He brushed his teeth, rinsed his mouth with water, checked to see if there was any blood in it (there wasn’t) and returned to his bedroom in good cheer, where he dressed at his leisure in a beige shirt and a lightweight Prince de Galles jacket and trousers, which suited him to perfection. He selected a black tie with flecks of gold. Maria knew exactly what he was planning to wear that day. Gone with the Grand Cross emblem! Today was to witness the return of the Renaissance man in all his glory: a flash of the eye here and there at the office, just like Cardinal Richelieu always did as he wandered the corridors of the Trianon, his head held high, before going hunting in the forests of Fontainebleau.
He made his way downstairs two at a time and found Baroness Amandine in the dining room affectedly spooning yogurt into her mouth, her hands chubby and white, the traditional teapot-with-cosy in front of her nose.
He took his place beside her and waited for Maria to appear with a plate of scrambled eggs as she did every morning. Baroness Amandine unexpectedly returned her spoon to the table. “By the way, la Polonaise is no longer with us,” she announced as if it were a piece of trivia.
Albert was taken aback. “No kidding…”
“You’re not an American. You know what Daddy thinks about such barbarie. All I said was that la Polonaise is no longer with us.”
Albert felt as if someone had grabbed him by the throat. He was speechless.
“Besides, you went a little too far, mon ami,” Amandine continued, her voice trembling. “There’s one thing I will not tolerate: being humiliated under my own roof!”
“Where is Maria?” Albert whispered through gritted teeth.
“Ha ha, on the train to Warsaw. I took care of the ticket and arranged for another maid. Le chanoine Zwaegermans already has someone in mind. “And another thing,” she continued in a triumphant tone, “Didier has recently become a full member of Opus Dei and I have arranged through connections with Sa Majesté for both him and Geoffroy to be granted the title of baron, linked only to the name de Vreux.”
Albert was dumbfounded and slowly began to realize that his muscles were refusing to work. His stomach contracted and a twinge of pain shot from his groin to his kidneys. His heart skipped several beats. He took a deep breath, stared at her with eyes full of venom and said in a low voice: “Didier’s well suited to that sect. He’s always been too stupid to be a lawyer. Hardly surprising, since he inherited the brains of his mother and Granny de Wasseige, the result of years of intermarriage.”
“I’ll never forgive you for those words,” she snapped. “God will punish you. You have dishonoured the name of my eldest son and that of my family!” Her eyes glistened with hatred.
She’s never looked so real in her life, Albert thought. “I don’t give a damn about the title and that Opus Dei nonsense,” he said, mimicking her aristocratic flick of the wrist, “but one thing is sure: no one has the right to change a family name to that of the mother without mutual consent. And God can go to hell!”
She pretended not to hear his final words and started to sneer.
“Sa Majesté has the right. Pierre van Peers confirmed it.”
“Oh, that…”
“They’ll never give you a title. A man who cheats on his wife with the maid… Bah!”
“People of your sort have been cheating on their wives with the maid for centuries and I wouldn’t give them the light of day. But none of that’s important. I demand to know where Maria is!”
“On her way to la Pologne.”
“Do you know what you remind me of?”
“Pff.”
“A fat ugly spider in its web, waiting to suck the blood of the next defenceless fly.”
She brushed off his remark with her customary flick of the wrist.
Slowly but surely he started to feel better. Now he was certain and there was no stopping him. “Do you think for one minute you can get the better of me?” he sneered. He balled his fists and recovered control of his muscles.
She stared at him, beady-eyed.
He leaned over and said with his face inches from hers: “I’m bringing Maria back, and she’s staying with me, goddamnit!” prodding his chest with his finger.
“Not in this house!”
“What did you think? That I would let her play the slave for the pittance you gave her? People like you think the ancien régime is still in business. But those days are gone for ever, madame la baronne.”
“The whore,” she sneered. Saliva appeared at the corner of her lips. She was bright red. She quickly produced a handkerchief and blew her nose.
He threw back his chair, grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her to her feet. She squealed and tried to break free. He had never realized how limp her muscles were. He pushed her hard and she fell to the floor. Her legs flew into the air, exposing her pale pantyhose and white slip. He stared at her stubby white thighs and could barely stop himself from laughing as he marched out of the room, ignoring her whimpers. He slammed the door so hard it sounded like a rifle going off and raced upstairs. He opened a drawer in the art deco table in his office, removed an envelope containing 200,000 Swiss francs and tried unsuccessfully to stuff it into his inside breast pocket. He grabbed an attaché case from under his desk, opened it, popped the envelope inside, adjusted the numerical code, snatched the leather gun case leaning against the wall by the gun cabinet and hung it over his shoulder, glanced around the room, took the framed photo of the little boy on the Shetland pony and stuffed it in his pocket.
He stopped and thought for a moment. He looked at his watch, grabbed his mobile and called the number of his official car. It was ten past eight.
“Chauffeur?”
“Public Prosecutor?”
“Can you bring the car…”
“I’m on my way, Public Prosecutor.”
He hung up, but his telephone started to beep.
“Hello?”
“Mr Albert!” a woman’s voice squealed.
“Kochanie!”
The gun case slipped to the floor and he sat down.
“Oh Mr Albert, I’m so happy to hear your voice…” She started to sob.
“I know everything, Maria, everything. Where are you?”
“Central station in Antwerp.”
“Pozadku. Wait there. In the buffet upstairs. I’m coming to get you. You’re staying with me!”
“Do you mean it, Albert?”
“Kochanie. I can’t live without you for another day. Come with me to Scotland. Let’s go hunting. Stay with me for ever.”
“Albert, ich liebe dich so…”
“I’m on my way, kochanie.”
He hung up, draped the strap of the leather gun case over his shoulder, grabbed the attaché case and ran downstairs.
There was silence in the dining room. He made his way to the vestibule, opened the door, stood outside on the pavement and looked up and down the street. Traffic whizzed by. The clear liquid of morning, in which passers-by swim like goldfish in a bowl, enveloped him. He clenched his teeth and stretched his back. I am the Public Prosecutor of Antwerp, he thought, they can’t touch me. I’ve finally made a decision that’s going to make life worth living. I have Soliman and I have Maria. I’m taking her with me to Scotland. In a private Lear Jet. Walter will understand my situation. This time tomorrow, we’ll be wandering across the Scottish moors in the company of John Cummings, my shadow.
Albert gazed at the busy traffic on Amerikalei. He enjoyed it. His chauffeur was on his way. He was reminded once again of John Edgar Hoover, who had terrorized his chauffeur in the most refined manner. He promised himself to be nice to everyone from then on. He wanted to live life to the full for years to come. I’m one of the five most important men in the country, he thought. I have power. I have my health. And I have a woman.
The black Opel Omega stopped in front of his neighbour’s garage. The chauffeur got out and leered at the gun case.
“Good morning, Public Prosecutor.”
“Good morning
, how are you?” Albert enquired with a broad smile.
The chauffeur almost collapsed with surprise. “Eh… v…very well, thank you,” he babbled.
“The Kaai, as usual,” said Albert after settling into the back seat. He took pleasure in the luxury of such a short journey. He thought about Jokke, who would have considered it absurd to take the car. He would call him later and cancel the appointment. Prostate is all in the mind!
He gazed at the traffic, which was bumper to bumper at that hour.
The chauffeur stopped in the car park of the Court of Appeal. Albert let himself out. “Would you mind waiting for me?” he asked.
“Of course not, Public Prosecutor,” the chauffeur replied, and he drove to the main entrance of the building. Albert made his way to Cockerill Kaai, humming ‘Dark Eyes’ and paying little attention to what was going on around him. He fished the key from his pocket, stopped in front of the rusty metal door, opened it and stepped inside.
What happened next was compressed into a couple of crystal-clear seconds, unrelated to biological time, which faltered and stood still.
A tall, athletic, dark-haired man, smelling of aftershave, with a neatly trimmed Balkan moustache, gleaming white teeth surrounded by a cinnamon-coloured face, gloved and dressed in a dark tracksuit, appeared from nowhere, grabbed Albert’s shoulder, forced him to turn around on the spot, pushed him down the concrete corridor, produced a heavy pistol with silencer attachment in the blink of an eye, pushed the barrel to his chest and pulled the trigger. There was a sort of hissing sound, like air being released from a tyre. Albert opened his eyes wide and shouted what sounded like “Wahoo!” but the man fired again, this time lower. Albert fell forward, his lungs rattling, grabbed his throat, but was unable to speak. The man grabbed him by the hair, yanked him to his knees, pressed the barrel against his right eye and fired. Blood spattered everywhere. He then did exactly the same with the other eye.
He let Albert fall to the floor. A pool of blood formed and quickly spread across the concrete.
The man, whose name was Nazim Tahir, tossed the nickel-plated Colt .45 with rubber grip on the ground next to Albert, turned, and carefully closed the metal door. Without looking back, he swaggered like a cowboy towards a bicycle leaning against a house on the corner of Cockerill Kaai. He opened the lock, took off his gloves, put them in his pocket, threw one leg over the saddle and cycled at his leisure towards the old town.
Baarle aan de Leie, 5 July 1998.
BACK TO THE COAST
Saskia Noort
Maria is a young singer with money problems, two children from failed relationships and a depressive ex-boyfriend. Faced with another pregnancy, she decides not to keep the baby, but after the abortion, threatening letters start to arrive. She flees from Amsterdam to her sister’s house by the coast, a place redolent with memories of a childhood she does not want to revisit. But when the death threats follow her to her hiding place, Maria begins to fear not only for her life, but also for her sanity.
Saskia Noort is a bestselling author of literary thrillers. She has sold over a million copies of her first three novels.
PRAISE FOR SASKIA NOORT
AND THE DINNER CLUB
“A mystery writer of the heart as much as of the mind, a bal-
ance that marks her work with a flesh-and-blood humanity.”
Andrew Pyper, author of The Wildfire Season
“Affairs, deceit, manipulation, tax dodges and murder
- there’s nothing Noort shies away from stirring into the mix,
nicely showing off the sinister side of the suburbs.” Time Out
“While there are echoes of Desperate Housewives here, this is
closer to Mary Higgins Clark and is a good bet for her fans.”
Library Journal Review
£8.99/$14.95/C$16.50
CRIME PAPERBACK ORIGINAL
ISBN 978-1-904738-37-4
www.bitterlemonpress.com
THE VAMPIRE OF ROPRAZ
Jacques Chessex
Jacques Chessex, winner of the prestigious Prix Goncourt,
takes this true story and weaves it into a lyrical tale of
fear and cruelty.
1903, Ropraz, a small village in the Jura Mountains of Switzerland. On a howling December day, a lone walker discovers a recently opened tomb, the body of a young woman violated, her left hand cut off, genitals mutilated and heart carved out. There is horror in the nearby villages: the return of atavistic superstitions and mutual suspicions. Then two more bodies are violated. A suspect must be found. Favez, a stable-boy with blood-shot eyes, is arrested, convicted, placed into psychiatric care. In 1915, he vanishes.
PRAISE FOR JACQUES CHESSEX
AND THE VAMPIRE OF ROPRAZ
“A superb novel, hard as a winter in these landscapes of
dark forests, where an atmosphere of prejudice and
violence envelops the reader” L’Express
“An admirable story-teller, Chessex surprises again with this
terrifying portrait of a region, of an era and of a man with an
extraordinary destiny.” Livres Hebdo
“Stark, wintry prose… disconcerting novella that alternately
seduces and appals.” The List
“Packs visceral punch and unlikely to be quickly forgotten.”
Crime Time
£6.99/$12.95/C$14.50
CRIME PAPERBACK ORIGINAL
ISBN 978-1-904738-33-6
www.bitterlemonpress.com
A NOT SO PERFECT CRIME
Teresa Solana
MURDER AND MAYHEM IN BARCELONA
Another day in Barcelona, another politician’s wife is suspected of infidelity. A portrait of his wife in an exhibition leads Lluís Font to conclude he is being cuckolded by the artist. Concerned only about the potential political fallout, he hires twins Eduard and Borja, private detectives with a knack for helping the wealthy with their “dirty laundry”. Their office is adorned with false doors leading to non-existent private rooms and a mysterious secretary who is always away. The case turns ugly when Font’s wife is found poisoned by a marron glacé from a box of sweets delivered anonymously.
PRAISE FOR A NOT SO PERFECT CRIME
“The Catalan novelist Teresa Solana has come up with a de-
lightful mystery set in Barcelona… Clever, funny and utterly
unpretentious.” Sunday Times
“Teresa Solana’s book may be full of murder and mayhem,
but it’s also packed full of humour, acute observation, a
complicated plot and downright ridiculousness… I cannot
recommend it highly enough.” Oxford Times
“Scathing satire of Spanish society, hilarious dialogue, all
beautifully dressed up as a crime novel.” Krimi-Couch
This deftly plotted, bitingly funny mystery novel and satire
of Catalan politics won the 2007 Brigada 21 Prize.
£8.99/$14.95/C$16.50
CRIME PAPERBACK ORIGINAL
ISBN 978-1-904738-34-3
www.bitterlemonpress.com
DOG EATS DOG
Iain Levison
Philip Dixon is down on his luck. A hair-raising escape from a lucrative but botched bank robbery lands him gushing blood and on the verge of collapse in a quaint college town in New Hampshire. How can he find a place to hide out in this innocent setting? Peering into the window of the nearest house, he sees a glimmer of hope: a man in his mid-thirties, obviously some kind of academic, is rolling around on the living-room floor with an attractive high-school student… And so Professor Elias White is blackmailed into harbouring a dangerous fugitive, as Dixon - with a cool quarter-million in his bag and dreams of Canada in his head - gets ready for the last phase of his escape.
But the last phase is always the hardest… FBI agent Denise Lupo is on his trail, and she’s better at her job than her superiors think. As for Elias White, his surprising transition from respected academic to wi
lling accomplice poses a ruthless threat that Dixon would be foolish to underestimate…
PRAISE FOR IAIN LEVISON
author of A Working Stiff’s Manifesto and Since the Layoffs
“The real deal… bracing, hilarious and dead on.”
New York Times Book Review
“Witty, deft, well-conceived writing that combines sharp sat-
ire with real suspense.” Kirkus Reviews
“There is naked, pitiless power in his work” USA Today
£8.99/$14.95/C$18.00
CRIME PAPERBACK ORIGINAL
ISBN 978-1-904738-31-2
www.bitterlemonpress.com
BITTER LEMON PRESS
First published in the United Kingdom in 2009 by
Bitter Lemon Press, 37 Arundel Gardens, London W11 2LW
www.bitterlemonpress.com
First published in Dutch as De PG by
Prometheus, Amsterdam, 1998
The translation of this book was funded by the
Flemish Literature Fund
(Vlaams Fonds voor de Letteren - www.vfl.be)
Bitter Lemon Press gratefully acknowledges the financial
assistance of the Arts Council of England
© Jef Geeraerts, 1998
The Public Prosecutor Page 28