair. A child could tell he was under pressure. He saw that Van In had noticed and immediately pulled down his hand.

“I want you to take control of the case, Van In. The most important thing is discretion. By that, I mean you should be as little trouble to the Degroofs as humanly possible. If you want to question anyone, don’t do it here at the station. Do I make myself clear?”

“Of course, sir.”

Van In knew that De Kee was indebted big time to Ludovic Degroof, as were three-quarters of the local politicians in fact.

“It’s also not essential
per se
that the culprit or culprits be arrested.”

De Kee was clearly uncomfortable with these words. Van In was astounded.

“And why not, if you don’t mind my asking?”

De Kee took off his expensive glasses and rubbed the corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Van In was asking the kind of questions Deleu would never think of asking. But he had little choice. Someone had to set up an investigation.

“Pieter, my friend,” he said in an unctuous tone. “Mr. Ludovic Degroof hates this sort of publicity. If you catch the culprits, fine. If you don’t, no problem. Degroof is asking for a thorough police report, officially recording his losses and nothing more. He doesn’t want us to waste a lot of time and energy on the case.”

De Kee’s sudden informality made Van In particularly suspicious. The chief commissioner always used titles and surnames.

“In other words, he needs us to recuperate his losses from the insurance,” said Van In pointedly.

De Kee brushed off his remark with a gesture of indifference.

“How long have you been in the force, Pieter?” he asked as Van In stared at him in amusement. “Eighteen, nineteen years?”

“Nineteen,” said Van In.

“Almost twenty, Pieter,” said De Kee, correcting him. The cunning fox had a tremendous memory for detail and liked to flaunt it. “I presume you’ve seen a few things in your time?”

Van In nodded. He had heard this line before. Politics were usually involved.

“So you know the ways of the world, and that it’s sometimes better not to stir the shit.”

De Kee started to run his fingers through his hair again. Vera had dyed it only the day before with one or other expensive coloring. He didn’t mind paying for it, nor for the Renault Clio and the apartment in Zeebrugge.

“I think I understand what you’re trying to say, Commissioner.” Van In felt like a schoolboy, and his teacher was a short, arrogant asshole.

“I hope you do, Pieter.” He put on his glasses and stared Van In in the eye. De Kee liked to stare people in the eye. He was convinced that it gave him an air of authority.

“Do we have a deal?”

Van In moistened his lips.

“Do I have a choice?” he asked.

De Kee shook his head. “No, I’m afraid you don’t, Pieter.”

Van In thought back for a moment to his youth, to the unforgettable sixties, when he had never been forced to compromise. Those were the days. Nowadays he was burdened with alimony payments and a mortgage that was beyond his means.

De Kee got to his feet and looked out over Beurs Square. He had done what had been asked of him. If Van In screwed up, he could use him as the perfect scapegoat. Deleu’s absence wasn’t that bad after all. De Kee had a sixth sense that helped him steer clear of tricky situations.

“Shall we take a look at the scene?” he suggested. He checked the enormous clock above the door. It was nine-fifty. “Your colleague will be happy to be relieved of duty.”

Van In stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and made his way to the door. De Kee picked up the internal phone and dialed the cafeteria.

“Hello, Gerard. We’re leaving immediately.” De Kee’s voice became thin and nasal and sounded like a slowly turning blender.

Gerard Vandenbrande was De Kee’s private chauffeur. The chief commissioner had created the function himself the day after the mayor and his elected officials appointed him chief commissioner for life.