by Pieter Aspe
“No, just the old guy and the cop,” he said with conviction.
Van In thanked the man and turned to the others.
“Now we know when and where.”
“If what the witness saw had anything to do with the kidnapping,” said D’Hondt.
Van In wanted to punch him. Why was the bastard so contrary?
“Shouldn’t take long to check, Captain,” Van In barked. “Or is it normal for bona fide policemen to screw around with their vehicles when they’re on duty?”
“Listen here, Van In,” D’Hondt hissed. “The way you’ve been handling this case is unprofessional, to say the least. But good, I can live with that. What I don’t have to put up with are insults directed against me and my men.”
“Insults,” Van In snorted. “Everyone knows you need a lot more shit to mold one of your men than one of mine.”
D’Hondt gritted his teeth and said nothing. Hannelore expected him to burst into flames at any minute. His face was bright red.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen. A little respect, if you don’t mind.”
De Kee was standing in the doorway dressed in a loose-fitting pinstriped suit. He looked as if he had just walked out of The Untouchables.
“Don’t we have other fish to fry?”
Van In looked at Hannelore, and when she glanced furtively at De Kee he couldn’t help smiling.
D’Hondt backed down with a stiff nod of the head.
“That’s much better,” said De Kee in a cheerful tone.
Beheyt reappeared with a pile of photocopies under his arm and chirped: “Are we having the meeting here?”
“Why not,” said De Kee. “The public prosecutor sends his apologies and Colonel Verriest should have been here by now.”
Van In sighed. He hated meetings. Everything had already been said, as far as he was concerned.
“Let’s take a seat then, shall we,” he suggested apathetically.
Fortunately, the discussion passed without incident. D’Hondt wisely kept his options open. Van In repeated his report of the events of the preceding week on De Kee’s explicit request. He then suggested that a description of Long-legs should be given to the press. “Long-legs” had now been accepted by everyone concerned as the younger kidnapper’s nickname.
“We can be reasonably certain that he’ll be present at tomorrow’s spectacle,” Van In concluded.
Everyone appeared to agree, and Van In was happy that the most tiresome part of his day was behind him.
“Excellent,” Beheyt concurred. “But allow me to add a final observation. In my opinion, the young man commissioner Van In has appropriately styled ‘Long-legs’ is suffering from depression and is exceptionally unbalanced. One might almost be inclined to think that the older man set up the abduction as a sort of ‘live cinema’ just to assuage Long-legs’s volatile personality.”
De Kee ran his fingers through his hair and D’Hondt scratched his head. Only Van In seemed surprised.
“Who knows, Professor Beheyt. Anything is possible in a case like this. But even if we manage to arrest Long-legs before tomorrow, it’s not likely to change anything. The kidnapper’s demands will remain the same.”
“I’ll have the Ford Transit checked out just to be sure,” said D’Hondt decisively. The pig-headed policeman still didn’t understand that his traditional approach wasn’t going to produce results.
Van In wasn’t in the mood for explaining things yet again. He wished everyone a fine morning and headed toward the door.
In the corridor he bumped into Versavel.
“Any news from the university hospitals?” he asked in passing.
“It’s Sunday, and the doctors we’ve managed to speak to have all pulled the professional confidentiality card. They’re only willing to cooperate if we provide a name.”
“And the other hospitals?”
Versavel shook his head.
“Do you really think this is going to get us anywhere?”
“Probably not, Guido, but keep trying all the same and don’t forget to put it all down on paper.”
Versavel nodded understandingly. He knew from experience that policemen always surrounded themselves with mountains of paperwork if a case was in danger of unraveling.
“What’s your next step?”
“A visit to the parents. There’s still a pile of work to be done before tomorrow’s bonfire and I want to have another word with Degroof senior,” said Van In with a secretive smile. “And don’t forget they’re still saddled with Deleu.”
“As if they didn’t have enough problems,” Versavel laughed.
“One last thing, Guido.” Van In turned. “Keep an eye on D’Hondt, will you? Tell him he’s responsible for keeping order tomorrow on Zand Square.”
“Your word is my command.”
Van In raised his hand and went on his way.
“Hey, Commissioner. Aren’t you forgetting someone?” he heard Versavel call from behind.
Hannelore came shuffling along the corridor, her tight miniskirt forcing her to take short steps.
“That’s a new one! Commissioner Van In wants to take off on his own.” Hannelore grumbled. “Couldn’t you wait just a minute? Or don’t you want my company?”
“Secrecy,” he whispered with his finger on his lips. “Didn’t we agree to act normally in public?” he grinned.
“I’m following you for professional reasons,” she snorted. “Don’t read anything into it.”
“Okay, but let’s make a move before D’Hondt gets the same idea.”
When they arrived at the scene, Van In had to ask a motor officer to ride ahead of him down Bishop Avenue. As he had predicted, the chic neighborhood was crawling with outside broadcast units, satellite dishes, camera crews, and photographers. Curious onlookers had also formed a serious crowd to contend with.
Degroof’s neighbors had become world-famous overnight, their testimony being the only thing worth broadcasting at that moment in time. On Professor Beheyt’s advice, Patrick and Charlotte Delahaye had decided not to speak to the press.
When Van In and Hannelore finally reached the bungalow and stepped out of their car, they were immediately surrounded by a swarm of microphone-carrying mosquitoes.
“They’ll be offering you a contract next,” Van In teased. “You’re just as good-looking as Judge Ancia.”
“Just as good-looking,” she sneered. “You can’t be serious. Anyway, maintaining professional standards has nothing to do with looks. Véronique Ancia is a career woman, and so am I!” she huffed.
They elbowed their way through a forest of cameras and padded microphones. Once they were behind the barriers, Van In heaved a sigh of relief. He didn’t envy the celebrities who had to deal with this sort of craziness every day of their lives.
“I wonder what it’s going to be like tomorrow,” said Hannelore. In contrast to Van In, she appeared to be enjoying the circus, if only a little.
Charlotte had seen them arrive and had opened the door for them.
“Come inside, Commissioner. And you too, Ms. Martens,” she said as if they were expected for dinner. She looked gaunt and pale. Her carelessly applied makeup failed to conceal the inner chaos. She was like a zombie.
“My husband will join us soon. He’s resting,” she said mechanically. The house was bathed in an impersonal emptiness, as if desperation had taken material form. Today the designer interior looked like a bargain-basement version of a page out of Better Homes and Gardens.
“I’m afraid there’s not much to report, ma’am,” said Van In once inside the house.
“The hospitals?” she asked, her voice wavering. She had clamped on to her hypothesis like a baby gorilla to its mother.
“We’re making the calls, ma’am, but try not to build your hopes up. The bastards haven’t given us enough time for an in-depth inquiry.”
There was no sense in pulling the wool over her eyes. Poor coordination had cost them a great deal of time endlessly ruminating over the
same limited evidence.
“Is Commissioner Deleu still here?” Van In deliberately changed the subject.
“He’s with Daddy in the garden. I was just about to make a pot of coffee. Can I tempt you?”
“You certainly can, ma’am.”
Van In felt sorry for Charlotte Degroof, but he also admired her for the grace with which she carried her burden. Beheyt had explained to him that the parents of kidnapped children often experienced an unnatural sort of high in the first twenty-four hours after an abduction. The real pain came much later. He compared the situation with a man who has accidentally cut off his finger. First there’s blood everywhere, then he realizes he’s cut off his finger, and only then does he feel the pain.
“There’s still some cognac left over from yesterday,” Charlotte added with a melancholic smile.
“And why not, ma’am,” Van In quipped.
As she made her way to the kitchen area, Van In noticed she wasn’t wearing a bra. He cursed himself for noticing and staring against his will.
“Mrs. Delahaye!”
“Yes, Commissioner?”
“Has your father been here long?”
“Daddy spent the night here.”
She sounded surprised at his question. Hannelore wondered why he wanted to know.
The sliding doors that gave out onto the terrace and the back yard were wide open. A gentle breeze stirred the curtains. The unmistakable smell of freshly mown grass mixed with kerosene drifted into the room. Delahaye had gotten up that morning at five-thirty to mow the lawn, and none of the neighbors had complained about the noise.
As they made their way out onto the terrace, Patrick Delahaye slid open the bedroom window. In contrast to the day before, he was wearing threadbare jogging pants and a T-shirt with the logo of the company of which he was a director and a shareholder. He was unshaven and his eyes were sunken and dull. He came to meet them barefoot.
Van In shook the man’s limp and listless hand. He seemed to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. It wouldn’t be long before the protective elation Beheyt had told him about disappeared. He was going to need the professor’s help. Without it he was never going to be in a fit state to “pay” his son’s ransom the following day.
Degroof senior was sitting on a stool, his back straight, his tie knotted flawlessly.
“Commissaire, Madame,” he said with a sparing nod of the head.
Deleu was scribbling enthusiastically and barely made the effort to say hello.
Van In had no idea what he was writing so frenetically. He sat down next to Degroof and pensively rubbed his nose trying to figure out his opening line. He had to admit yet again that the Bruges special investigations department had no experience with this sort of case.
The public tended to believe that some ingenious system swung into action when there were crimes to be solved. In the soaps and the movies, criminals always left conspicuous clues behind; either that or some star witness appeared at the last minute. Reality, of course, was quite different. The majority of crimes were solved by accident or after months of detailed and methodical detective work. Van In had been given no more than forty-eight hours, almost half of which had now expired.
Success in kidnap cases often depends on a tip from the criminal underworld. The procedure is simple. The police carry out arbitrary raids until someone gets fed up and makes an anonymous phone call. There are two reasons for this: real criminals don’t like kidnappings, and raids in gambling joints and brothels are bad for business. Money in their world is more important that solidarity.
But Van In had no evidence at his disposal that could demonstrate a link between the abduction and organized crime. The kidnappers were working alone. That was the only thing he was sure about.
“Are Mr. and Mrs. Delahaye’s statements ready?” he asked, suddenly authoritarian. Even Degroof momentarily raised his eyebrows. Deleu watched him like a hyena waiting for its prey to give up the ghost.
“Can I please have a look?” Van In insisted when Deleu didn’t respond to his question. He enjoyed making a fool of Deleu, but this time it was a delaying tactic. He still wasn’t sure how to approach Degroof senior.
Hannelore could feel Degroof looking at her. The sun’s slanting rays filled the room, and she was aware that they made her blouse almost see-through.
Deleu muttered an incomprehensible curse and reached for his expensive briefcase.
“Your silence leads me to presume there has been no progress,” Degroof snapped.
Jesus H. Christ, Van In thought. He’s on to me. Deleu handed him a pile of papers.
“I’m afraid I can’t deny it, Mr. Degroof. That’s why I’m here. I think it makes sense to deal with the question of the ransom first. If something new surfaces between now and tomorrow, we can always adjust our plans.”
“Fine,” Degroof snorted. “So what do you propose?”
Van In glanced at the first lines of the official report on which Deleu—as usual—had wasted so much time and effort.
“Mrs. Delahaye will be here in a moment. I prefer both parents to be present.”
Degroof winced like a diver being stung by an electric eel. Delahaye could hardly believe his eyes. His father-in-law wasn’t used to being put in his place.
But Van In couldn’t back off. He had made a major decision that night. If he was right, Degroof senior would soon be changing his tune. And if he was wrong, he could look forward to a new career as a parking attendant.
A chilly silence settled on the terrace as Van In leafed through the report. Deleu’s pompous prose didn’t make him any wiser. He hadn’t expected it to.
During the holidays, Bertrand went skating on Thursdays and Saturdays at the Boudewijn Park ice rink. In the month of July he was forced to use roller-skates because the management considered it too expensive to keep the ice rink functional in hot weather. On Thursday afternoons he always went with a friend, but on Saturday mornings he went alone. He usually got back at two in the afternoon. He would stay later on occasion, but neither of his parents had let it worry them. The remainder of the report described events from the reception of the first fax to the arrival of the police. The hypothesis that Bertrand was prone to a practical joke now and then and may have set up the whole thing to needle his parents had been undermined by the testimony of the driver who spotted the camouflaged patrol van and provided a detailed description of Long-legs.
Bertrand lay on his bed. It was stifling hot in the chalet and he had taken off his T-shirt. The old man had gone to get a bottle of lemonade. He had been gone ten minutes, and Bertrand was beginning to wonder what had happened to him.
They had played three games, and his opponent had turned out to be exceptionally strong. He stared at the pieces on the board. As the man was now playing, he was going to need four moves at most to beat him, and Bertrand smelled a rat. Was he letting him win on purpose? He rehearsed his strategy. Whatever the old man tried, he could checkmate him in four moves and that was too good to be true.
The chessboard occupied his attention for the best part of fifteen minutes. It was only then that he started to feel uneasy.
He yanked at the chain out of sheer frustration. The protective foam under the handcuff began to irritate him. His wrist had swollen in the heat. He threw himself on the bed in desperation and stared at a passing cloud through the dormer window with tears in his eyes.
The last thing he needed was to panic. He decided to count to a hundred and then start to scream.
He listened carefully to the sounds in the house as he counted. Maybe the old man had fallen asleep. Maybe the lemonade was gone and he’d gone to the store for more. By why hadn’t he said anything?
In the distance Bertrand heard a truck struggling to accelerate. The wind rustled in the bushes outside and a couple of sparrows chirped in the roof gutter. But inside the house there was an eerie silence: no shuffling footsteps, no creaking hinges, no clatter of cups and plates. Bertrand emptied the lukewarm bottle
of lemonade. It tasted awful. He gave up the count at 78, stood in the middle of the room as close to the door as he could, formed a bullhorn round his mouth with his hands, and started to yell.
“Hello, mister, wake up, mister … wake up!” He waited for a moment and then repeated the same thing every thirty seconds.
But there was no reaction, not even after the hundredth time.
Bertrand was soaked in sweat. His throat was sore from shouting and all he could manage was a hoarse whisper. Trembling with rage, he jumped onto the bed and started to yank at the chain until he gasped for breath and fell forward, hurting his head on the wall. He sobbed and buried his face in the pillow.
When he had cried himself out, he sat upright on the bed. Bertrand had his mother’s character. No matter what the problem, there was always an answer, she had told him often enough. But if you lose heart you don’t stand a chance. He tried to think, to stay calm. He looked at his watch and jumped. It was only ten to nine. The house was probably far from civilization. Kidnappers always choose a lonely place to hold their victims.
Victims, brrr, what a scary word. The house had to be far from the main road, otherwise they would have gagged him.
Bertrand kept his head up until the middle of the afternoon.
Panic, like fear, hits you unawares. It engulfs you like a wave and can reduce even the single-minded to a jabbering miserable wreck. The relative calm of the first hours of his abduction had been due to the haloperidol, but Bertrand was unaware of the fact. The old man had left him behind and God alone knew when he’d be back. Maybe he had wanted to punish him for his insolent behavior. Or for beating him at chess. The boy concocted the weirdest explanations.
In the afternoon he had trouble with dizziness. His dry tongue felt like sandpaper on his chapped lips. The temperature in the room was unbearable. The foam around his wrist had caused an irritating rash. In desperation he tried to sleep, but the tears filled his eyes once again and all he could do was repeat the word “mommy” under his breath.
Charlotte served coffee without a word, placed the bottle of Otard next to Van In, and sat down.
“What if we had photographs made of the paintings?” Deleu suggested. “We could have them printed on canvas and use the original frames. No one would notice the difference.”