The Square of Revenge

by Pieter Aspe

  Captain D’Hondt busily took notes. The oppressive silence reinstated itself.

  “What struck me,” said Charlotte completely out of the blue, “was that the young man used eye drops when he was at my brother’s store. Isn’t that what you said this afternoon, Commissioner?”

  As an eye doctor, it was logical that such a detail would draw her attention.

  “He was also exceptionally tall. All the witnesses seem to agree on that point.”

  Everyone turned to her in surprise.

  “You have a good memory, ma’am,” said Van In, sounding like a teacher giving a gold star to his best student. She understood that he didn’t wish to be unkind when he asked her to explain the connection between the two observations.

  “Indeed,” she said with a feeble laugh, “perhaps it does sound absurd, but if I’m not mistaken there’s a rare eye condition that combines both features.”

  “Is that so, Charlotte?”

  Ludovic Degroof sat on the edge of his chair.

  “And how rare is rare?” Van In inquired.

  “Pretty rare,” said Charlotte, scouring the deepest caverns of her memory in search of the condition’s name. “It’s a syndrome … something syndrome …”

  She ran through the letters of the alphabet in her mind, hoping that one of them would jolt her memory. They left her to think for a while.

  “Please, just ignore me,” she said when she realized everyone had fallen silent. “It’ll come to me. And it’s probably not that important. Please continue …”

  “I suggest we follow Mrs. Delahaye’s example and do some brain-racking. We need to bring all the evidence together, search for a connection,” said Beheyt, still grave.

  Hannelore looked at Van In, but his lips remained sealed.

  “We’re pretty sure the culprits used a dark Mercedes station wagon. Isn’t that something we’ve overlooked?” said Charlotte.

  “Have you any idea how many Mercedes station wagons there are on the roads in Belgium?” Van In sighed. His tone was ill-chosen and he immediately sensed Charlotte’s glare.

  “But you’re right,” he resumed, correcting himself. “I believe Captain D’Hondt is exploring that line of inquiry.”

  D’Hondt placed his cup on a nearby side table, taking care not to let anyone see that his hand was shaking.

  “That’s news to me,” he said, his voice subdued. “Thus far the local police have not had access to the statements and official reports surrounding the Ghislain Degroof case. In the present case, however, there are no witnesses. We can’t be sure that the boy was taken in a Mercedes. But there’s no reason why we shouldn’t include this element in our description,” he said, raising his voice slightly.

  “The captain is completely right.” Van In took a wicked delight in kicking, then comforting. “Let’s not forget that the perpetrators will be holed up somewhere safe by this time. The vehicle used to kidnap the boy isn’t likely to be parked at their front door.”

  It had started to rain. The outside broadcast units of the national and commercial TV stations had acquired the backup of a modest Renault Espace belonging to a local TV station. A Dutch broadcasting team had joined the assemblage an hour earlier.

  One thing was clear: if the kidnappers’ demands went public, Bishop Avenue would be awash. A kidnapping alone was a stroke of luck, but a kidnapping with a ransom note demanding that a bonfire be made of an art collection worth millions was enough to attract even CNN’s attention.

  Versavel had sent the majority of the police home, and the two remaining officers on duty had sought the shelter of their police vehicle. The handful of curious onlookers who had remained obediently respected the barriers, and there was nothing new to excite the press. The occasional passerby peered and pointed at the bungalow’s lit windows out of curiosity.

  No one paid the least attention to the scrawny young man sauntering past the bungalow. Neither the police nor the reporters gathered in deliberation noticed the derisive smile on his face as he stopped for a moment in front of the house. Daniel Verhaeghe relished the tension. He felt the adrenaline pump through his fragile aorta. Mocking death, with whom he had made friends long ago, sent him into ecstasy.

  Five minutes before he went on the air, a journalist spotted an envelope taped to the door of the national TV station’s Mercedes.

  Halfway through the news, the Delahayes’ telephone rang. Captain D’Hondt was the first to reach the phone and he switched on the Nagra tape recorder before lifting the receiver. Charlotte closed her eyes in nervous expectation while the others gathered in a circle around D’Hondt.

  Van In saw the police captain’s adam’s apple bounce up and down as he gulped. There was no need to wait for the end of the conversation. The public prosecutor’s voice was loud and clear enough for everyone to hear.

  “What in God’s name is going on, D’Hondt? Which fucking idiot informed the press, and why didn’t Van In call me? Is he there?”

  D’Hondt handed him the receiver with a nasty smile. Van In couldn’t blame him. It was his own fault. He had completely forgotten to call Lootens when the fax with the kidnappers’ demands was received.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  “Haven’t you been watching the national news?” Lootens bellowed.

  Hannelore raced to the lounge and switched on the TV just in time to hear the newsreader say: “… the ransom note is said to be demanding the public burning of twenty-five valuable paintings from the collection of Patrick Delahaye, the father of the kidnapped boy. Those were this evening’s headlines.”

  Lootens rattled on in his rage. Van In was saved by Degroof, who indicated that he would speak to Lootens and calm him down.

  “I’m passing you to Mr. Ludovic, sir.”

  Van In grabbed his mobile phone and sounded the alarm. Five minutes later, half of West Flanders was in a state of uproar, while Bruges witnessed the launch of the biggest manhunt the city had ever seen.

  Ten minutes later, the local police closed every road leading out of the city.

  Before the first patrol headed out, Daniel Verhaeghe was already safely ensconced in the Park Hotel on Zand Square, only sixty yards from the police station. The swirling blue lights of dozens of departing police cars gave his room the appeal of a discotheque.

  That’s the last place they’ll check, Laurent had said. No one suspects the disabled, and no one looks next door. Daniel gave the wheelchair in which he had just rolled into the hotel a shove and lined himself up by the window.

  The reporter was still holding the envelope with the statement he had just sent out live on the air when Van In stormed up to him. The other journalists formed a protective cordon around their diminutive colleague.

  “Where in God’s name did you get that information?” Van In snorted. “And why didn’t you inform us?”

  “No one was allowed through, police orders,” the journalist aptly retorted. Even the Dutch reporters had trouble suppressing their laughter.

  “The envelope was taped to the door of the van.”

  “When did you find it? Who was here? Did anyone notice anything?”

  Van In fired question after question like a multiple rocket launcher.

  “Those two didn’t see anything either.” One of the Dutch journalists pointed at the two officers, who had just left their car and were on their way over, completely unaware of what had happened. The laughter was unrestrained.

  Van In thought his head was about to explode. But he realized in the nick of time that he would be making a complete fool of himself if he lost his cool.

  A sharp-eyed cameraman from the commercial station was about to film the scene, but Versavel stopped him, grabbing the lens with his massive hand and pushing the struggling cameraman aside with the other.

  “I could easily break your arm and say it was an accident,” he hissed. There wasn’t even a hint of anger in his face. He was smiling. Versavel was an avid power trainer, weekly sessions. He grabbed the cameram
an’s fragile arm with both hands as if it was a stick of wood.

  “Okay, gentlemen. Your attention please.”

  Van In tried to stem the flow of adrenaline. Information was now more important than bickering.

  “Did anyone see an elderly man in the last hour, or a younger guy, lanky, overgrown?”

  “What did he say?” one of the Dutchmen asked his neighbor.

  “He wants to know if anyone spotted an old guy or someone younger, tall and thin,” he answered with a drawl.

  “What about the guy who was here half an hour ago? He must have been well over six feet. He hung around for a couple of minutes, staring at the house, and then walked on. Didn’t you see him, Rien?”

  Rien furrowed the sea of wrinkles on his forehead and fiddled with his earlobe.

  “Nope, didn’t see him. But if you say so …”

  The two Dutchmen were on the verge of starting an endless discussion.

  “So you didn’t see anyone near the BRTN van?” Van In interrupted impatiently.

  “I had just sat down for a cup of coffee,” Rien said in a what-else-do-you-expect tone of voice.

  “My colleague will be along in a minute to take a statement,” said Van In when he realized the Dutchman had nothing else to say. “Thanks, in any event.”

  “Pleasure. Cheers.”

  If the Dutchman’s timing was accurate, the lumbering beanpole couldn’t have gotten far. Van In trotted back to the house and had a word with D’Hondt. He had received confirmation by radio that a ten-mile cordon had been set up around Bruges. Every vehicle entering or leaving the city was being thoroughly searched.

  “If he doesn’t have a car, then he has to be in the city,” said Van In. “We’ve deployed all our available manpower. If he’s wandering around, we have to find him.”

  “Unless he’s got a safe house somewhere,” D’Hondt suggested.

  “He’s got balls, you have to give him that,” said Hannelore.

  “The worst of it is that we’re sitting here wasting our time, for Christ’s sake,” Van In grumbled. “If only we had a clue to follow, one goddamn clue!”

  Beheyt had stayed in the lounge, adjusting his profile of the perpetrators in his typically jagged scrawl. The compulsion of one of the kidnappers to hang around the scene of the crime had given him food for thought.

  “Rash behavior to say the least,” said Beheyt when Van In joined him and tossed back a mouthful of cognac.

  “If we take it as given that there are only two people involved, then we also have to assume that Bertrand is being held by the elderly man on his own,” said Beheyt. “They have to be pretty sure of themselves to take such a risk. The younger man’s presence here in Bruges seems totally pointless.”

  “Nothing is coincidental or pointless in this affair,” said Van In, his voice toneless, “it only appears that way. And to be honest, I’m not particularly worried about the boy’s safety. The kidnapping itself isn’t their real goal.”

  “And do you have any idea what that might be, Commissioner?”

  “Perhaps,” said Van In, cursing himself for his indiscretion. “But we’ll talk about it later.”

  “We’re supposed to be working as a team, Commissioner, I presume you realize that,” said Beheyt pointedly.

  “Of course, Professor. But please don’t pay too much attention to the meanderings of a policeman’s mind, especially when he’s worn out.”

  Beheyt’s expression softened, a sign that he had accepted Van In’s excuse. Van In breathed an inner sigh of relief.

  “Another cup of coffee, Professor?”

  Hannelore had perfect timing. Van In wanted to throw his arms round her.

  “Please,” said Beheyt. “In the meantime, I’ll finish my profile. We can run through it in the morning when we’ve all had some sleep.”

  “According to Captain D’Hondt, there are five hundred policemen working on the case, and according to the latest reports Bruges is like a city under siege. I wonder if they’ll catch him,” she said, upbeat.

  “I doubt it,” said Van In. He poured himself another glass and lit his first cigarette. He suddenly realized that Deleu had made himself scarce. In all the commotion, no one had noticed that he had returned to the police station.

  Van In racked his brains trying to think of his next move. He was just about to light his second cigarette when something came to him. He jumped to his feet and headed toward D’Hondt, who was standing by the telephone. Hannelore was right behind him.

  “Get me the bus company,” he said, “someone in charge of scheduling.”

  D’Hondt didn’t ask questions. He radioed his people and requested details of the bus company’s regional director. He needed the man’s telephone number ASAP. The local police could be arrogant bastards, but their professional qualities were never in question.

  Van In had the information he was looking for in less than three minutes. When D’Hondt had the regional director on the phone, he spoke with concision and with a persuasiveness worthy of Van In’s envy. Within five minutes, he had the name and number of the scheduling department.

  Marc Ballegeer new the names of more or less all of the drivers by heart and was immediately able to identify Michel Devos as the driver of the Bruges-Courtrai bus.

  “Has he been up to something?” asked Ballegeer, genuinely concerned. Devos was an excellent colleague … they got on like a house on fire.

  “Nothing untoward,” D’Hondt assured him. “But we need some information from him and it’s urgent.”

  “Thank God for that,” Ballegeer sighed.

  Michel Devos remembered the tall young man getting on the bus at Oostkamp around three thirty. How could he forget?

  D’Hondt used a sort of self-invented shorthand to take note of the details Devos spewed out at high speed.

  The guy was way over six feet. He bumped his head on the automatic doors, spoke with a Bruges accent but as if he hadn’t lived in Bruges for a long time, was extremely thin, was wearing glasses with thick lenses, faded jeans and a greenish T-shirt with an open denim jacket in top. Devos had kept an eye on him in his rearview mirror. There was no one else on the bus. He put drops in his eyes just before he got off at the train station.

  D’Hondt thanked the observant driver and asked if he would stop by the following morning to make an official statement.

  “I’ll arrange time off with Ballegeer,” Van In heard him conclude as he hung up the phone.

  “Not bad, Commissioner,” said D’Hondt. “I should have thought of that one myself. Bertrand’s bike was found in Oostkamp and you figured our man didn’t have a vehicle. Sharp thinking.”

  D’Hondt spread the bus driver’s accurate description over the radio as Van In made his way to the kitchen. Three pairs of eyes stared at him in anticipation.

  “Good news?” asked Delahaye, a shadow of the man Van In had met only seven hours earlier.

  Van In briefed them, but insisted at the same time that they shouldn’t cherish false hopes.

  “The only thing we’re certain of is that the younger of the two men is in Bruges at this moment. With a bit of luck we should be able to track him down before Monday. I’ll give my men orders to keep searching, but I’m afraid there’s little more we can do here for the time being.”

  Degroof senior was about to protest, but his daughter put her hand on his shoulder.

  “Mr. Van In is right, Daddy. I think it would help if we all got a little rest.”

  Charlotte was a strong woman. She had come to terms with the news of her son’s abduction. She was clearly the practical type, just like her father.

  “A patrol will stand guard by the door throughout the night and one of the local police will keep an eye on the phone.”

  Van In arranged to meet Beheyt and D’Hondt at the police station at seven A.M. sharp. He would call them if there was news in the meantime.

  He was surprised that no one objected. But why should they? No one had any experience with k
idnappings. Beheyt had been called in as an expert, but in reality he had only negotiated once in a kidnap case. And the way things were looking, there probably wouldn’t be much to negotiate. The tight schedule and the bizarre demand to destroy the paintings only made the case all the more peculiar.

  Van In had consulted the literature. Most kidnappings were settled when the ransom money was handed over, but this was a different kettle of fish. None of them knew what to expect.

  “Dare I ask for a lift, ma’am?” said Van In when they left the house.

  “At your command, Sherlock,” she quipped.

  14

  “WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY SOMETHING about Aurelie?” asked Hannelore as Van In poured them both a Duvel in his kitchen back at home.

  He made a pouty face. “And I thought you were the one with the news. But no, Deputy Hannelore Martens had to follow up on an important tip all by herself on Friday, no onlookers allowed.”

  Hannelore felt her cheeks redden. “I had no alternative, Pieter. She insisted that I come alone.”

  “And I’m expected to believe that.”

  “Believe what you want.”

  “Then again,” said Van In, “why should I care?”

  He pulled open the sliding door and popped his head outside.

  “The rain’s stopped. We might as well sit outside. Then you can tell me the whole story at your leisure.”

  Hannelore was too tired to bicker, and she was sure he hadn’t set out to hurt her.

  “Go on, then. I don’t see us getting much sleep.” Van In grabbed a kitchen towel and dried a couple of chairs.

  “Van der Eyck called me on Thursday,” she said as they settled at the garden table. “He was the one who gave me the idea.”

  “What idea?”

  “To contact Nathalie Degroof. Van der Eyck knew that she had run away from home when she was seventeen.”