From Bruges with Love Read online

  “It’s a deal.” Versavel beamed. “I’ll call him right away.”

  Every Tuesday evening, Van In and Hannelore headed to their favorite restaurant, the Heer Halewijn, on Wal Square. Diet or no diet, Tuesdays were sacrosanct. Hannelore was nuts about their grilled sirloin, and it gave Van In a valid excuse to down a bottle of Medoc with impunity.

  The small idyllic square, one of the most romantic locations in Bruges according to those in the know, was a hive of activity. Waiters in long aprons did their professional thing with flair, and the tourists nodded approvingly. Strangers are inclined to feel at home in Bruges. They’re served hand and foot, and even when they’re difficult, tireless waiters are ready to engage them in their native language. And if the occasional expletive slips out in the local dialect, the tourists just laugh along good-humoredly. A little local color is vital if you want to cultivate that sense of being abroad.

  The terrace in front of the Heer Halewijn was packed. In contrast to the other bars and restaurants on the square, most of the customers had a Bruges accent and spoke the local dialect—no beer-swilling Germans, cackling French, English Chunnel trippers, loud Americans, or equally loud Hollanders hunting the smell of food. There was actually something Dantesque about the place. You could ascend from hell into heaven in a heartbeat.

  The owner, Suzanne, came to welcome them personally. Van In had known the boss at the Heer Halewijn for years. She kissed him fleetingly on the cheek. There had been a time when she would have lingered. A card on their favorite table read reserved.

  “I’m guessing an extra portion of pickles?” said Suzanne with a wink.

  Hannelore nodded eagerly. Van In gallantly pulled back her chair. She sat and fixed her dress.

  “You look like a girl of eighteen,” said Suzanne.

  “Don’t overdo it, Sue.”

  “I’m not overdoing it.” She meant it. Hannelore was truly breathtaking. Her dress concealed a body that Pythias would have killed for. Although Hannelore appeared to dismiss the compliment, she clearly wasn’t indifferent to it.

  “Come. Put your hand here. He’s been kicking all day long.”

  Hannelore smoothed her dress as Suzanne leaned over and rested her hand on the elegant bulge.

  “Unbelievable,” said Suzanne.

  Van In sat upright and pushed out his belly.

  “And what about mine?”

  Suzanne turned. You could see from the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes that she had a snappy remark at the ready.

  “Eight months. Or am I mistaken?”

  “But the poor soul is really doing his best,” said Hannelore. “Before long he’ll weigh less than me.” It was impossible to tell from her tone whether she was jesting or not.

  “In your case the extra pounds are only temporary, thank God. He’s stuck with them for a good twenty years.” Suzanne grinned.

  Everyone on the terrace who had been listening to the conversation burst into laughter. Van In looked like a naughty puppy. Hannelore leaned forward, caressed his neck, and gave him a resounding kiss. Plenty of the men present would happily have cut off their little finger to be in his place.

  Served on a plate to share, the grilled sirloin, a good twelve ounces and more than an inch thick, was warm, juicy, and tender. Van In put a generous amount of butter on his baked potato. He then washed it all down with a glass of 1989 Château Corconnac. Hannelore gobbled the gherkins and the salad drenched in vinaigrette. Only a tiny morsel of beef remained on the plate.

  “So, any news from the front?” She pushed the plate in Van In’s direction, and he didn’t hesitate to accept her generous offer.

  “Not much. Without Herbert’s identity we’re groping in the dark. But it became clear to me this morning that this world of ours is being overrun by little brats, and one of them goes by the name of Tine.” Van In told her about his visit with the Vermast family.

  “OK, then we can scratch the name from our list. If it’s a girl, we’ll call her Godelieve. Happy?”

  Van In poured himself another glass of wine.

  “Don’t the experts say that children turn into their parents when they grow up?” Hannelore teased.

  “If that’s the case, then I hope she turns into you. Perish the thought that—”

  “Don’t go there, Pieter Van In. I was winding you up. You’re certainly not the worst of them. The same experts insist with the same vigor that the fathers of most geniuses were over thirty at conception. If you don’t believe me, check it out in the encyclopedia.”

  “I’m one step ahead of you,” said Van In sullenly. “Herr Hitler wasn’t the youngest either when little Adolf was born.”

  “Here we go.” She sighed. “Time for a cigarette. At least then I’ll be spared your grousing for ten minutes.”

  Van In lit up without missing a beat.

  “Back to the question, Pieter: Is there any news about our skeleton?”

  The “our” part gave her the creeps.

  “I thought the public prosecutor’s office was in charge of the case,” Van In stalled.

  Hannelore smiled engagingly as her foot shot forward. Van In was too slow to react.

  “Ouch. Jesus.” His hand disappeared under the table to sooth the afflicted shin, his face twisted with pain.

  “Did it hurt?” She grinned.

  Suzanne, who had watched it all happen, figured it was the ideal moment to serve her chocolate mousse.

  Van In attacked the dessert without responding, only returning to the conversation after he had licked the last trace of chocolate mousse from his spoon. He told Hannelore what he’d discovered about Vermast’s farm. Van In was a talented investigator who had solved more than a few sensational crimes in his day, most of the time by steering clear of orthodox procedures. According to his philosophy, every capitalist was a potential killer. Van In was at his best when he got the chance to pillory one or another respected citizen, but he sometimes forgot that conclusive evidence was necessary to nail a suspect. In modern crime prevention, intuition was about as worthless as ten million deutsch marks after the Second World War.

  “Only an imbecile would sell property knowing there was a corpse under the grass. And Vandaele is no imbecile.”

  Hannelore pushed her chocolate mousse to one side. Van In glared at it with hungry eyes.

  “Nothing’s stopping me from having a serious chat with Mr. Vandaele, even if he has nothing to do with Herbert. Why the generous do-gooder? That’s what I want to know,” said Hannelore, consciously setting aside Belgian judicial process. “It’s still a free country, eh, Pieter?” She treated herself to another tantalizing spoonful of chocolate mousse.

  “OK, I get your point. But explain to me why Vandaele would outfit his property with an expensive remote control gate. The damn thing’s worth more than the pigsty Vermast’s trying to salvage.”

  “I don’t understand where you see the connection between a gate and a murder.” Hannelore pushed her plate to Van In’s side of the table. “Help me finish?”

  Van In dug in. Tuesday evenings only came once a week.

  “I don’t believe in coincidence, Hanne. I want to know why Vandaele handed over his farm in 1986 to an obscure charity.”

  Lodewijk Vandaele welcomed Yves Provoost, the lawyer, with a thin smile. Provoost looked exhausted. He hadn’t slept for the best part of twenty-four hours.

  “I’m not happy, Lodewijk. We should never have taken William Aerts into our confidence.”

  Vandaele puffed at his expensive cigar, his face devoid of emotion. His tiny, lusterless eyes blinked at regular intervals, but that had more to do with the smoke from his Davidoff than anything else. “Relax, Yves. Every problem has its solution.”

  Vandaele accompanied Provoost to the drawing room. Both men installed themselves by the window. It was still reasonably warm outside, but the
ochre-yellow rays of the setting sun bore the full promise of fall.

  “Aerts has disappeared, Lodewijk, and I want to know why.”

  Vandaele poured Provoost a drink and himself a fruit juice. One of them had to keep his cool.

  “You know Aerts. He read the news in the paper and panicked. He’s probably scared we’ll want to punish him. He should never have buried the body on the farm. That wasn’t the deal, and Aerts knows damn well that we paid him plenty for his services. Let’s wait and see what happens,” said Vandaele in an effort to reassure Provoost. “We need to stay calm. He’ll be back, mark my words, and with his tail between his legs.”

  “Did you talk to Brys?” Provoost asked abruptly.

  “Johan is in Burundi for the moment. I’ll call him as soon as he gets back.”

  Provoost gulped unashamedly at his whiskey.

  Vandaele sat down beside him and rested a paternal arm on his shoulder. “Why would Aerts kill the goose that lays the golden eggs? I practically gave him the Cleopatra. William Aerts makes a healthy enough living. He has no reason to betray us, none whatsoever.”

  Provoost felt the weight of Vandaele’s arm on his shoulder. He knew all about Vandaele’s generosity. Aerts had coughed up a paltry five million francs for the Cleopatra. The dilapidated villa on the Maalsesteenweg was a third-rate bar in those days, where retired whores from Brussels could enjoy a well-earned rest. The occasional traveling salesman frequented the place, usually frustrated, always convinced that a bottle of lukewarm bubbly was a ticket to paradise.

  Aerts had done a professional job. He turned the place around, importing young agile girls: mulattas, Filipinas, Polish blondes, Thai masseuses. In less than six months, he had the cream of Bruges and its immediate vicinity banging on his door.

  “What if the police identify the skeleton and connect it with Aerts? It doesn’t bear thinking about. The bastard will turn us in without a second thought, rest assured.”

  Vandaele stubbed out his expensive cigar. “You mean Aerts will turn you in,” he said. “After all, you’re responsible for—”

  “Counselor, how dare you?” Provoost was clearly on the edge. His bulbous lips filled with blood.

  “Easy does it, Yves. Trust me, it’ll never get that far. We’ll solve this problem together. Have I ever let you down?”

  It was a bizarre conversation. Provoost was known for having the gift of gab. In court he was a superior orator, a man feared for his caustic rejoinders. At least that was what people said. Face-to-face with Vandaele he was like a schoolboy who didn’t dare speak to his teacher.

  Vandaele knew his pupil. He stroked Provoost’s head. “My dearest Yves, the chances that the police will draw a link between Aerts and the murder are exceptionally small. It’s all so long ago, remember. Aerts is nowhere to be found. And anyway, who’s going to believe him if he starts shooting his mouth off? It would be your word against that of a pimp. This is Belgium, Yves. No one gets convicted in this country unless guilt is established beyond dispute. You should know that. And don’t forget, you enjoy the protection of the minister of foreign affairs.”

  Vandaele’s words appeared to do the trick. Provoost calmed down and emptied his glass in a single gulp. The alcohol dissolved the anxiety in his eyes. Vandaele poured him another glass and included himself this time around.

  “You’re probably right, Lodewijk,” said Provoost. He sounded determined. Whiskey always made him overconfident. “I’ve cleared dozens of criminals in my time, most of them a lot more miserable than me.”

  Vandaele was happy that the whiskey was having the desired effect. “That’s the spirit, boy.” He slipped another Davidoff from its silver sheath. Smoking wasn’t allowed, not since the legion of black cancer cells had invaded his lungs and were now readying themselves to annex the rest of his body. His death was in clear sight, but his good name had to continue, and no stupid murder could be allowed to change that. They would name streets after him. Lodewijk Vandaele hoped that young people would remember him as the man who purified his country of foreign decadence.

  “But Aerts still bothers me,” said Provoost after a long silence. “Turning stool pigeon is fashionable these days. No one is likely to feel any sympathy for a lawyer on the witness stand. The plebs would have a field day, and the gutter press would call for my head on a plate. Aerts is a cunning little bastard—we both know that. He’s always been unpredictable.”

  Vandaele suppressed the desire to clear his throat, lit his cigar instead, and took a puff. “Don’t let that worry you, Yves. I promise you one thing: Aerts will be taken care of.”

  Provoost leered at the bottle of whiskey on the coffee table. One more, he thought. Then he could sleep.

  4

  Only a handful of passengers checked in for the scheduled flight to Rome, but that didn’t mean Brussels National Airport was quiet. The charter flights to the Canary Islands attracted their usual stampede. Pretanned retirees dragged overfilled baggage to their assigned departure desks. These days, sun and sea was available on prescription. There was nothing more inspiring than the thought of succumbing to a heart attack on a subtropical beach.

  William Aerts passed though passport control without a hitch. He looked like the average businessman: casual suit, lightweight Delsey carry-on, and a copy of the Financial Times under his arm.

  Aerts had been looking forward to this moment for more than fifteen years. He had finally found the excuse he needed to flee the shit-heap country that sired him. No more Linda … whining fucking hippo. And the pedophile? No more humiliation … the fucker couldn’t touch him anymore. Today he was a free man. The timing wasn’t perfect, but what the fuck. Real men follow the path chosen for them by fate.

  The thrust of four screaming jet engines pushed him back into the soft upholstery of his ample seat. A minute later he was in the clouds. Rain had been forecast, and the Belgians were welcome to it, every last one of them.

  “Would you like something to drink, sir?” A freshly scented flight attendant leaned toward him. This was the life, he thought. He was flying first class and was sharing the compartment with no more than six other passengers.

  “Campari, please.”

  Aerts stretched out his legs. He had dreamed of this sort of luxury all his life and had paid a pretty penny for the extra space. After three decades he had finally managed to defeat his adversaries. He was on his way south, and his erstwhile buddies were up to their ears in shit.

  “Your Campari, sir.”

  The flight attendant smiled affably, or so it appeared. Or was she smiling because she thought he was stinking rich?

  Aerts sipped at his aperitif and closed his eyes in contentment. The corpse had earned him more than he could ever have imagined.

  “Mr. Vandaele can see you in a few moments, Commissioner Van In.”

  Vandaele had retired, officially, but he still spent the best part of his day at the office. The old bugger liked to keep a firm eye on things.

  The secretary accompanied Van In to a small waiting room looking out onto an empty concrete courtyard, the company’s trademark. Yellowing photos graced the walls, probably the work of an overzealous office clerk. The pictures portrayed bridges and roads, with men dressed in black in the foreground, one of them invariably cutting a ribbon.

  Louis Vandaele, Lodewijk’s father, had earned a fortune in his day from public contracts. In the 1960s, he had blacktopped half of Flanders’ roads.

  Van In thanked the bespectacled secretary with a smile.

  “Coffee, Commissioner?” the gray-suited creature inquired.

  “No, thank you.”

  She was the image of Audrey Hepburn, just like Benedict Vervoort’s assistant.

  “I demand to speak to the manager this instant,” Linda Aerts snorted.

  Marc, the counter clerk, tried to calm her down. There were three other clients beh
ind her. One of them was Mr. Ostijn, and Mr. Ostijn wasn’t fond of disturbances. Hilaire Ostijn was the chairman of the local businessman’s association and one of the branch’s best clients.

  “No need to get upset, Mrs. Aerts. Mr. Albert will be here in five minutes. I’m sure he’ll agree that there must have been some mistake.”

  “If you give me ten thousand francs, you can tell Mr. Albert to stay where he is,” Linda roared.

  The counter clerk looked back and forth between Mrs. Aerts’s red face and Mr. Ostijn’s tight lips. In the past he could have solved the problem without thinking. He would simply have handed over the ten thousand francs. But minor counter clerks didn’t have that kind of authority anymore. No numbers, no cash. The new rules were set in stone.

  “Are you going to get a move on, or do I have time to tell everyone how I came to know Mr. Albert in the first place?” asked Linda as she turned to the customers behind her ready for a fight. Ostijn pretended not to recognize her. The bank clerk, on the other hand, knew that both his boss and Ostijn frequented the Cleopatra. He grabbed the money from the drawer and typed the amount into his computer. At that moment the door flew open. The speed with which Albert Denolf responded to the situation was nothing short of astonishing. He knew why Linda was here, and he knew her temperament.

  “Mrs. Aerts,” he said, his voice dripping with sweetness. “What a delight to see you. No problems, I hope?”

  Marc returned the money to his drawer and canceled the withdrawal, much relieved.

  “No problems?” she jeered. “Where do I start?”

  “Linda,” Denolf interrupted. “If there are problems, we can talk about them in the quiet of my office.”

  His compliant approach worked. Linda suspended hostilities, turned with a flounce, and followed Denolf into his office.

  Ostijn had come to redeem some bonds, collect his daily statements, and pay a pile of bills. The wealthy businessman was old school to the core. Internet banking wasn’t at all his thing. Marc sighed inaudibly. Ostijn’s transactions were likely to take at least fifteen minutes of his time. But their routine exchange was suddenly interrupted by a crash of glass. Ostijn reacted like every right-minded capitalist would: he first slipped his bonds across the counter and only then looked around to see what was happening.