by Pieter Aspe
No one was paying attention to Leo Vanmaele, who joined her on the terrace a few minutes later. This was his first time in the holy of holies. Lesser staff members weren’t normally allowed in the bar. With the exception of the odd court clerk, the place was restricted to lawyers and magistrates.
“Shall I get you a drink?” she asked when Leo took a seat beside her.
“No thanks, Hanne.”
“It’s no trouble.”
Leo shook his head.
“You’re probably wondering why I asked to meet you here of all places,” she said.
Leo had indeed asked himself that question.
“Because it’s safe. De Jaegher never sets foot in the place—”
“And you’ve been planning a clandestine meeting here with an unknown admirer for quite some time,” Leo jested.
“How did you guess?”
“Don’t the rumors scare you?” Leo inquired, gesturing toward the boisterous assembly of legal eagles in the bar.
“They think you’re a young intern,” Hannelore sniggered. “Every September the place is crawling with them.”
“I’m forty-seven, Hanne.”
“I know you are,” she quipped. “But my colleagues aren’t exactly sober enough to judge for the moment.”
“Given the circumstances, a beer doesn’t sound so bad after all,” said Leo, disappearing toward the bar.
“And I’ll have another tea,” Hannelore shouted at his back.
“Pieter wasn’t reachable,” said Leo when he returned with a tray. “I figured Versnick’s information was important, so I called you instead.”
Hannelore sipped her tea and relaxed into her chair. She was even temped to kick off her shoes. This was bliss!
“Speak to me, Leo. I’m all ears.”
“Koen Versnick is a solid guy, not your typical pathologist, but what’s to expect? It can’t be easy for young doctors to find work these days straight out of college.”
“He can join the club.” Hannelore sighed.
Leo was familiar with her assertiveness. A substitute with leftist sympathies was about as rare as a cactus in a rain forest.
“Koen Versnick examined De Jaegher’s autopsy report, and he’s pretty certain the man missed a crucial detail.”
“Everybody knows De Jaegher is prone to the occasional mistake,” said Hannelore resignedly. “And recent medical school graduates don’t know everything.”
“Versnick’s father is a renowned plastic surgeon, Hanne. Koen took Herbert’s X-rays home with him because he smelled a rat. And his father had no doubts. The victim’s jaws weren’t sawn through; they were split, which means he underwent some kind of aesthetic surgery.”
Leo sketched a jawbone on the back of a beer coaster and tried to explain the difference between the two surgical procedures.
“According to Versnick senior, De Jaegher should have noticed,” he said with a hint of pride.
“So why the operation?” asked Hannelore.
“If you split the jawbones, it pulls back the chin. The procedure softens and normalizes the contours of the face.”
“Our Herbert was prone to vanity.”
“Or he had a facial deformity that made the procedure necessary. According to Versnick’s father, the technique is relatively new. It would have been pretty exceptional back then.”
“You mean we should be able to identify Herbert pretty easily on the basis of this information?”
“That’s what I mean, Hanne.”
“Pieter will be happy to hear it.”
“I guessed he would. Why else do you think I dared enter the forbidden zone?”
Hannelore got to her feet, unhurried. “I think you’ve earned a second beer,” she said with a grin.
Van In was familiar with the Cleopatra’s reputation, but he had never visited the place. He parked his VW Golf on the gravel in front of the villa, its windows framed with blue neon.
“Pretty dead if you ask me,” he said to Versavel as they got out of the car.
The Golf was the only car in the improvised parking lot. Versavel shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s only one forty-five, Pieter. What did you expect?”
Van In ignored Versavel’s naïveté. When Belgium’s roadside “cafés” were in their heyday, they were open 24/7 and had customers by the busload. Every traveling salesman with a grain of self-respect would stop by on a regular basis to celebrate his trade successes with a half bottle of sparkling wine and a girl on his lap.
Van In peered through the window into the unlit café before ringing the bell, noticing the traditional oak bar with a line of tall barstools and the obligatory rustic sofas with greasy, flattened cushions. A jukebox glowed in a corner. Pretty unique in this day and age.
Linda was in the kitchen when the bell rang, staring at an empty bottle of Elixir d’Anvers. She fidgeted a cigarette from an almost empty pack and lit it. When those assholes at the door were gone, she was planning to get dressed and drive to the supermarket to replenish her supplies.
“Maybe it’s closing day,” Versavel suggested when no one answered after five minutes.
“Nonsense. They probably spotted the Golf. The police aren’t exactly welcome in places like this. Let’s take a look around back. Who knows, maybe they’re sunbathing in the yard.”
Versavel kept his finger on the bell. Linda, distracted by the noise, didn’t notice Van In staring at her through the kitchen window. She almost had a heart attack when he tapped the glass.
“We’re closed,” she roared.
“Police, ma’am. Is Mr. Aerts around? We’d like a word.”
Cops, she thought. This could be fun. She shuffled toward the back door.
Versavel heard Van In shouting through the window. He stopped ringing and hurried to join him at the back of the building. Linda opened the door and let them in. The kitchen looked like a bomb had struck it. The smell of rotting leftover food almost turned Versavel’s stomach.
“So you want a word with my husband,” said Linda, the drink still in her voice.
“Correct, ma’am. We hoped to find him here. Is he on the premises?”
“Take a look for yourselves,” she baited.
Van In wasn’t planning to let a drunk brothel keeper rile him. He parked himself on a chair. Versavel followed his example, almost stepping into a dried egg yolk in the process.
“We can wait till he gets home,” said Van In.
“Then you’ll have a long wait. The bastard left me … yesterday.”
And probably not for the first time, Van In wanted to say. “When do you expect him back?” he asked.
Linda was leaning against the kitchen counter, her dressing gown hanging open wide enough to reveal a pair of plump legs. She deliberately waited until both men looked away before covering up.
“I told you … the bastard isn’t coming back,” she blurted out.
“What makes you think that, Mrs. Aerts?” Van In asked, rummaging a cigarette from his breast pocket and lighting it. The stench in the place was beyond belief.
“One for me too?”
Van In gave her a cigarette, leaving only one left in his pack. It seemed to calm her as she puffed it a couple of times in quick succession.
“He took his mother’s photo with him,” she said, pointing to an empty space on the mantelpiece. “He’s never done that before.”
Versavel was reminded of his own mother and the photo he wore of her around his neck since she passed three years earlier. It was precious to him, a sort of talisman. She and Frank were the only people who had shared his life through all its ups and downs, and he missed her at that moment. Van In followed Linda’s eyes, which lingered most of the time on the empty bottle of Elixir d’Anvers. Her fingers trembled as she puffed her cigarette.
“So
it’s not the first time your husband has left the marital home?” Van In inquired, not entirely comfortable with the formality of the expression.
“The marital home,” she brayed. “If I’d known at the start that the man was incapable of keeping his hands to himself, I’d never have married the pussy-chewing fucker.”
Versavel looked at Van In. Both men were struggling to contain their laughter.
“So you think he’s not coming back,” Van In mumbled through his teeth.
Linda tossed her half-smoked cigarette on the floor and mooched another. Van In gave her his last. She still had at least six in her own pack.
“I don’t give a fuck if the bastard’s been cheating on me, but he should’ve kept his grubby paws off my money.”
The truth was out. She didn’t mind them knowing that her ass-worshipping husband had run off with her money. That made him a thief in the eyes of the law, and cops were paid to catch thieves, weren’t they?
“Your money, ma’am?”
“Right, my money. That oversexed banana sucker is a common thief.”
“Am I correct in assuming that you would like to file charges against your husband?”
“Is that too much to ask?” she snarled.
“How much money are we talking about, Mrs. Aerts?” Van In inquired.
“Sixteen million Belgian francs, and I earned at least half of it.”
Neither Van In nor Versavel had known Linda in her younger days, and they were both having trouble imagining how she managed to earn so much money.
“Sixteen million is a pile of money, Mrs. Aerts,” said Versavel incredulously. Xanthippe had once driven the wise Socrates to despair. He understood that when men were baited to the verge, they could do the weirdest things. A little money was always welcome, but sixteen million … With a nest egg like that, he’d have left her years ago.
“Was your husband a gambler?” Versavel inquired.
Linda jumped and turned toward him. Versavel tried to look innocent.
“Only when it came to women,” she said. “Clearly not your cup of tea, eh?”
Versavel was taken aback and turned to Van In. His boss was having a hard time keeping a straight face.
“Do you have any idea where your husband might be? With friends? Family? A girlfriend?”
Linda’s face hardened. She suddenly regretted having confided in the police on a whim. William might have been a slippery smooth talker, but when it came to the cops, he knew what he was talking about: a bunch of brainless bunny fuckers.
“Do you really think I’m that stupid? Of course I called his friends.”
“And there was no sign of him,” said Van In guardedly. In the meantime he tried to think of the best way to formulate the next question; next to a white shark, a woman aggrieved had to be the most dangerous creature on the planet. “Did Lodewijk Vandaele perhaps figure among the, eh … friends you contacted?”
“What kind of question is that?” she snorted. “What would William want with Vandaele?”
It was the first time she had used her husband’s first name.
“Didn’t William work for Vandaele?” Van In asked.
Both men thought she was at the point of exploding.
“Work, work. William’s self-employed. He works for no one.”
“I’m talking about sex-industry work, Mrs. Aerts—earning money from illicit sex,” said Van In.
“Illicit sex, Jesus Christ. What’s that all about?” Her hoarse voice flipped into a croaky screech. “Is this the Middle Ages? What planet are you on? Illicit sex? In this day and age you can grease your flagpole whenever you like.”
She shrieked with laughter. Van In had to admit that her vocabulary was pretty original.
“According to the law, sex between adults is not forbidden as long as there’s mutual consent. Without consent we’re talking rape, Mrs. Aerts, and that’s a felony.” His argument was on the feeble side, but it was all he could think of.
“Rape, my ass,” she roared. “I’m trying to report a theft, and mister police officer here rambles on about sex. D’you know what you are? A bunch of pervert baton fuckers.”
“Hold it, ma’am. Tone it down or we’ll have to charge you with disturbing the peace. You need to watch that mouth of yours.”
Linda Aerts drew herself up to her full height. “You can go to hell!” she screamed. “Out of my house right now, or I’ll call the feds.”
She legged it indignantly to the other side of the kitchen, where a grimy telephone was hanging on the wall. “You’ve got thirty seconds,” she snorted.
Van In jerked open the Golf’s door in a rage. Versavel took his place in the passenger seat and fastened his seat belt.
“What do we do now, Pieter?”
Van In rummaged in vain in his breast pocket. “The bitch finished my cigarettes,” he growled. No one had ever called him a baton fucker before. “Call the station. I want a surveillance vehicle here on the double with four cops in it. If the bitch sets a foot outside, I want her arrested and locked up in Hauwer Street Station.”
“On what grounds?” Versavel asked.
“Drunk and disorderly. The bitch was drunk as a skunk and running out of cigs. My guess is she’ll be heading out soon for supplies.”
Versavel passed on his boss’s orders via the radio.
“I thought the baton-fucker thing was pretty funny,” he sniggered.
“She was talking to you,” said Van In. “What the fuck would I want with a baton?”
“Dildo, Pieter. We call them dildos.”
“Jesus, Versavel, give it a rest.”
When the police vehicle arrived with backup, Van In gave them the necessary instructions, shifted the Golf into first, and sped off. Versavel was happy he was wearing a safety belt. Van In drove like a madman, and the sergeant counted at least ten infringements on the way to the station. He only missed ramming a twenty-ton truck by a hair’s breadth when he hammered through a red light at the Kruispoort.
It took Van In three cigarettes to calm down. He called the police stationed outside the Cleopatra every five minutes for a report and paid little if any attention to the fax Hannelore had sent him. All he could think of was Linda Aerts. He was going to get the bitch, and sooner rather than later.
It took almost forty-five minutes. Officer Deschacht reported that Mrs. Aerts had finally been arrested.
“You should have warned them she was no easy game,” said Versavel when Deschacht had finished his report.
Van In rubbed his hands with contentment. He didn’t give a damn that they’d followed her all the way to Maldegem—a good ten miles—and had been forced to drive her off the road. The fact that she’d punched one of the officers to the ground was music to his ears and only fired his determination.
Officer Deschacht looked disconcerted when he walked into Room 204. “The suspect is safely behind bars,” he said, his relief unconcealed.
“What about the wounded officer?” asked Versavel, concerned.
“Ronny was taken to emergency. The doctors are worried he might have broken his collarbone.”
“Perfect,” said Van In. “Call the public prosecutor’s office. I want her held for at least twenty-four hours.”
Deschacht nodded enthusiastically. Ronny was a good friend. The hysterical creature had almost scratched out one of his eyes. “Anything else, Commissioner?”
Van In glowed. “Have her brought upstairs.”
Deschacht hesitated. “She fell asleep moments after we locked her up, Commissioner. Wouldn’t it be better to let her sleep it off?”
“Nonsense, Deschacht. Tell them to throw a bucket of water over her. I want her sober, and I want her now.”
Deschacht didn’t respond. Letting someone cool off in a cell for twenty-four hours was one thing, but this was pushing it.<
br />
“You can’t be serious,” said Versavel in disbelief.
“You bet I’m serious. And if you’re not up to it, then I’ll do it myself.”
“Can I do anything else, Commissioner?”
“No, Deschacht. You can go.”
The officer turned on his heels in an instant.
“Come with me, Guido,” said Van In. “It’s time Sleeping Beauty got a wake-up call.”
“Sorry, Pieter, but that sort of game doesn’t float my boat.” The days when drunks were strong-armed back to sobriety and then treated to a good hiding were a thing of the past. “De Kee will be furious if he—”
“De Kee will cover me. That’s what chief commissioners are supposed to do.”
“I wouldn’t count on it,” said Versavel. “He’s more likely to issue sanctions for unlawful detention.”
“No one ever died from a bucket of water, Guido. She’s gasping for a drink and a cigarette. This is my only chance to get her to talk.”
“Your funeral, Pieter. I’m heading home.” He clicked his heels together. “Sieg Heil, Herr Kommissar.”
Versavel grabbed his jacket and left the room. This time Van In had crossed the line.
Van In treated the departing sergeant to his middle finger. He expected to have the loose ends tied up by the following morning. Then they would all be lining up, including De Kee, to congratulate him for forcing a breakthrough in the case.
Hannelore arranged slices of sizzling calf kidney in a large frying pan. A jar of green peppercorns and a carton of cream stood ready on the kitchen counter. She had found a dusty bottle of Vin de Cahors in the cellar, which now enjoyed pride of place in the middle of the dining table next to a romantic candle. Pieter deserved a little extra, she thought. She hadn’t thought he would hold out for more than a couple of days on her Spartan diet, let alone three months. The festive menu was her way of saying thanks for his efforts.
She glanced at the clock on the wall. He’ll be here in twenty, she figured. She browned the slices of kidney then added the peppercorns and cream. With a bit of luck, his favorite dish would be ready just as he walked in the door.