From Bruges with Love Page 2

  “No, my friend. I’ll have a Duvel. As cold as possible.”

  Van In leaned back contentedly in his rickety cane chair. He knew exactly what Alexander the Great must have felt like when he split the Gordian knot.

  “Lucky Hannelore had to rush off to the courts,” said Versavel.

  Van In had been expecting one or another prickly remark. “Do you have a problem, Versavel?”

  “Not me, Pieter. But when she makes you get on the scales later …”

  Van In shrugged his shoulders and tossed the lukewarm mineral water onto the thirsty grass. “Skeletons remind me of the desert, Guido. And the last time I sinned was a good two weeks ago. I’m dying of thirst.”

  It didn’t sound coherent, but Versavel was used to it. Every association Van In made led, in the final analysis, to a Duvel. “Most people in the desert are happy with water. You must be the only man in Flanders who drinks Duvel to quench his thirst.”

  “There’s an exception to every rule, Guido. You’re gay; you should know that.”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” said Versavel, faking a high-pitched voice. “But if I were you, I’d start practicing for the day we’re in the majority.”

  The service was perfect. The waiter appeared within the minute with an ice-cold Duvel and a sparkling Perrier. Van In bored his nose unashamedly into the thick froth and guzzled. Versavel let him get on with it.

  “Vermast can forget about that meadow of his,” said Van In cheerfully. “In a couple of days, it’ll be unrecognizable.”

  “Do you think there might be more bodies?”

  “Who knows, Guido. The Europeans are getting the hang of this serial killer business. The Americans don’t have the monopoly anymore. I pity the public prosecutor’s boys having to dig up all that ground.”

  “I don’t,” said Versavel dryly.

  They both burst out laughing.

  The telephone rang just as Yves Provoost was locking the door to his office. He sighed, turned the key, and went back inside.

  Provoost was only a mediocre criminal lawyer, but he was still able to boast a colossal villa in exclusive Knokke, an apartment in Cap d’Agde, and a chalet in Austria. His legal practice was located in an imposing town house along the Groene Rei, the most picturesque part of Bruges.

  Provoost made his way down the long corridor, his footsteps sounding hollow in the lofty narrow space. Unlike the rest of the house, his office was a virtual exhibition of contemporary Italian design: shiny tables in polished cherry, futuristic cabinets without visible doors, black lacquered chairs in which no one could relax for more than fifteen minutes, and whimsical lamps that offered little light.

  “Provoost,” he barked into the receiver of an exceptionally flat olive-green telephone.

  “Yves, Lodewijk,” was the gruff response, matching if not exceeding Provoost’s curtness.

  Provoost stiffened. When Lodewijk Vandaele barked, it usually meant bad news.

  “We have a problem, Yves.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Not on the phone, Yves. Crank up your computer, and wait for my email.”

  Before Provoost had the chance to ask for an explanation, Vandaele hung up and marched to his desk. In contrast to Provoost’s office, Vandaele’s was the epitome of old-fashioned quality­: oak furniture, brass fittings, velvet and nineteenth-century­ paintings by long forgotten masters, and a pearl-gray IBM computer on a Louis XVI–style table. The machine was as out of place as a Big Mac in a three-star restaurant.

  Vandaele was old school, but that didn’t mean he shunned modern technology. As a disciple of Machiavelli, he made use of whatever means he had at his disposal to serve his goal. And as a good Catholic, he would have married his daughter to a Muslim without blinking if he figured the relationship might bring him some degree of advantage. Fortunately, Vandaele didn’t have a daughter. He had stayed single for a reason: women meant trouble.

  Vandaele switched on his computer and posted his message in Provoost’s electronic mailbox. He used what he called a “robust” code, to which only Provoost had the key.

  Chief Inspector Dirk Baert of the Bruges police heard Vandaele shuffle along the corridor leading to the front door of his house. He had known the man for a long time. As a young cop, he once caught him with a half-naked boy on the backseat of a parked car. After a brief exchange, they had settled the matter as adults would. Vandaele had paid him ten thousand francs, and that was the end of it. Baert knew the ropes. If he had started proceedings instead of taking the bribe, he knew that Vandaele would simply have bribed someone else farther up the line. It made no difference for the pedophile either way. But for Baert the difference was ten thousand francs, and that was money he could use at the time. When he met Melissa a couple of weeks later, a woman who was to cost him a small fortune, he got cheeky and decided to give Vandaele another call and negotiate a final payment. The old fox refused to give in to the blackmail attempt, but he didn’t send Baert home empty-handed.

  He suggested the young officer work as his contact person on the force. In exchange, he would receive a fixed sum per month. Substantial bonuses were assured if he had to take risks or provide important information.

  “I apologize for keeping you waiting. I was on the phone with my niece … you know how women are.” Vandaele laughed. “Please, take a seat.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Vandaele.”

  Baert hoped that Vandaele would cough up some cash. Melissa had been dreaming out loud about a wide-screen TV for months.

  “You know how much I appreciate your loyalty, Mr. Baert.” Vandaele was six three, radiated authority, and his stentorian voice had left many an opponent quivering.

  “So my information was useful?”

  Vandaele pursed his thin lips. His pink little mouth gave Baert goose bumps. Deep down, Dirk Baert hated pedophiles.

  “Useful would be a slight exaggeration, dear Mr. Baert. Let’s just say it was interesting. I bought the farm a long time ago. A skeleton on the property is back-page news. Surely you don’t think …”

  “Of course not, Mr. Vandaele.”

  Baert gulped. The skeleton had also been under the ground for quite some time. News of its discovery had clearly startled Vandaele. Why had he rushed to his study in a panic when Baert informed him about it? The old bugger was clearly in a flap, and that story about the phone call to his niece only confirmed it. It was as transparent as Melissa’s negligee.

  “Your concern deserves an appropriate reward nonetheless.”

  Baert’s face brightened up. Money was all that could silence him. Vandaele fished four ten-thousand-franc notes from his wallet. Baert beamed unashamedly. Tomorrow Melissa would have her wide-screen TV. When he got home and told her the good news, she’d be naked in a heartbeat, or perhaps she’d slip on that little lace number he gave her for Christmas. “That’s very generous of you, Mr. Vandaele.”

  Vandaele patted him warmly on the shoulder. “You’ll keep me posted on further developments, I hope?”

  “Goes without saying, Mr. Vandaele. If there’s news, you’ll be the first to hear it.”

  Hannelore installed herself in the garden, with her legs up and a glass of ice-cold V8 within easy reach. The sun’s last rays skimmed the edges of an ominous cloud, their scattered light coloring the whitewashed walls of their private earthly paradise corn yellow as if someone had slipped a Polaroid lens in front of it. If they were to believe the weather forecast, this was the end of the summer.

  Van In placed three cigarettes on the table, his movements exaggerated, and sipped at his pinot noir. He was allowed two glasses.

  “Taste good?” she asked.

  “Heaven.”

  The muffled sound of church bells could be heard in the distance. The wind blew in from the southwest. There was rain in the cards, as predicted.

  “The diet
’s doing its job.” Hannelore reveled in her new man. Van In was in his boxers. The car tire around his middle had shrunk in three months to the size of a flabby bicycle tire.

  “Versavel said something similar this morning. So what’s the next step? A dog?”

  Hannelore raised her eyebrows. “A dog?” she asked, not quite sure what he was talking about.

  “Then you can make me take it for a walk every evening. Think of all the calories I would burn.”

  A sudden gust of wind rustled the leaves. It sounded like a rattlesnake.

  “You might be happy you have a dog to walk when the baby’s here.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  Van In lit a cigarette and relished the heady rush of nicotine. Hannelore lifted her skirt, took his hand, and placed it on her belly.

  The bulge was more prominent when she was sitting.

  “I’m having trouble picturing Commissioner Van In changing diapers.” She grinned. “You’ll thank me for sending you out with Fido.”

  Associating her shiny belly with a pile of soiled diapers tempered his nascent lust.

  “We can start the countdown, Pieter. I felt it move for the first time this morning.”

  Van In pressed his hand firmly against her belly but felt nothing. “I wonder if all those emotions are good for you,” he said, his tone unexpectedly serious.

  Menacing clouds colored the grass dark green, and the setting sun gave way to dusk as Hannelore sipped on her V8.

  “We’re not living in the Middle Ages, Pieter. I’m not going to give birth to a monster because I looked at a skull.”

  “I wouldn’t laugh in your condition. My mother always said—”

  “Nonsense! Don’t tell me you believe in that old wives’ crap.” Why do men behave like infants when their wives are pregnant? Hannelore thought to herself. The women had to do all the work, didn’t they? For the men, it was wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.

  Van In peered longingly at the two remaining cigarettes, like pieces of chalk on the dark wood table. He grabbed one and lit it double-quick.

  “Everything used to be so much simpler.” Van In sighed, sucking the smoke deep into his lungs and swigging at his glass.

  “Don’t tell me you’re worried about changing your baby’s diapers.”

  “I wish we were on a desert island,” said Van In. He could picture it in his mind’s eye. “No more fuss. Slurping juicy cocktails, grilling fish, and lying around on the beach all day long.”

  “No beach, Pieter, just diapers. This is the Vette Vispoort, there’s no more wine, and there’s rain on the way.”

  Storm clouds were accumulating above the scarlet red rooftops.

  “D’you know what?” she said with a cryptic smile. “If you solve the skeleton case within the month, I’ll treat you to a week in Portugal.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Don’t you believe me?”

  “Of course I do. But when was the last time you checked our bank balance?”

  “I’ve got a little nest egg put aside for a rainy day.”

  “That’s money for the baby,” Van In protested. “And what makes you so sure I’ll be given the case?”

  “I can take care of that, sweetie.”

  “Out of the question.”

  “Case or no case, I want a trip to Portugal soon. In a few months we can forget it,” she said, digging in her heels.

  “You know that pregnant women aren’t advised to travel by plane, Hanne.”

  “Is that right?”

  Hannelore got to her feet and slipped slowly out of her dress. She looked like a Botticelli model: sensual, fertile, and primitively feminine. Nothing is more beautiful than a mother to be. “So flying is out of the question. What about some in-house flying then?”

  “Come on, Hanne,” Van In groaned.

  “Don’t tell me the commissioner’s got a headache.”

  He ground his half-smoked cigarette into the grass and threw himself at her. High above their heads, layers of warm and cold air collided to produce a first peal of thunder that rolled across the city like a bowling ball. Van In floated on a cushion of air that whispered sweet words in his ear. He barely noticed the heavy drops of rain spatter on his back like painless projectiles.

  2

  Van In filled the corridors of the police station with the pungent smell of musk. He was wearing faded jeans and a beige cotton shirt. Hannelore had banished his old camouflage sweaters to the rag bin for eternity. Holding in his belly was a thing of the past. Life can be generous at times, Van In thought, very generous. When he opened the door to Room 204, Versavel was whistling like a cheerful construction worker.

  “Good morning, girlfriend,” he said grinning.

  Van In ignored the sexist remark and lit his first cigarette with a smile. “Life does indeed start at forty, Guido. You were right all along. I’m ready for it. Bring it on.”

  “What … now?” asked Versavel, milking the double entendre.

  “No, not ‘now,’ and certainly not with you. What’s the news on our skeleton friend?”

  Versavel took a deep breath. Skeletons made him think of maggots writhing in hollow eye sockets. “Our John Doe, you mean.”

  He preferred the American euphemism. In the U.S., corpses were stiffs, someone who didn’t survive the ride to the hospital was dead-on-arrival or DOA, and an unidentified stiff was either a John or a Jane Doe.

  “You know I’m allergic to that transatlantic crap, Guido. Let’s just call the skeleton Herbert. A little originality can make all the difference, don’t you think?”

  Versavel folded his arms like a chief proudly accepting the unconditional surrender of his tribe. “Your wish is my command, Commissioner.”

  Van In puffed a belligerent cloud of smoke in his subordinate’s direction. “That’s how it works, eh, Versavel?”

  The sergeant plucked pensively at his mustache. At least he knew how to deal with Van In when the man was depressed. But when he was in one of his bouts of euphoria, his boss was as hard to handle as a teenager without pocket money. He had only one option: cut the crap and get on with it.

  “A fax just came in … fifteen minutes ago,” said Versavel, straightening his face. “I didn’t know we were in charge of the case.”

  Van In took the fax.

  “I did,” he snorted.

  “Aha, so it’s like that, is it?”

  “Don’t get me started, Guido. She’s pregnant. What can I say?”

  Van In reluctantly stubbed out his first cigarette. There wasn’t much left of it to smoke.

  “‘Probable cause of death: a broken neck,’” he read aloud. “‘Age: between twenty-five and thirty. Height: five ten. Gender: male. Date of death: between 1985 and 1986. Distinguishing marks: old shin fracture, extensive jaw surgery, plus twenty-four porcelain teeth.’ Jesus, that must have cost a fortune.”

  “De Jaegher was on the ball for once. Didn’t Hannelore set Friday as the deadline for his report?”

  “She called him yesterday afternoon.” Van In sighed. “Someone at the public prosecutor’s office whispered in her ear that examining a skeleton took no time at all. And it doesn’t take a genius to spot a broken neck. De Jaegher should have seen it already when he was down in the pit.”

  Van In lit a second cigarette. Versavel said nothing. He knew from experience that Van In’s resolutions weren’t destined to last long, especially if they had something to do with booze and cigarettes.

  “Still a bit of an achievement if you ask me,” Versavel said. “On Hannelore’s part, I mean. De Jaegher’s a stubborn old bugger. Even the public prosecutor treats him with kid gloves.”

  “She wants to go on vacation next month.”

  Versavel was taken aback. The commissioner’s brain functioned in the strangest of ways. He could n
ormally follow his boss’s train of thought, but this morning was an exception.

  “Hannelore wants me to tie up the case as quickly as possible,” Van In explained. “She’s already got the prosecutor around her little finger, and De Jaegher would happily have sliced up his own liver to get into her good graces. She’s also hoping I’ll make chief commissioner one of these days, preferably sooner than later.”

  “Then you should transfer to the federal police. Not much chance of making chief with the local boys these days,” said Versavel. He had a problem with the federal police, and he never wasted an opportunity to vent his frustration.

  “Go on, Guido, laugh at me. Women are complicated creatures. When I think of it, you should thank God you’re gay.”

  The second cigarette wasn’t as good as Van In had expected. Those things started to stink when you cut back.

  “Thanks for the compliment, boss.”

  Van In shrugged his shoulders, sat down at his desk, and read the fax a second time. They had to identify Herbert first before moving on to his killer.

  “You can start by checking if any males around thirty were reported missing between 1985 and 1986.”

  “In Bruges?”

  “We have to start somewhere, don’t we, my dear Watson?”

  “Is that all?”

  “Of course not. Put a couple of officers on the phones. Have them call all the dentists and orthodontists in the region. All that porcelain in Herbert’s mouth has to be traceable.”

  Versavel took note. “Shall I get Dirk Baert involved?” he asked with a faked grin.

  He knew that the very sound of the man’s name would send shivers down Van In’s spine. Baert was a slippery bastard, a climber who had maneuvered himself to chief inspector using whatever back doors he could find. He had followed a class in “crime analysis” the year before at the NIC—the National Institute for Criminalities. The class had a fancy name and the fact that such courses were being organized gave the public the idea that the judiciary was finally dragging itself into the twentieth century. In reality, Baert could barely operate his PC, in spite of the diploma above his desk that claimed the contrary.