by Pieter Aspe
“But, Linda, for goodness’ sake,” he heard Denolf lament with a suppressed roar. The door to Denolf’s office flew open, and the shards of glass from the smashed ashtray crunched under Linda’s heels.
“That was our money!” she screamed.
Denolf was rooted to the spot.
“And you gave him the whole thing without batting an eyelid.”
“The money was in his name, Linda. I tried to make him change his mind, but this is a bank, and my hands were tied—”
“So your hands were tied,” Linda screeched. “You fucking asshole. Do you know what would cheer me up right this minute?”
Everyone, including Ostijn, listened with bated breath.
“The sight of that Catholic wife of yours’ face when I tell the bitch what her respected husband gets up to every month.”
“Linda, please.” Denolf hurled himself at the door, most likely breaking the world indoor triple-jump record in the process. He slammed it shut and pulled out his wallet.
“Here … ten thousand. William will be back in a few days, I’m sure of it. Then we can look for a solution.”
“Make it twenty,” Linda ventured.
Denolf sucked in so much air in the following few seconds that he was on the verge of hyperventilating.
“William might have stolen our money, but the videos are still in our safe,” she bragged. “Try to picture the malicious delight on the faces of the police as they watch them, Albert,” she blurted out, adding insult to injury.
Denolf had fallen victim to a nightmare in broad daylight. He gestured that she should wait, grabbed the phone, and called Marc.
“Give Mrs. Aerts twenty thousand francs from my account on her way out.”
“Tell him to bring it,” Linda snarled.
Denolf nodded like the perfect slave. It always worked, with or without the leather outfit.
“Leave it, Marc. I’ll collect it myself.”
Lodewijk Vandaele welcomed Van In with a jovial handshake. He pointed to the cozy lounge suite close to the window. In contrast to the waiting area, Van In’s new surroundings boasted a magnificent view and a carefully maintained rock garden with a splashing fountain in the middle. Every self-respecting human being had one.
“A drink, Commissioner?”
Van In was tempted but said no. It would be a sign of Roman Catholic hypocrisy if he were to turn a serious sin into a daily one.
“Be a sport, Commissioner. A wee dram never killed anyone.”
Van In was still tempted but shook his head.
“Coffee then?”
“Please.”
Vandaele rested his fat cigar in the ashtray and ordered coffee via the intercom.
“I should make it clear from the outset that my visit is off the record,” said Van In in a formal tone.
“Take a seat, Commissioner.”
Van In sat down in an imposing chair that almost swallowed him up completely. Vandaele sat opposite, the hefty old man towering over Van In like a golem.
“I presume your visit has to do with the discovery at the farm, Commissioner, at the Love?” He anticipated a potential question from Van In with the air of a modern-day Nostradamus.
Jesus H. Christ, Van In thought. Vandaele had even given the dilapidated hovel a name. He was reminded of his youth, playing on the beach at Blankenberge with his sister and the local grocer’s daughter. The city’s peeling villas also rejoiced in pompous names like Camelot, Beau Geste, and Manderley. A fancy name was cheaper than a lick of paint.
“Precisely, Mr. Vandaele. According to the police physician, the murder was committed around the time you owned it. The Love …”—Van In had trouble even pronouncing the ridiculous name—“was still in your ownership back then, wasn’t it?”
Vandaele stretched his left leg and massaged his knee.
“Rheumatism,” he groaned. “My knees have been bothering me for years.”
The old fox was clearly stalling for time by trying to change the subject, but Van In was onto him.
“Do you mind me asking if you visited the place on a regular basis?” Van In inquired casually.
“Aha, Commissioner. My father built the Love with his own hands. I spent most of my summers playing there. Later I liked to paint there from time to time. The house was something of a childhood memory.”
“Did you ever rent out the place?”
Vandaele roared with laughter.
“My dear commissioner, I own a slew of houses, villas, and apartments, and I rent them out. The Love is nothing more than a bit of nostalgia. It was our first holiday home, but as far as I can remember, the shed has always been dilapidated. People expect comfort these days, Commissioner. No one would pay rent for such a dump.”
Van In was happy that they at least agreed on one issue. It also explained why Vandaele had transferred the Love to the charity. Everyone knows that rich people only give away the things that have no value to them or the things they themselves can no longer use.
“So the Love has been empty all this time?”
Vandaele puffed vigorously on his cigar. A discreet pale-faced young man appeared with a tray.
“Leave it on the desk, Vincent. We’ll serve ourselves.”
Vandaele got to his feet, creaking and grousing. In profile he looked a little like President de Gaulle—commanding and unapproachable.
“I used to bring a couple of cousins now and then,” he said cheerfully. “Children love old houses, especially when they can do whatever they want. We even stayed the night at times. Then we would light an enormous campfire. Not allowed these days, but back then no one cared. We drank gallons of cola, sang songs, pretended we were actors in a play. I can remember the summer of 1972 as if it were yesterday. It was so hot we all slept outside. I don’t see myself doing that nowadays either,” said Vandaele, pointing to his knees.
Van In also had some treasured memories of the same hot summer. August 20, 1972, was the first time he slept with a girl.
“Later, when one of my cousins was a leader with the Scouts, the Love served as a campsite for a number of youth associations.”
Vandaele poured the coffees. “Sugar?”
Van In shook his head.
“So no one ever lived in the place,” he insisted.
“Correct, Commissioner. Several years ago I handed it over to a charitable organization. The youth groups weren’t interested anymore. They only set up camp if there are showers and microwaves nearby.”
Vandaele laughed. “Young people these days are too demanding. Romance is dead, Commissioner. The only thing that still interests them is starting a career and making money, and preferably sooner than later.”
Van In didn’t think Vandaele was the man to be making such observations, but he nodded nonetheless and sipped his coffee.
“I know a thing or two about that myself, Mr. Vandaele,” he said diplomatically. “It all has to be fast and automatic. Imagine the panic if we were to ban remote controls starting tomorrow.”
Vandaele nodded his head to every word. He put his cup on a side table and said: “We would be totally helpless, Commissioner. Most people would be up in arms, call a technician, insist they come and fix what they presumed to be broken.”
Van In played along, making a clumsy attempt to imitate the gloating building contractor. Was it too obvious, or did Vandaele realize that he had walked into Van In’s trap like an inexperienced cub?
“Of course, we shouldn’t blame the youth of today for all the sins of humanity,” said Van In in an unexpectedly serious tone.
“Go on, Commissioner. Luxury can be an addiction, even for us grown-ups. Those gadgets can come in mighty handy at times,” said Vandaele, ostentatiously massaging his stiff knees. “I’m not averse to a bit of modern technology now and again, Commissioner, and I’m not ashamed to a
dmit it. The garage door at home is fitted with a remote. It saves me the hassle and pain of getting in and out of the car. It’s easy to get used to such comforts, then—”
“Do you have remotes installed everywhere, Mr. Vandaele?”
The elderly contractor’s signature jovial grin seemed to freeze for an instant. He sipped at his coffee, pretended it had gone down the wrong way, and feigned a coughing fit. The theatricals gave him a few seconds’ respite.
“I presume you’re referring to the gate at the Love, Commissioner.”
Van In nodded.
“That wasn’t a question of laziness or of stiff knees,” said Vandaele. He tried to sound dramatic. “The installation of the electric gate was a direct consequence of the bend in the road.”
Van In listened to his story. The entrance to the Love was immediately behind a sharp bend, and there had been an accident in 1979 in which someone had almost died. A motorcyclist had crashed into Vandaele’s parked car while he was opening the gate. The road was narrow, and Vandaele’s Mercedes took up most of it. The victim had survived the crash, but Vandaele had sworn it would never happen again.
“That’s why I had a remote installed on the spot,” Vandaele concluded his story. “Prevention is still better than a cure, eh, Commissioner?”
Vandaele’s account was plausible, and Van In thought it a shame. He would have Baert check it out. Anything to keep the irritating chief inspector busy and out of his hair.
“It’s probably a redundant question, Mr. Vandaele, but my job requires me to ask it.”
The old man puffed long and hard at his half-smoked Davidoff. He was happy that Van In didn’t want to press him on the gate story. “Please, Commissioner, feel free.”
“Has anyone ever drawn your attention to digging going on at your property?”
Vandaele had been expecting a totally different question. “No, Commissioner, absolutely not.”
“And you’ve never found traces of an attempted break-in?”
Vandaele shook his head. He didn’t even have to lie. “As I said, Commissioner, I was only there on the rare occasion. I suspect whoever buried the body was aware of that.”
“I think so too,” said Van In. “There are plenty of similar cases in the police literature. Perpetrators usually pick remote places to dump their victims, but such places are pretty few and far between in Flanders. That allows us to conclude, give or take, that the killer was familiar with the area in general and with your property in particular.”
“Sounds like a plausible hypothesis, Commissioner. I wish there was some other way that I could be of assistance.”
Van In finished his coffee and got to his feet. Now he was looking down on Vandaele for once.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Vandaele,” he said with a smile. “You’ve helped me a great deal.”
It was an old trick he had learned at the police academy. Always give the impression you know more than the person you’re interrogating thinks you know. Doubt is a seed that can germinate in no time at all, urging suspects to be rash. “I’ll keep you up-to-date on the evolution of the case,” Van In promised.
“I’ll be waiting with bated breath, Commissioner.”
The old man struggled to his feet and accompanied Van In to the door. He seemed a lot less self-assured than he had an hour earlier. Or was Van In imagining things?
Most tourist guides advise unwary visitors not to wander around alone when they’re in Naples. William Aerts heeded it and took a taxi to the port. The wallet in his trouser pocket was stuffed with fifty one-hundred-dollar bills and four million lire in large denominations. In spite of the unbearable heat, he had kept his hand in his pocket for the entire length of the train journey from Rome to Naples. This was Mafia territory, where throats were cut for a fraction of the amount he was carrying.
Once an exotic destination, the Bay of Naples now looked like the gray armpit of a dying organism called a city. A crazily honking taxi driver piloted Aerts through the chaos with genuine disregard for his own safety. He paid no attention to the traffic lights, carving his way through the congested streets with a curse for every obstacle. The fact that he managed to deliver his client safely to his destination was nothing short of a miracle.
Ports always stink, but the more acceptable smell of fuel and tar was nothing compared to the stench of rotting fish and urine Naples had to offer. Aerts took the inconvenience in stride. If everything went according to plan, he would be onboard within the hour.
The ferry to Palermo was packed. Aerts had to settle for a place on the forward deck out of the shade. He didn’t give a damn. He’d have traveled in a coffin if he’d had to.
“Adieu, Linda; adieu, bastards,” he said under his breath as the grinding engines churned the grimy water. Half an hour later, the wind massaged his sweating face. The distant horizon beckoned. A boyhood dream was about to be fulfilled.
Lodewijk Vandaele left his office five minutes after Van In’s visit.
“I’ll be away for the rest of the afternoon.”
His secretary fetched his straw hat and cane.
“Fine, Mr. Vandaele. See you tomorrow.”
“See you tomorrow, Liesbeth.”
Liesbeth held open the door for him and then returned to her duties.
Vandaele was in the habit of lunching in an exclusive restaurant on the outskirts of the city, but today he drove straight to his villa on the Damme Canal. The conversation with Van In still bugged him—not so much the content but the subtle way the commissioner had introduced the question of the gate. The man was dangerous, and something had to be done about it.
Vandaele grabbed a bottle of Exshaw from the liquor cabinet in the lounge and poured himself a generous glass of the twenty-year-old cognac. He then consulted his diary and punched in the number of the ministry of foreign affairs.
Johan Brys was at his desk when the phone rang. The minister had landed at the airport in Zaventem only an hour earlier. His working visit to Rwanda had yielded precious little. The country was a mess, and the hundred million francs in emergency relief he had promised to his Rwandan colleague—a substantial sum in those days—wasn’t likely to make much of a difference. If they wanted to bring those guilty of genocide to justice, the country’s legal apparatus had to get back on its feet, and that was going to cost a great deal more than a hundred million. It was also by no means certain that Rwanda would ever see the promised support. Brys wasn’t really interested. The TV news appearance later that evening, in which he was to announce that the Belgian government (i.e., himself) was intent on doing whatever it took to help the Rwandan judiciary trace and try those responsible for mass murder, was more important for his career. Parliamentary elections were only a couple of months away, and the more he appeared on TV the more likely he was to score.
“I have a Mr. Lodewijk Vandaele on line one, Minister. He says it’s urgent,” his secretary announced apologetically.
“No problem, Sonja. I know Mr. Vandaele,” said Brys. “Put him through.”
“Hello, Counselor Lodewijk.”
“Hello, Johan. How was Burundi?”
“Rwanda,” Brys corrected him gingerly.
“Rwanda, Burundi. What difference does it make?” Vandaele laughed.
He took a sip from his glass. The fact that he could get through to the minister of foreign affairs without the least resistance had a relaxing effect.
Van In arrived in Room 204 at two thirty to find Dirk Baert busy on the phone.
“Still no results?” he asked with more than a hint of condescension when Baert hung up.
“I’ve covered Bruges and the surrounding area. There isn’t a single dentist who remembers a patient with twenty-four false teeth, so now I’m focusing on hospitals and orthodontists.”
“Reasons to be cheerful?”
“Negative, Commissioner. What about y
ou?”
Van In turned away, irked by the question. Nosey bastard, he thought.
“Is Versavel back?”
“No, Commissioner. He left around eleven. He should have been back by now.”
“Let me be the judge of that, Chief Inspector.”
Baert pressed his fingernails into the palm of his hand. Why did no one like him? He grabbed the telephone book and checked off the next number. When Van In realized he was about to continue his odyssey, he stopped him, sensing a handy opportunity to get the nuisance out of his hair for a while.
“I’d like you to check the records for me, Baert. Vandaele claims there was an accident back in the summer of 1978. He’s not sure of the exact date, but he remembers a motorcyclist driving into his parked car. Find out if he’s telling the truth.”
Baert slammed the telephone book shut and left the room.
With the chief inspector gone, Van In planted himself in front of Versavel’s old-fashioned Brother typewriter. There was paperwork to be done, and someone had to do it.
Sergeant Versavel arrived at three forty-five. “Now that’s a sight for sore eyes,” he said, chuckling at the sight of his boss sweating over the keyboard.
Van In stopped halfway through a sentence full of typos. “Finally,” he jeered. “Looks like Mr. Versavel’s been having a good time. Was Jonathan worth the visit?”
“Un-be-liev-able,” said Versavel, parking himself on the edge of the typewriter desk and still clearly radiant from the encounter. “He treated me to lunch at the Karmeliet. Jonathan is a connoisseur, always has been. We started with roast breast of duck on a bed of raspberry preserve with lukewarm artichoke mousse, then moved on to monkfish tartlets with stuffed endive and trout roe, followed by rack of lamb with—”
“I got coffee,” Van In interrupted with a glower.
“And Mouton Rothschild,” Versavel continued unperturbed. “1984, no less. I’m a mere mortal. How could I refuse?”