The Midas Murders

by Pieter Aspe

  Nicolai tore open the envelope, evidently nervous.

  “The green pages contain an outline of the security system,” said Enzo in an obliging tone.

  The Walloon appeared to misunderstand him, taking out the blue pages instead.

  “Those are blueprints of the building,” Enzo snapped.

  “Sorry. I’ll study everything later.”

  The wad of banknotes seemed to interest him more. He counted the ten-thousand-franc bills like an experienced cashier.

  “The tower shouldn’t be a problem,” said Nicolai, full of himself now. “There are cracks and projections all over the place. I’ll be at the top in less than half an hour.”

  Enzo shivered, in spite of the cozy warmth. He couldn’t imagine anyone climbing the outside of a 250-foot tower without taking precautions. Looking out a third-floor window was already enough to make him dizzy.

  “You can pick your own date,” said Enzo, washing down his fear of heights with a healthy mouthful of wine.

  “The sooner the better,” said Nicolai enthusiastically.

  “Before April first would be ideal.”

  “Don’t be concerned. If it wasn’t for the bloody snow, I’d be up there tomorrow.”

  Enzo had completely forgotten the snow. Nicolai obviously couldn’t do the climb in such circumstances.

  “But the snow never hangs around for long in Ghent,” said the Walloon.

  “No, but it can get bloody cold here.”

  “Not a problem. Last year I tackled a 1300-foot vertical climb in the French Alps in a noon temperature of fourteen degrees Fahrenheit,” said Nicolai, oozing self-assurance.

  “If you say so.”

  Enzo emptied his glass in a single gulp.

  “This is the key to the baggage locker. I suggest you empty it as soon as possible. The police are in the habit of checking them, and they sometimes use sniffer dogs.”

  “In search of drugs, I suppose,” said the Walloon with more than a hint of sarcasm.

  Enzo blinked. The welder was getting cocky, and he didn’t like it.

  “There was a bomb alarm last year at St. Peter’s Station. I don’t think they used sniffer dogs then,” Enzo snapped.

  Nicolai laughed like a child at a fairground after winning a huge stuffed bear. Enzo took a deep breath and did his best to suppress his rage. He was half Sicilian and listed as a highly inflammable product. “I wouldn’t take this so lightly if I were you,” he snorted.

  “Don’t worry, sir. I rarely make mistakes.”

  “I hope so, for both our sakes, amico.”

  Enzo got to his feet. The Walloon was on his toes. He fetched Enzo’s coat from the stand and handed it to him.

  “If problems arise, you can always reach me at this number,” said Enzo, fishing a business card from his inside pocket and holding it up for the best part of ten seconds.

  Nicolai barely glanced at it.

  “Then I’ll be on my way,” Enzo continued dryly. He turned up the collar of his jacket and held out his hand. “The best of luck.”

  “Thank you. And tell your client everything will be just fine.”

  He sounded arrogant, and for a moment Enzo felt like an ordinary errand boy. The Walloon had balls, but his naïveté was a bad omen. Enzo turned to face him at the door.

  “Repeat the telephone number,” he barked.

  Nicolai grinned and repeated the number without hesitation.

  “If your climbing technique is as sharp as your memory, then no one has reason for concern. My client will be most appreciative,” he added with unconcealed sarcasm.

  11

  “I THINK WE SHOULD BRING Versavel in on this. How can I work with the man when we’re not singing from the same hymn sheet?” asked Van In in a formal tone.

  Chief Commissioner Carton folded his mineworker’s hands over his nose and audibly sucked in liters of air. “But you know the mayor’s demanding secrecy.”

  “Which is evidence enough that Moens knows precious little about police business,” Van In retorted. “Politicians are only interested in their image.”

  Carton loosened his tie. There wasn’t a drop of moisture in the air. He walked to the radiator and checked to see if the humidifier had been filled.

  “Nobody gives a fuck about these fucking things,” he grouched.

  “An investigation of this scale is too much for one man, Commissioner,” Van In insisted. “I don’t have enough time at my disposal, and I can’t do everything by myself.”

  Carton turned and looked Van In in the eye. He was due to retire in three years. He had never wanted the chief commissioner’s job.

  “I heard you had another episode yesterday,” said Carton in passing. “Are we on the mend?”

  Van In nodded.

  “No cause for concern, Commissioner. An empty stomach, a couple of cups of strong coffee, and a sleepless night. I guess I’m not eighteen anymore.”

  Carton appeared to be satisfied with this explanation. “So I take it Versavel already knows the score,” he said, suddenly reverting to his formal voice.

  Carton may not have had a college degree, but he was an excellent judge of character.

  “How did you guess?” Van In sighed, pulling an innocent face.

  Carton returned to his chair and parked his elbows on his desk. “Then the problem’s solved,” he said with a scowl. “You’re in charge of the case. You bring Moens up to speed.”

  “Sorry, but I—”

  “Spare me the excuses, Van In. Do me a favor. Go back to work and show me results. And remind Versavel to keep his mouth shut.”

  “I would trust the man with my life,” said Van In. “Just like Mucius Scaevola.”

  “Moosius who?”

  Carton was a fervent TV watcher. The name made him think of The Godfather.

  “Scaevola was a Roman aristocrat who thrust his hand into an Etruscan fire to prove that—”

  “Drop it, Van In. Your stories don’t interest me in the slightest. Capisce?”

  “Of course, Commissioner.”

  Carton didn’t protest when Van In got to his feet and left the room, incensed. He had asserted his authority, and that was enough.

  Versavel greeted Van In with a broad smile.

  “Sleep well, Commissioner?”

  “Like an angel, Guido. I heard you slide the key under the door, but only just.”

  In spite of the cutting east wind and the persistent blizzard, the sergeant was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. While the Bruges police didn’t skimp on the heating, the main reason was his tan. He had recently returned from Lanzarote, and he was particularly proud of it.

  “No more problems with the old ticker?” Versavel inquired.

  Van In shrugged his shoulders. “Once a boss, always a boss,” he said indifferently.

  Leo Vanmaele stormed in at nine-thirty. The laughing leprechaun shook the snow from his shoulders like a wet dachshund after a walk in the rain.

  “I owe you forty-eight Duvels,” he crowed.

  Versavel switched on his word processor and pretended to be busy.

  Leo deposited a hefty dossier on Van In’s desk.

  “You don’t have to read all this crap, of course,” he quipped. “Lieutenant Grammens agrees with me one hundred percent: they used Semtex to blow up the statue. I’ll spare you the technical details, but take it from me, the detonator system was professional stuff. We’re not dealing with amateurs here.”

  “So we can rule out vandalism?”

  “I’m afraid so, Pieter.” Leo collapsed into a chair and unzipped his jacket. “Grammens even managed to trace the detonators to source,” he said triumphantly. “In principle, they’re for military use only.”

  “That’s something, at least,” said Van In. “If the detonators were stolen, there
should be a record of it somewhere.”

  “Then we’ll have to check at the European level,” said Leo. “According to Grammens, electronic gadgets like that are only used in three countries.”

  “Germany, France, and Great Britain,” said Van In casually.

  “How did you know that?” asked Leo, surprised.

  “The Krauts invent it, the French buy it, and the Brits get it for free from the Americans.”

  “Shall I contact Europol?” asked Versavel. They hadn’t started quibbling, so he switched off his word processor.

  “Europol? Don’t make me laugh, Guido. By the time they connect up their computers, we’ll be celebrating the second millennium.”

  “But we can’t make light of the situation,” said Leo. “Terrorists of this class aren’t in it for the laughs.”

  “I had been hoping for a bunch of students,” said Van In curtly. He opened the dossier and read the first paragraph.

  “The analysis of the writing paper didn’t reveal much either,” said Leo.

  Van In pushed Grammens’s report to one side with a weary look on his face.

  Leo went on. “Apart from three familiar sets of prints, the paper had been carefully wiped clean. The unidentified fingerprints on the envelope probably belong to the mail man, the sorter, the mayor’s secretary, and all the others who pawed it at one time or another. If you go to the trouble to wipe the writing paper clean, you’re not likely to forget to do the envelope.”

  “That sounds logical,” Van In groused.

  “But there’s also good news,” said Leo, upbeat. “I had a philologist take a look at the text.”

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Van In groaned. “You promised me—”

  “Don’t panic, Pieter. I copied the letter and cut it up. The man has no idea what it’s all about.”

  “Thank God.”

  Van In felt a stabbing pain in his chest but didn’t let on.

  “The letter contains sentence constructions that a Walloon or a Frenchman would never use. According to the philologist, it’s pretty certain that we’re dealing with a text translated from Dutch into French.”

  “The Dutchman,” said Van In. “Guido, any news from the Dutch police?”

  Versavel rubbed his moustache. “I had to cut things a bit short yesterday,” he said diplomatically. “I didn’t get the chance to….”

  “My fault,” Van In grimaced. “We should contact them immediately.”

  Versavel got to his feet and nodded gratefully. “I’ll fax them right away, Commissioner.”

  “Do that, Guido.”

  “There’s been a complaint about a dud check,” said Versavel with a sour look on his face.

  Van In looked up, surprised. Leo had left fifteen minutes earlier, and he had been wondering what Versavel was up to.

  The sergeant deposited the check on Van In’s desk. “Recognize it?”

  The color drained from Van In’s face. “The bitch,” he snorted.

  “Under normal circumstances, some deputy public prosecutor would have found this tomorrow in his in-tray,” Versavel grunted.

  “And?” asked Van In, panicked.

  “You can thank your lucky stars that Verbeke was on duty. Anyone else and you’d be fucked.”

  “You’re an angel, Guido.”

  “I don’t get it, Commissioner.”

  “Did Verbeke write up a report?”

  Versavel fished a folded sheet of paper from his trouser pocket.

  “Didn’t he object?”

  “Verbeke wouldn’t bat an eyelid if a naked plumber appeared in his bedroom unannounced, looking for a leaky pipe,” said Versavel with more than a hint of sarcasm. “I did it for Hannelore, Commissioner.”

  Van In was reminded yet again of Mucius Scaevola, who had held his hand over a fire until it was badly charred in an attempt to convince Porsenna that there was no point in continuing his siege of Rome. Versavel and the Roman noble were cut from the same cloth.

  “You always jump to conclusions,” said Van In in an effort to placate his assistant.

  “Do you want me to believe you spent the whole time telling Véronique bedtime stories?”

  “I needed information, Guido.”

  “That’s James Bond’s line,” Versavel snapped.

  “I mean it, Guido. Yesterday she told me—”

  “So you were there?”

  The prosecutor moved in for the kill.

  Van In was ashamed and lowered his eyes.

  “I’m done with her, starting now,” he said. “I mean it, Guido.”

  “Spare me the promises, Commissioner. I’ll pay the slut later tonight. Tear up the check and let’s talk about something else.”

  Van In hadn’t cried since the death of his mother, but at this moment he had an enormous lump in his throat and was on the verge of tears.

  “Is there coffee, Guido?”

  Versavel got the hint and turned around.

  “Two sugars, Commissioner?”

  Van In nodded when Versavel looked at him again and meekly accepted the mug of steaming coffee.

  “The man who Fiedle spent the evening with wasn’t a German,” said Van In after a brief silence, reporting on what he had learned from Véronique. “It’s getting more complicated by the minute.”

  “Was he gay?”

  “Worse, Guido. Much worse.”

  “A politician?”

  An explosion of laughter brought the necessary relief. Van In juddered in his chair, and for a brief moment his cares disappeared.

  “It was Georges Vandekerckhove,” he spluttered.

  “The big boss at Travel Inc.?”

  “The very one,” Van In snorted.

  “Are you going to question him?”

  Van In grabbed a paper napkin and blew his nose. The tears trickled down his cheeks.

  “If we don’t do something,” Van In finally responded, “Carton will have a stroke. And when a cop can’t see the wood for the trees, he makes paper … lots of paper.”

  “Don’t you need wood to make paper?” Versavel jested.

  “Was that supposed to be funny, Guido?”

  Van In felt the pain gnawing at his chest.

  “Ecological harmony, Commissioner,” Versavel explained. “Green is in.”

  “Maybe so, Guido,” said Van In, “but let’s be serious. Are you volunteering to inform Moens that we want to interrogate one of his captains of industry? And there’s more cheerful news where that came from. Vandekerckhove owns the Villa. Did you know that?”

  “Can’t we pick him up for trafficking in women?” said Versavel eagerly.

  Van In was aware that prosecuting Vandekerckhove would have personal consequences. He would be forced to appear in court and would have to face questioning. Versavel didn’t need to be reminded of such complications.

  “I think I’ll pay an informal visit to Vandekerckhove tomorrow,” he said. “If nothing else, I’m curious to hear why he didn’t react to the death of his German buddy.”

  “Croos isn’t going to like it,” Versavel grimaced.

  “Fuck Croos.”

  “And Creytens?”

  Van In swirled the tepid coffee in his mug. Versavel was right, but….

  “If you ask me, an examining magistrate who’s determined to bury a case can’t be trusted. I bet you dinner in the Wittekop that he keeps his head down.”

  “Tenderloin flambé?” said Versavel, tongue in cheek.

  “Not on the menu, Guido.”

  “Exactly, Commissioner. A simple steak. Who wants to get his fingers burned?”

  “They should’ve made you Pope, Versavel. He gets to lecture people for a living.”

  “So I can expect to be punished for my impertinence?”

  “Count on
it,” Van In teased. “You’ve got until tomorrow morning to find out all there is to know about a certain real estate agent here in the city.”

  “Planning a move?”

  “Shut up and write, Sergeant.”

  Van In needed some fresh air, and Versavel didn’t object when he rushed out of the office as if it was on fire. He rambled through the streets like a Don Quixote shadow and in less than an hour had crossed the city. He ended up on Burg Square, where an enthusiastic guide was herding his tourist charges like a flock of sheep into a nearby shopping gallery. In the shelter of the Steeghere—the monumental stairway leading up to the basilica—the guide eulogized Bruges, the “ever beautiful.”

  Van In was in the mood for something warm. The crackling log fire in a local tea room invited him in like the song of a charming siren. The temptation was great, but Van In reminded himself of Saint Anthony in the wilderness and resisted it. He headed for the Steeghere and wormed his way without flinching through the tightly packed tourists, who were listening indifferently to their “führer.” When he emerged from the shortcut, he turned left and in no more than five minutes was standing beneath the impressive tower of the city’s Church of Our Lady.

  He stamped the snow from his shoes and hurried inside. It wasn’t any warmer inside than out, but that didn’t seem to bother the tourists. Some sat in the pews chatting about the gothic magnificence of the place as if they were watching the latest Spielberg.

  Van In followed the left aisle to the altar, where Michelangelo’s Madonna peered out over the heads of a group of twenty or so admirers. In spite of the signs scattered throughout the church inviting silence in five languages, an elderly church employee in an immaculate blazer was flouting the rules, informing the mixed assembly about the church’s prized possession at the top of his voice. Van In joined them and listened with one ear to the man as he sang the praises of the Renaissance with great verve. His language was archaic and peppered with the kind of vocabulary you would expect of an art history dropout.

  Van In grabbed a chair, sat down, and looked long and hard at the statue. The face of Bruges’s Madonna bore a striking resemblance to the Pietà in Rome, as did the attire of the figures. Van In was no artist, but he couldn’t escape the feeling that the expression on the Bruges Madonna’s face betrayed a hint of melancholy. The drapes and folds seemed stiffer than their Roman counterpart, and to him the Infant was a little out of proportion.