The Square of Revenge

by Pieter Aspe

  In the meantime, Versavel took another look at the substantial report he had sweated over the day before. Few of his colleagues knew that he liked to turn his hand to a bit of writing in his spare time. Two of his stories had been published under a pseudonym, and he had somehow found time to finish his first novel. His love for writing explained why he always paid particular attention to the style and form of his police reports—something his colleagues never understood nor appreciated. He didn’t care that most of the cases they detailed were dropped. For Versavel, having a fluent and correct command of his native language was a point of honor.

  The first tip arrived at eight-fifteen.

  A man identifying himself as Armand Ghyoot claimed he had seen a couple of Moroccans hanging around Steen Street at ten-thirty the previous evening.

  “And one of those habibis was carrying a sports bag,” he added with a chuckle.

  Versavel thanked the man, assured him he had taken note of everything, and hung up. Nothing helpful there, he thought. The phone buzzed again ten seconds later, and so it continued for quite some time.

  In the space of one and a half hours, Versavel took thirteen calls. Three were about the Moroccans, one about a black guy, and two about Turks, all of which were more telling about the people calling in than who might have melted down those jewels. An elderly lady confused Degroof Diamonds with Deloof Lawnmowers in Zedelgem. She had seen a truck pull into the parking lot the night before and heard the sound of breaking glass. Turned out later that Deloof Lawnmowers had indeed been burgled that night, and Versavel made a note to have someone look into it once this mess at DeGroof’s had been resolved.

  Versavel also took a couple of calls from the requisite set of jokers. One was traced immediately because he had been dumb enough to use his own phone. There were still people out there who didn’t know that their telephone number appeared on a display when they called the police.

  Versavel shortlisted four interesting calls and drafted a brief report for the attention of Assistant Commissioner Van In.

  On Friday at ten-thirty P.M., Mr. Dupon of 14 Dweer Street had taken his dog for a walk, as was his routine. He always followed the same trajectory, cutting through the Zilverpand shopping center to Geldmunt Street, and then the length of Saint Amand Street as far as Market Square. He then stops for a glass of his favorite draft beer—Geuze—at Café Craenenburg, sitting on the terrace if weather permits. At eleven, or thereabouts, he crosses Market Square and saunters in the direction of Burg Square, the heart of the city’s historic district, where he lets his dog—a four-year-old Golden Retriever—run loose for fifteen minutes. In the meantime, Mr. Dupont rests his bones on one of the benches under the trees. Almost without fail, he admires the illumination of the city hall and the Basilica of the Holy Blood, a spectacle of which he never tires.

  He then heads back home via Steen Street. With the exception of a couple of speeding cars, he passed no one on the way. That’s why he so clearly remembers the two men standing by the door of Degroof’s, he said to Versavel on his call. The younger of the two—Dupon figures around twenty-five—is holding open the door for the older man. They’re both empty-handed. Mr. Dupon stops for a moment, pretending his dog needs to take a pee, so he can get a better look. Both men are in dark suits and each is wearing a gray tie. The older of the two, a man in his mid-sixties, has long gray hair. The younger man steps into a dark Mercedes station wagon, while the older man locks the door and rolls down the window shutters. Mr. Dupon continues on his way without suspecting anything further.

  He had been listening to the news that morning on the radio and had immediately made the connection.

  The second useable tip came from a Dutch couple who had decided to celebrate their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary in Bruges.

  They had traveled by car from Almelo to Bruges on Friday, July 8. Their four children had paid for a romantic weekend. They are currently staying at Hotel Die Swaene, which some guides describe as the most attractive hotel in the Benelux.

  After enjoying a five-course dinner at De Visscherie, an exclusive restaurant on the Fish Market, Judith and Stan Cornuit decide to go for a stroll, sauntering down to Market Square via Burg Square and Breidel Street. They fritter away some time admiring Quijo’s window display, one of Degroof’s major competitors. The young jeweler is upstairs in his workshop putting the finishing touches to a last-minute order. Hence the light in the window display. Stan has saved four thousand guilders under strict secrecy and plans to spend it on a bracelet for his darling Judith.

  After five minutes or so—Stan meanwhile had managed to spot a magnificent specimen—they saunter across Market Square like an amorous young couple, heading toward Steen Street. Stan remembers having seen another jeweler there that morning when they passed in the car. He’s not surprised to see light burning. Two men are hard at work inside, removing jewelry from the window displays and carrying it to the back of the shop.

  Both men are wearing cotton gloves and are taking the greatest of care. The younger of the two even waves at them when he sees their faces pressed against the window. The older gentleman trails in with a brush and dustpan and sweeps some fragments of broken glass into a pile. The young man helps him. Brushing broken glass together on a deep-pile rug isn’t easy. The Dutch couple didn’t suspect a thing. After all, why would they wave if they were up to anything illegal? The happy couple just assumed there had been an accident.

  What a nerve, Versavel sniggered to himself, but you had to give it to them. When he thought about their barefaced modus operandi, he realized that it was probably the least likely to attract attention. He knew from experience that there wasn’t much movement on Steen Street after ten-thirty. The intruders were probably well aware of the fact. Most shops switched off their window display lighting at ten, using an automatic timer. The days of wasting electricity without restraint were a thing of the past. Cutting back on energy consumption was now the height of fashion. It was also cheaper and environmentally friendly, and customers liked that sort of thing.

  Even a police patrol would probably have noticed nothing amiss. If they had seen both men at work, they would have assumed the same as the Cornuits did: shop owners often have to work late into the night.

  The Cornuits had observed the men for several minutes and were thus able to provide detailed personal descriptions. Versavel gave priority to their statements and made an appointment to see the couple in the course of the afternoon for a more comprehensive interview. He suggested two-thirty and hoped that Van In would be back by then.

  The two other useful informants had heard a dull explosion somewhere between eleven and midnight. One said it sounded like a shotgun going off. The other, an elderly woman who lived in a shabby apartment around the corner in Kleine St. Amand Street, was shaken from her sleep by a hard, dry thud, which she put down to a faulty muffler on a passing car.

  Versavel knew that Van In would be content with what his report contained. They had four useful witnesses at their disposal, and that was more than enough to keep Deputy Martens happy, especially since it was from the radio call-out she had so adamantly insisted upon.

  De Kee hadn’t shown up that morning. Van In had called him the evening before to say he had made an appointment at nine with Ghislain Degroof for standard questioning. He would stop by as early as possible to size up the situation. If everything went according to plan, they could round up their inquiries by Wednesday, type the whole thing up, and hand the file over to the public prosecutor’s office.

  That, at least, was what Versavel thought.

  Van In had had an exceptionally bad night’s sleep. The Degroof affair had dug in its heels, and he didn’t like it. When it came to crime, Bruges was a graveyard, a provincial backwater. A comforting thought for the city’s population, but exceptionally frustrating for a policeman. Spectacular crimes and real tension were a rarity.

  Van In had worked his way up to assistant commissioner and head of the Special Investigat
ions Unit, and in all that time he had longed for an extraordinary case. When it didn’t materialize, his enthusiasm waned. He was sick of the routine and small-minded intrigue that made up his day-to-day, and had been so for years.

  The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that the Degroof affair might just be the case he had been waiting for.

  The fact that De Kee was under pressure to sweep it under the carpet left him uneasy. De Kee may have been a snob, but he wasn’t a pushover. Van In was certain that Degroof senior had to have brought in heavy artillery to persuade the chief commissioner to make such a decision.

  And for what? Degroof’s son was the injured party. The events of the previous night were too lightweight to explain Degroof senior’s pressure. There had to be more to it.

  And he was determined to get to the bottom of it, whatever the cost, even if it was only to impress the pretty Hannelore.

  After his daily routine in front of the mirror, tensing his sagging abdominals and trying to picture how things had used to be, Van In rummaged around in search of his best suit.

  He selected the floweriest tie of the three he owned and knotted it around his neck. Valentine’s Day 1984, a somber memory. His last candlelight dinner with Sonja. She had reserved a table at De Zevende Hemel, an intimate little place on Wal Square with a very appropriate name. That night, he really was in seventh heaven.

  The restaurant went bankrupt a couple of months later, as did his marriage. Sonja got the furniture and what was left of their savings. Van In borrowed a couple of million francs to compensate her for the house. The loan cost him twenty-four thousand francs a month on top of his mortgage payments. In total, he had to pay almost thirty-five thousand francs a month to be able to keep the house. But it was worth it.

  It was his dream house. He had played in it countless times as a child, as he lived in the neighborhood nearby. Back then, an elderly spinster had lived in it, and she made him pancakes nearly every Wednesday. He had fallen in love with the Vette Vispoort, and the house at the end of Moer Street, with the upstairs room where he whiled away the hours reading. He loved the solid oak table by the window, the spiral staircase leading to the garden on the banks of the canal, the dark vaulted cellar full of cobwebs, the creaking wooden floor on the upper level. The house’s tangible tranquility, combined with the light filtered through green windowpanes, never left him.

  He made up his mind to live in the place when he was older.

  The house went up for sale in 1978, when he and Sonja had been married for four years. Van In accepted the exorbitant asking price. Like him, Sonja was wildly enthusiastic. In their youthful naïveté, they took out a very expensive loan. She worked day and night to pay for their dream house. She was chef in an exclusive Bruges restaurant and earned a good deal more than he did as a rookie policeman. She worked herself to the bone.

  But in 1984, when the worst seemed to be behind them, their marriage disintegrated.

  Long evenings alone left Van In lonely and despondent. He had fallen for the charms of a young colleague and had enjoyed a short if passionate relationship with her. She was nineteen and seemed insatiable, until she realized that Van In couldn’t do much for her career. He had just been promoted to the rank of inspector. She dumped him like a piece of dirt, and Sonja got wind of it precisely one day later. Any hopes of reconciliation were dashed.

  Van In never figured out who had turned him in. Their marriage could have been saved, been beautiful, but now it was too late. And self-pity was nobody’s friend.

  His dark suit made him appear thinner, and that cheered him more than a little. He walked to the corner of Moer Street and made his way to the police station on Beurs Square.

  Today you could tell where the real Flemish nationalists lived. The lion flag fluttered here and there throughout the city. Flanders was celebrating its annual feast, but it wasn’t a Belgian public holiday. It was business as usual.

  Van In marched into the station and asked at reception if a car was free. Officer Cardon, a pock-faced beanpole, handed him the keys to the Volkswagen Golf Van In usually drove.

  “Thanks, Robert,” said Van In.

  “At your command, Commissioner,” Cardon replied.

  He briefly considered bolting upstairs to his office, but changed his mind when he caught sight of the clock in the corridor. It was almost eight forty-five. Radio Contact was scheduled to broadcast the appeal every half hour. He had tuned in quickly before leaving the house, and he was sure Versavel would be at his desk fielding any calls that came in. If there was news, it could wait until the afternoon.

  He drove down Smede Street and took the main road out of the city in the direction of Gistel. Degroof lived in Varsenare, a small town between Bruges and Jabbeke.

  Van In was familiar with the Grote Thems, the exclusive neighborhood where Degroof kept his official residence. The people who lived in the place had the right to call themselves respectable citizens. It was overflowing with doctors, realtors, cash-rich businessmen, bank directors, and the privately wealthy. An aristocratic title was particularly appreciated in the Grote Thems, although Rotary and Kiwanis adepts, knights of the Order of Malta, and Opus Dei supernumeraries could also count on considerable respect.

  It took Van In the better part of ten minutes to find Degroof’s house. The street layout in the Grote Thems defied logic. It was as if its stuck-up residents wanted to give the impression that they each lived on a street of their own. He finally found what he was looking for after circling the neighborhood a couple of times.

  Degroof lived in a mock-farmhouse, the typical habitat of moneyed folks who had built their homes in the nineteen seventies. Back to nature was the slogan in those days, and everyone who could afford it bought themselves an expensive plot of land and built their own rustic palace outside the city.

  Degroof was no exception. He had spared neither money nor effort in the realization of his megalomaniac copy of a simple farmhouse. Two architects earned close to a half million francs each on the project. The result was in keeping with the financial investment: a monstrosity made of expensive custom-made brick, with three garages, oak gates, and window shutters. In the middle of the impeccable lawn, there was a kidney-shaped pond in which a couple of swans swam in obligatory circles. Well-trained, thought Van In, sarcastically.

  The VW Golf hobbled up the cobblestone drive, and Van In parked it in front of one of the garages. Before he had the chance to ring the bell, a young man, twenty or thereabouts, opened the front door. He was wearing an immaculate black suit and a bow tie, clothing that immediately betrayed his position in the household. His dark-brown skin, plump lips, and mysterious black eyes left no doubts as to his ethnic origins. It was well known that people weren’t averse to a little cheap household labor around these parts.

  “Assistant Commissioner Van In,” he introduced himself with just a hint of authority. “I have an appointment with Mr. Degroof.” The Indian conjured an indefinable smile. His pearly white teeth left Van In jealous.

  “Moment please, sir,” said the butler, almost accent-less, leaving him waiting at the door.

  Van In felt uncomfortable in his suit. The collar of his shirt pinched and his tie was too tight. In spite of the early hour, it was already quite warm. They had forecast rain on national TV the day before.

  The Indian reappeared in less than a minute.

  “Mister Degroof can see you now,” he said in what was close to a subservient tone. He bowed like a jackknife and gestured to Van In that he should go inside.

  The hallway was substantially bigger than Van In’s bedroom. Expensive Tibetan rugs graced the floor. Van In recognized them because he had been dreaming of buying one for years. He was crazy about their brown and ochre shades and simple geometric motifs. But that was where any agreement between his taste and Degroof’s ended.

  The walls were plastered with paintings in heavily gilded frames, mostly rural conversation pieces by unknown nineteenth-century “masters.
” The crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling with its artificial buttressing of recuperated oak beams were completely out of place.

  The butler led him through a double door into the lounge. The room was at least six hundred square feet, and here, too, kitsch ruled the roost: a leather country-style lounge suite, Chinese porcelain in faux-antique displays, a leopard-skin rug in front of an open hearth lined with Delft tiles, more crystal chandeliers, medallion wallpaper, Val Saint-Lambert, bronze and copper metalwork. It almost turned Van In’s stomach.

  An enormous glass sliding door filled the left wall and gave out onto a terrace-cum-garden. Ghislain Degroof came toward him with a broad smile on his face.

  “Commissaire Van In!” He welcomed him with open arms. “Such a pleasure to see you again,” he said in the mangled accent he reserved for common folk like Van In. Van In shook his dry but limply slippery hand.

  “I didn’t want to bother you any more than necessary yesterday, Mr. Degroof. But I’m sure you understand that I’m duty bound to ask a couple questions. For the records,” he added with a hint of sarcasm.

  “Mais bien sur, I’m completely at your service.” His French accent was equally painful.

  Degroof was wearing high-quality, loose-fitting beige slacks, a white open-neck shirt, a pair of walnut docksides, and no socks. He seemed relaxed and ten years younger than the day before.

  “Shall we take a seat on the terrace, Commissaire?”

  “Of course,” said Van In.

  The Indian was standing immediately behind him and helped him take off his jacket. He was grateful that the room had no mirrors. His jacket was his camouflage.

  The terrace was the same size as the lounge. A pergola with a splashing fountain cooled and refreshed the air. It’ll be hot outside the shade, he thought. The oval impregnated mahogany table was still set for breakfast. Condensation dripped from a bottle of champagne resting in a silver ice bucket. He spotted of a couple of sun beds almost completely concealed by the commanding table.