by Pieter Aspe
“Degroof,” the man grouched. His legs were like lead and his voice hoarse from too many cigarettes.
“Bruges Police, Mr. Degroof. Duty officer De Keyzer. I’ve bad news, I’m afraid.”
De Keyzer paused for a second to add extra weight to his message.
“A report has just come in from our night patrol. There’s reason to believe your shop on Steen Street has been burgled,” he said in a bureaucratic tone.
Degroof started to choke on his own saliva and turned away from the phone for a good cough.
“Mr. Degroof, are you still there?” De Keyzer asked after a couple of seconds.
“Of course I’m still here,” Degroof rasped. “What in Christ’s name does ‘reason to believe’ mean?”
“The duty sergeant informs me that the window and the display cabinets inside the shop are empty. He’s not sure if that’s normal. There’s also broken glass and a pair of gloves on the floor.”
“Of course it’s not normal,” Degroof croaked at the top of his voice. De Keyzer held the receiver away from his ear.
“Nonetheless, there’s no sign of breaking and entering,” he continued with caution. De Keyzer knew the Degroofs; or rather his father knew them. They were rich and extremely powerful. That’s why he didn’t consider it strange that Versavel had asked him to bring the Deputy up to speed. You could never be careful enough with the Degroofs and their like.
“The Deputy public prosecutor is on her way,” he added with a degree of pride.
Degroof’s head started to spin like carousel. He sat down and tried to assess the damage. Fortunately he was insured for every penny. The only reason his head was spinning was because he hadn’t completely sobered up from the night before.
“Fine,” he said. “I’m on my way.”
2
GHISLAIN DEGROOF AND HANNELORE MARTENS arrived at more or less the same time. She had just parked her navy-blue Renault Twingo behind the police van when Degroof drove up in his pitch-black Maserati.
Versavel took note of their arrival. It was five past seven.
Hannelore Martens was wearing a white T-shirt and a long dark-brown skirt with an ample side split revealing a pair of shapely calves as she stepped out of her car.
“Good morning, Sergeant,” she said brightly.
“Deputy Martens?” he asked in disbelief. He had heard that they were appointing magistrates young these days, but this specimen didn’t look much older than twenty-five.
“Hannelore Martens,” she said with as much polite firmness as she could muster. “How do you do, Sergeant?”
Versavel tapped his cap with his fore and middle fingers. At least she knew her police ranks. Not a bad sign. They were shaking hands when the final rumble of Degroof’s Maserati made them turn their heads. Degroof had parked like a drunken cowboy.
“Degroof, I presume?”
Versavel spotted her derisive tone. “The very one,” he said with a wink.
“Let’s introduce ourselves to the injured party first, shall we?” she said cheerfully.
Versavel followed her. He found it hard to understand how a woman like her could wind up in the judiciary. She could have made a lot more money as a model.
Degroof junior was a tall thin man. His expensive designer frames half concealed an uneven pair of bulging eyes. His pointed angular shoulders protruded through his jacket. He walked with a stoop and looked ten years older than he actually was.
“Deputy Martens,” she introduced herself with confidence.
Degroof seemed just as surprised as Versavel.
“I got here as fast as I could,” she said.
“That’s very kind of you, Deputy Martens.” Degroof was clearly the perfect gentleman.
“My name is Degroof, Ghislain Degroof, Jr., to be precise, proprietor of Degroof Diamonds and Jewelry.”
Versavel almost burst out laughing. Who else had they been expecting: Snow White?
“What in God’s name is going on?” asked Degroof with an expression of painful indignation on his face.
“We should ask Sergeant Versavel,” said Hannelore Martens. “He has all the details. Right, Sergeant?”
Versavel reported what they had observed in short sentences, prudently avoiding any mention of their real reason for stopping at the jewelry shop.
“It’s common for night patrols to carry out the occasional routine checkup on their rounds,” he lied straight-faced. Fortunately, Petitjean was out of earshot.
“There are no signs of breaking and entering. Everything appears to be locked up as it should,” Versavel concluded with caution. “Perhaps Mr. Degroof could open the door for us. I’m sure there’s more to be learned inside.”
“Good idea,” said Deputy Martens. “No point in hanging around. Let’s take a look inside.” She wanted to stay in control and be the one giving the final orders.
Versavel watched the jeweler carefully as he rummaged for his keys. He was wearing a crumpled pinstriped suit, casual moccasins without socks, and a hideous tie. His facial features were limp, his beard negligible, and he had serious bags under his frog-like eyes. There was the smell of strong drink on his breath. That explained the parking job, Versavel chuckled to himself.
As Degroof was unlocking the metal roller shutters, Hannelore Martens gave Versavel a knowing glance. Her first impressions of the jeweler didn’t differ much from those of the sergeant. She didn’t like the look of him one bit. It wasn’t the hangover. Something disingenuous.
“Stay here,” said Versavel to Petitjean when he made a move to go inside. “And don’t let anyone through without my permission.”
Petitjean nodded and did what he was told.
The roller shutter rattled upward with ease. Degroof opened the door, switched on the lights and made a beeline for an inbuilt cupboard, which was almost invisible between a pair of display cabinets.
“First the burglar alarm,” he mumbled.
Hannelore Martens’s intuition told her to stay where she was, but Versavel signaled that she was free to go inside.
“The alarm has a delay mechanism,” he explained. “Degroof has one hundred seconds to disarm the system.”
Degroof punched a four-digit code into the miniature keypad: 1905.
“There we are,” he said, as if he’d just done something extremely complicated. “The coast is now clear.”
Idiot, Versavel thought to himself. Who says “the coast is now clear” after a break-in? But the coast was indeed very clear. There was nothing left.
“Mon Dieu,” Degroof whimpered as he looked around the shop. “They’ve taken everything!”
“Does that mean there’s nothing under lock and key? That you didn’t take anything home for safekeeping?” Versavel asked, surprised.
“With such an alarm system, that’s no longer necessary, Sergeant. It cost me one and a half million.”
He lunged indignantly to the other side of the shop and disappeared into a narrow corridor via a dividing door. Martens and Versavel followed, but before they reached the door they heard him shout “mon Dieu” for a second time.
Versavel was first into the corridor. He saw two doors to his right, both of them closed. On the left there was only one door, and it was half open. He noticed a pungent penetrating smell but couldn’t figure out what it was. Hannelore Martens started to cough.
They made their way into a small workshop. Degroof was standing with his hands in his hair staring at a wall safe. The door of the safe was hanging from one of its hinges like a piece of modern sculpture.
“Curious,” Versavel whistled. He produced his notebook and scribbled a few notes. Just as he was about to ask the jeweler a question, the shop phone started to ring. Like Lot’s wife, Degroof had been rendered immobile, his hand frozen in front of his eyes in a bizarrely watchful, dramatic pose. Versavel returned to the shop and picked up the receiver.
“Sergeant Versavel speaking. Who’s this?”
For a few seconds, there was silence on
the other end of the line. The man from Securitas knew he was out of luck.
Every time the alarm was switched off, a signal was transmitted via a special telephone line to an emergency center almost sixty miles away. But the security guard had taken a couple of hour’s nap that night, something he had never done before. He had promised his son a day out at an amusement park and his ex-wife refused to allow for the fact that he worked shifts. As far as she was concerned, he had visiting rights on Sundays and she made no exceptions.
“Freddy Dugardin from the emergency center. Is this the police?” he asked in the vain hope that the answer would be negative.
“Yes,” said Versavel without intonation. He figured the man was nervous and could understand why. If the alarm had gone off that night or been disarmed and he hadn’t heard the signal for one or other reason, he could expect to be signing up for unemployment on Monday morning.
“Nothing serious going on, is there?” Dugardin asked, close to desperation.
“The entire shop’s been cleared out, my friend.” As Versavel spoke, he suddenly realized that the alarm had in fact been on when they entered the premises. Degroof had disarmed it. That was why the guard had called. It was Sunday, and the system should have functioned normally until Monday morning. There should have been no interruptions, either right this morning or any time the night before.
“Did anyone disarm the system during the night?” Versavel inquired. In the meantime, he had opened his notebook and his pen was at the ready.
“One moment,” said Dugardin. He feverishly typed the code for Degroof Diamonds and Jewelry into the keyboard in front of him on his desk: wv-BR-1423. After a couple of seconds the computer provided the requested information. Dugardin rubbed his face with the palm of his hand and started to breathe again.
“Sergeant,” he said, audibly relieved, “nothing registered between midnight and now.”
“And before midnight?”
“Just a second.”
It took two minutes before Dugardin volunteered an answer.
“Mr. Degroof disarmed the system himself on Friday evening. He informed my colleague by phone.”
“Friday, you say,” Versavel repeated. “Stay on the line for a moment. Mr. Degroof is here beside me.”
Versavel turned to Degroof. “Did you disarm the system on Friday evening?” he inquired. Deputy Martens had joined them and was listening carefully.
“Of course not,” said Degroof, evidently affronted.
“Mr. Degroof claims he didn’t disarm the system on Friday evening,” Versavel told Dugardin. He used the word “claims” on purpose. He had been in the force long enough to know that people should never be taken at their word.
“Not so,” Dugardin answered, a deal more confident. “He called at 22:23. You can listen to the tape. Just a second.”
Versavel drummed a waltz by Strauss on the tabletop while he waited for Dugardin to rewind the tape.
“Here it comes,” said Dugardin triumphantly. After a couple of buzz and whistle tones, Versavel heard the voice of Degroof. Like the rest of Bruges’s prominent citizens, Degroof used a sort of sanitized West Flemish dialect, with the odd word of French tossed in here and there for good measure.
“Allo, emergency center. Ghislain Degroof speaking. Sorry for the change, but I’m expecting an important client this evening so I’ve switched off the burglar alarm.”
“Understood, Mr. Degroof. Do you have any idea how long the system will be down?”
“An hour, an hour and a half. Is that okay?”
“So before midnight everything will be as normal?”
“Bien sur, mon ami.”
“Okay, Mr. Degroof, have a nice evening.”
Degroof was straining at the leash with impatience and signaled nervously to be allowed to listen to the recording.
“Can you run the tape one more time?” Versavel asked. “Mr. Degroof wants to hear it for himself.”
“With pleasure,” said Dugardin.
Degroof grabbed the receiver from Versavel’s hand. The sergeant stepped aside and angrily rubbed his moustache.
Dugardin pressed the start button, leaned back, and lit a cigarette.
As Degroof listened to the recording, the blood drained from his face and he turned deathly pale.
“But that’s not my voice,” he said disconcerted.
A curious Hannelore Martens turned to Versavel. For her, this was pure excitement. No one had ever told her that fieldwork could be so much fun. Degroof was still holding the receiver to his ear and was speechless. Versavel carefully took it back. Degroof shook his head and collapsed into a chair.
“Are we done?” asked Dugardin, relieved.
“Forget it buddy,” said Versavel in what came close to an authoritarian tone. “If I was you I’d start writing my report, all the details, on the double. We’re not done with you by a long shot.”
“Of course, Sergeant,” said Dugardin, happy that he was more or less off the hook with regard to his nap.
“If you ask me, something strange is going on,” said Deputy Martens as Versavel returned the receiver to its cradle. The sergeant shrugged his shoulders.
“This is our bread and butter, ma’am.”
“Is that so?” she reacted with a hint of indignation.
“But the man’s lying,” Degroof interrupted. “I didn’t call anyone! I spent Friday evening at a wedding in Anvers, a nephew of Anne-Marie. We stayed the night. That’s why the shop was closed for the whole weekend. I have a hundred witnesses who can confirm my whereabouts.”
“Calm down, Mr. Degroof,” said Versavel. “No one’s accusing you of anything. You’re the injured party, don’t forget. We now know that someone called the emergency center in your name. We also know that whoever was responsible for this knew what you were doing this weekend. He apparently knew that you were busy with a family engagement. But more importantly, he knew how to disengage the burglar alarm.”
Deputy Martens nodded approvingly. Sergeant Versavel knew his onions. Her picture of the force had changed. Her colleagues tended to be condescending when they spoke about the Bruges police.
Degroof stared vacantly into space and dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Relax for a while, Mr. Degroof. We’ll take a look in the workshop first and then come back for your statement,” said Versavel.
“Do you mind if I join you?” asked Hannelore Martens, determined not to be left alone with Degroof.
“Under no circumstances. I can’t afford to make mistakes in front of a Deputy,” Versavel joked. He was taking a risk, but fortunately she had a healthy sense of humor.
“I don’t think there’s much danger of that, Sergeant,” she said with a wry smile. Her reaction pleased him.
They had barely set foot in workshop when Degroof stuffed his handkerchief in his pocket, grabbed the telephone receiver, and nervously punched in his father’s number. The phone rang three times. Ludovic Degroof wasn’t a late sleeper. He got up at six-thirty sharp every day without fail.
“Allo papa, ici Ghislain.”
Ludovic Degroof listened to his son’s confused account. When he was finished, he gave him detailed instructions.
“I’m going to call the commissioner tout d’suite. Restez là. I’ll take care of everything.”
He always took care of everything.
“Something stinks in here,” said Hannelore.
“I was thinking the same thing,” Versavel growled.
Versavel examined the wall safe. Whoever blew it open knew what he was doing. Versavel spoke from experience. He had spent part of his military service in bomb disposal, sweeping for mines.
“Is it empty?” she asked.
“More than likely.” But he took a look inside just to be sure. “Nothing. Professionals never leave anything behind.”
Hannelore started to cough again. The acrid stench refused to clear, in spite of the open door.
“It’s like acid,” she hacke
d. “I remember my father dunking his soldering iron in hydrochloric acid when I was a kid. It’s the same smell.”
Versavel nodded. He wanted to tell her she was an okay girl and that friendly Deputy public prosecutors were about as rare as white long-distance runners.
The workshop wasn’t very big, no more than a hundred and thirty square feet. A bench against the wall opposite the door had been fitted with an articulated arm with a powerful magnifying glass and built-in lighting. Next to a bench vise a number of precision instruments were scattered in disarray. There was also a compact buffing wheel. This was apparently where minor repairs were carried out.
Versavel suddenly noticed the aquarium on the floor between the bench and the side wall. The thing was completely out of place and he didn’t understand why no one had noticed it before. The walls of the glass container were roughly twelve by twenty and appeared to be the same on all four sides. It was filled with a cloudy liquid. A silvery scum floated on the surface.
“That’s where the smell’s coming from,” Versavel snorted when he crouched and held his nose over the container. Hannelore crouched at his side. Their knees touched.
“Yuck, that’s disgusting!” she yelped, turning up her nose.
“I think we should get Degroof in here,” said Versavel.
She held out her hand and he helped her to her feet. Hannelore found Versavel a handsome man, amiable, the easygoing type, her type. She had always fallen for older men in her student days.
“Mr. Degroof,” Versavel roared, “can we see you in the workshop?”
“Mon Dieu,” Degroof blared when Versavel pointed to the tank. “Aqua regis, mon Dieu.”
Degroof’s pretentious “mon Dieus” were beginning to get on Versavel’s nerves, so he resisted his initial urge to ask what aqua regis was.
Degroof yanked open a drawer under the bench and produced a pair of rubber gloves. He pulled on the left glove and dipped his hand carefully into the goo. His face was twisted with anxiety, as if he was afraid of finding something terrible at the bottom of the tank. A meandering vein started to swell on his forehead, making him even uglier than he already was and drawing particular attention to his uneven bulging eyes. He dipped his hand so deep into the sludge that the stinking fluid almost seeped into his glove. After thirty seconds rummaging around the bottom of the tank, he irately pulled out his hand. He had a wafer-thin strip of yellow metal between his thumb and his forefinger.