Albert drove through the gate and found himself at the beginning of a drive lined with mature beech trees, which wound its way through a broad-leaved wooded area. The BMW’s headlights illuminated a couple of full-grown rhododendrons as a pair of startled rabbits scuttled into the shrubbery, their white bobtails in the air. Roughly a hundred yards into the woods, he reached the edge of a lawn the size of a golf course, surrounding a residence that looked like a Moorish palace built for a Hollywood film set. A postmodern glass porch in the form of a truncated cone gave the place a Dallas-like finish.
The drive continued across the lawn, bordered on each side with halogen spots, and came to an end close to the porch, where a man appeared, dressed in a white bathrobe, glass of wine in hand, accompanied by a large, dark-brown dog. The man waved.
Albert got out of his car to a warm and friendly welcome from Walter de Ceuleneer, who embraced his friend and walked with him into the house, his arm over his shoulder. He was a good six inches shorter than Albert, and his bathrobe was pulled tight over his corpulent and unashamedly protruding belly. With the exception of a thin line of dark-blond hair, his expansive scalp was completely bald, and his head rested neckless on his massive shoulders. His movements were surprisingly swift and agile, a characteristic feature of many chubby-yet-healthy individuals. The magnificent Rottweiler sniffed Albert’s hand and disappeared.
They walked through an immense hallway with stairwells on either side leading to a pillared balcony and a circular stained-glass window, a miniature version of the famous rose window in Chartres cathedral. The marble floor was carpeted with a sixteenth-century map of the city of Roeselare, the owner’s birthplace.
“A glass of wine first!” exclaimed de Ceuleneer on his way to the salon. “Can I take your jacket?” His voice blared like a trumpet.
Albert took off his jacket and loosened his tie and collar.
The impressive hallway and enormous salon differed considerably in terms of style. The salon was the creation of a French interior designer, who had worked for the président de la république, among others. Straight lines, discreet colour combinations, modern fitted furniture, refinement itself if one didn’t include the paintings, most of which had been produced by artists from West Flanders in exchange for some favour or other. A life-sized replica of the Venus de Milo on a white pedestal graced the centre of the salon. One of the walls was completely taken up by Picasso’s famous dove, with the added features of a jet airplane and the word PALOMA on its tail, the name of Walter de Ceuleneer’s personal Lear Jet.
They sat back on a leather sofa in front of an open fire with a Cape buffalo above the broad mantelpiece. De Ceuleneer half-filled a crystal red wineglass with an unusual “crackle” stem.
“New glasses?” Albert enquired as he tasted the wine.
“From Alain Chapel in Mionnay,” de Ceuleneer replied, in his opinion the best three-star restaurant in France, “eight points a piece…” (He had the habit of referring to a thousand Francs as one point.)
Albert couldn’t help smiling. He was used to de Ceuleneer’s comments, and this sort of camaraderie put him at ease for some unknown reason. He took a second sip and muttered approvingly.
“Annie’s not here,” said de Ceuleneer good-humouredly. “She’s trying to lose a few pounds at a fat farm in California.” At that he slapped his belly hard and roared with laughter, far enough from Albert’s right ear not to do any damage.
“Sam!” he bellowed. The Rottweiler sidled towards him and rested at his feet, his head on his front paws.
“Most women are content if their men are a little more attractive than a chimpanzee,” said Albert. He stretched and stared in silence at the tips of his fingers. He was having trouble coming to the point, especially about the amount of information he would divulge. He was confident nevertheless that Walter de Ceuleneer could keep his mouth shut, in spite of his extravagant manners, particularly when it was a matter of trust between friends.
“I’m being blackmailed,” he blurted, turning to face his friend.
De Ceuleneer raised his eyebrows, put down his glass and leaned back in his armchair.
Albert related the entire story with meticulous clarity, as if he was explaining a complicated legal case. He kept nothing back, except the break with Louise, something he considered completely unrelated to the blackmail question.
When he had finished his story, de Ceuleneer filled their glasses and stared pensively into space. “What are you going to do?” he enquired.
“Not cave in!”
“So you think he’s bluffing?”
“Yes. I’ve a fair amount of experience with this kind of thing. He’s an amateur. He made some major mistakes, the use of a non-existent aristocratic family name for one. And he used his own car without any attempt to disguise the plates. He also seemed to be unaware that a Swiss bank account can never be directly associated with a name and that their commitment to secrecy can only be challenged when drugs or murder are at stake, and even then it takes for ever and costs a fortune.”
“Any thoughts about the source of the account number?”
“I suppose we could force it out of him, but I’m not in the mood.”
“What then?”
Albert took a sip of wine, waited for a moment and said: “Show him who he’s playing with…”
“And how do you plan to do that?”
“Put him in hospital for a couple of days.”
“Just like that!”
Albert hesitated for a moment, took another sip of wine and said decidedly: “We let one of your Albanian friend’s sidekicks have a go at him.”
De Ceuleneer didn’t react. He furrowed his brow and whistled gently through his teeth.
Albert thought: West Flanders! Typical commonsense wariness.
“Mmm… I see,” de Ceuleneer muttered. “Mmm…”
“Then he’ll give up,” said Albert, “guaranteed!”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. He doesn’t have a leg to stand on.”
“Only a number and a code name,” de Ceuleneer pondered. “And you’re certain that there’s no paper trail leading the codename to Albert Savelkoul?”
“Come on, Walter, haven’t you got an account in Switzerland? Only two people know about it: the manager of the bank and a lawyer.”
De Ceuleneer pretended not to have heard the last part of what Albert had said.
“The only possible connections between me and Geneva are telephone calls, but that’s circumstantial evidence.”
De Ceuleneer nodded understandingly. “What phone did you use?”
“My mobile.”
“Certain?”
“Yes.”
“Then the chances of them tracing you are close to none.”
“That’s what I figured,” said Albert.
De Ceuleneer thought for a second, nodded and said: “OK, I’ll give our friend Shehu a call, if that’s what you want.”
Albert thought: it’s just like having an everyday business conversation.
“Please,” said Albert and he sipped at his wine.
De Ceuleneer produced an ultra-thin mobile from his bathrobe and called a number without having to look it up.
“Ramiz, my dear brother, Walter here. How are you?” he said in a painful Flemish accent.
He gazed at the ceiling as Ramiz Shehu responded and when he had finished he held the phone close to his mouth and whispered so quietly that Albert had difficulty making him out: “It would be better to see each other personally, OK?”
He listened and looked at his watch.
“I’ll be there within an hour. At your place?”
De Ceuleneer ended the call and carefully slipped his mobile back into his bathrobe pocket.
“At his place…”
“I heard,” said Albert. “I’m grateful, Walter.”
De Ceuleneer nodded. He liked his friend’s no-nonsense approach.
“So… and how’s our Lou
ise getting on?” he enquired.
Albert sensed that the question was an innocent one. “Fine. She’s spending a couple of days with her mother.”
“Aha! Then you’re on holiday,” said de Ceuleneer, thundering with laughter.
“Exactly,” Albert replied expressionlessly.
“Pretty little thing, that Louise of yours, very pretty,” said de Ceuleneer, meaning every word. “Lucky bastard…”
“So you’ll be seeing Ramiz later today?”
“He’s not a man to waste time.”
“Does he have… er… muscle?”
“Muscle and respect. He only has to snap his fingers and it’s done,” said de Ceuleneer, and he snapped his own fingers, making a noise that sounded like someone uncorking a bottle. “I’d better get a move on if I want to be there on time. I also think I should go alone…”
“I wasn’t planning on joining you…”
“What the eye doesn’t see…”
Precisely, Albert thought. He was about to ask if there was any need to mention his name, but he stopped just in time.
“Nothing beats Le Pin,” he said to fill the void.
“I ordered ten boxes of the 1990 last week. Forty-five points a bottle. Wine for connoisseurs…”
“Didn’t you say something about a hunting trip to Scotland during the Rotary dinner?”
“That’s right… Completely slipped my mind. Second weekend in June. Paloma’s ready and waiting.”
“Where is it?”
“Dalchruin, fifteen miles from the castle.”
Albert nodded absently, his thoughts elsewhere.
“Only six-point racks and none of that hanging around stuff. Stalking’s the game… But there’s something I’d like to know first…”
“I’m listening…”
“Where exactly do you want it to happen, and can you provide a detailed description of the bugger?”
“No problem.”
“Wait. Let me get a scrap of paper and something to write with.”
Albert relaxed, arched his back and closed his eyes as de Ceuleneer left the room. The Rottweiler lumbered over and lay down at his feet. He petted the creature between the ears and couldn’t help thinking of Igor… and for the briefest of moments Louise.
Albert leaned up in bed, held his breath and listened. Thirty years getting used to the house’s creaks and groans meant he could identify every sound. The house dated back to 1891 and was built on an allotment of land on the south side of Antwerp once used for the 1885 World Expo. In the very place where he now lay listening, they had built a Congolese village housing “real Negroes”. Renowned for their tact, the people of Antwerp had tossed bananas and monkey nuts at them. He was convinced that Congolese spirits - twelve had died on the spot of TB - occasionally filled the house on Amerikalei 124A with evil forces. Sometimes he heard noises in the middle of the night, shuffling and panting he couldn’t place. He liked to believe that the place had a ghost that wandered silently through the corridors, listening at doors and then disappearing. He secretly hoped it would suddenly manifest itself in Amandine’s room, which was locked from the inside at ten o’clock sharp every night, after Maria Landowska had brought up Madame’s lime blossom tea, her last duty of the day. Madame got up every day at six and attended mass at seven thirty in a side chapel of Saint Michael’s church, seventy yards from the house on the opposite side of the street, where an Opus Dei priest from the Oosterweel student residence said mass in Latin every day for a number of supernumeraries and associates, unmarried men and women who live alone and follow the rules of Opus Dei.
He had once confessed to Jokke Weyler about his wife’s bedroom and its sturdy lock. The man immediately explained that her custom was classic, the projection of a primal need, an irresistible desire to be brutally raped. “You should try to break in one night,” said Weyler in his unmistakable Antwerp dialect. “You’ll soon see that I’m right.” They had enjoyed a good laugh about it. Jokke thought he was right to take a mistress given the circumstances. He had only seen her in a photograph, but had whistled approvingly.
Albert slipped out of bed, made his way barefoot to his wife’s door and settled an ear against one of the panels. Not the slightest sign of life. Baroness Amandine de Vreux was a paragon of good manners, even when she was asleep. Aristocracy did not snore! Albert, on the other hand, apparently did, at least that’s what Maria had told him. She didn’t mind in the least. All animals snore, she explained, it was common sense. He had told her about prehistoric cave dwellers who clubbed snorers to death because they betrayed the group’s position to the enemy at night. She hadn’t believed him. “Idiot,” she had said.
Without a sound, he crept upstairs in the darkness to the third floor, stopping at her bedroom door and peering through the keyhole. Her light was on. He suppressed a spasm of laughter. He was about to do something the aristocracy and bourgeoisie had been doing for centuries with their servant girls: wheedling clandestine sexual favours without the knowledge of the lady of the house. A wave of youthful recklessness washed over him. He was without a care in the world. He had made up his mind to settle scores with the blackmailer before the week was out. The little fucker would be hearing from him soon. Finally a little action, he thought to himself, exhilarated by the idea.
“Hmm…” he groaned, his mouth close to the keyhole.
“Hmmmm,” she responded.
He opened the door. She was tucked into a single bed, her auburn tresses fanned out proudly over the pillow, the sheets pulled chastely up to her chin.
Before he knew it he was cradling her head in his hands and kissing her passionately, the tip of his tongue exploring the inside of her upper lip.
“Oh, Mr Albert, come to me, come to me,” she whispered in his ear, pulling the sheets from her body in a single movement. He crept into bed beside her and pressed himself from head to toe against her warm body.
“Moj kotek, my little kitten,” he said, and he kissed her nose on both sides, knowing the effect it would have on her. She groaned and grabbed him by the hair. An erection was inevitable.
“Spend the night with me,” she panted in German.
“Yes, Maria, my kitten. Every night from now on. But let’s lock the door first, to keep out the ghost.”
“Ghost?”
“The phantom!”
“Is there a ghost in the house?”
“Yes. How do you say ghost in Polish?”
“Duch. But is there really a ghost?” she insisted.
“Yes there is, and he visits people who snore and bashes their brains in.”
“Idiot,” she replied, as before. She ran her fingers through his hair, kissed his eyes and pointed at something above the door. He looked up to see a string of garlic hanging on a nail.
“Czosnek,” she said, “from my mother. Ghosts are scared of it.”
She slipped her hand under the sheets.
“Ahaaaa!” she said and started to giggle.
“Give me your hand,” she said, grabbing it tightly and pulling it under the sheets.
His middle finger slipped inside her, probing and searching.
“Squeeze,” he commanded, skilfully stroking what he called “her little tangerine” with the tip of his finger.
Baroness Amandine de Vreux woke up in the middle of the night, in spite of the sleeping pill she had taken before going to bed. She switched on the light. It was twelve thirty. The telephone conversation she had had with Thérèse de Montignac earlier in the day suddenly filled her mind. The horror of those words still haunted her. Without knowing why, she pulled the quilt to her chin and stared at the ceiling, clenching her teeth until it hurt. She forced herself to listen. Nothing, except the occasional passing car on the street outside.
But then it dawned on her: he’s not snoring (and he always snores!). She listened hard. Nothing. Perspiration formed on her brow. She got out of bed, put on her dressing gown and pompon slippers and tightened her hairnet. She stood at the do
or, unsure, wavering. In spite of her good intentions, this was the first time in her life that she was about to lower herself to something as unheard of as eavesdropping.
She opened the door and stepped out onto the corridor. He always snores, she thought once again. She stood still and listened for some time, but there was nothing. She climbed the stairs, slowly and with the greatest of caution, and stopped on the landing. She stopped again at the last couple of narrow, uncarpeted stairs leading to the servants’ quarters as if she had run out of breath. When she finally reached the third floor, she could see light burning in the maid’s room. Light! At twelve thirty!
And then she heard it. She refused to believe it at first, but then she heard it again. Voices! A man and a woman. She held her breath in an effort to suppress the dizziness that was inching over her body like a second skin. Paralysed, Baroness Amandine de Vreux d’Alembourg underwent a second initiation: the most profound humiliation a person can imagine. The first was thirty-six years earlier, when he had raped her and robbed her for ever of her precious innocence. Now she was facing something her family considered so appalling it was never spoken about. If one talked about such matters, it meant they were real!
When she sat on the edge of her bed (minutes or hours later?), her hand covering her face, she tried her best to picture how she had managed to return to her room without falling over the banister on the stairwell, which had turned into a heaving ship, and disappearing into the murky depths. She tried to pray, but even prayer was beyond her.
18
Wednesday, 2 June 1999. Breakfast in the dining room. Albert in shirt and tie. Amandine in beige twinset and brown pleated skirt. In complete silence, as they had done for years. Amandine ate yogurt, with measured spoonfuls. Albert guzzled down a plate of scrambled eggs. They drank tea. Maria Landowska waited table. She wore a black dress with white collar and cuffs. Amandine was pale as the grave. The wrinkles extending from her nose to her chin were clearly defined.
The Public Prosecutor Page 19