by Pieter Aspe
“Aren’t lesbians allowed to get pregnant?” Hannelore glared at him ready for a fight. Sweet talking SOB, she thought to herself. Next thing she’ll have a beard and a mustache.
Van In hadn’t missed the sarcasm in Hannelore’s question. “Carine Neels also suffers from vaginism,” he whispered. “I found out for myself the day before yesterday.”
Hannelore said nothing. She didn’t want to get his hackles up.
Jos Brouwers unfolded a map of southern Europe. Dominique Verhelst had just called him back. The sixteen million was still in the bank in Rome. Brouwers tried to put himself in the shoes of his prey. According to Vandaele, Aerts was a cunning bastard. So there had to be a connection between the city of Rome and the fugitive’s hiding place. The ex-cop carefully removed the cellophane from a packet of peppermint gum, tore open the foil, and popped a stick into his mouth.
Most investigators invariably make the same mistake. They think that the solution to a problem has to be in proportion to its complexity. But nothing could be further from the truth. Complexity is nothing more than a collection of simple elements. Jos Brouwers knew that a correct analysis of a problem constituted half the solution. He had inherited a talent for numbers from his father. Brouwers senior had spent most of his working life as a junior bank clerk. No one had ever seen him using a calculator. His ultimate dream was that his son would become a civil engineer. He worked himself to the bone day and night to make his dream a reality. But fate can be capricious, and plans are always human creations.
Brouwers finished his first year at college magna cum laude, and his father died the same day from a heart attack. Welfare provisions weren’t enough in those days to pay for college, so Jos Brouwers was forced to interrupt his studies. He applied for a job with the federal police, completed their rigorous training program, and submitted himself to the humiliations and arbitrariness of his superiors. For more than ten years he handed over his wages to his mother. His brothers and sisters went to college in his stead, and when they graduated they turned their backs on him, ashamed that their older brother was “only” a cop. But every tragedy has its turning point, its catharsis, as the Greeks call it. Six years earlier he had decided to retake control of his life. He resigned from his job and swore revenge on his stuck-up family. The only way to achieve his goal was to become richer than his brother Jacob, the ophthalmologist; acquire more prestige than Bert, the soap actor; more freedom than Christa, the sculptress; and more influence than Kathy, the local government representative. When it came to wealth and freedom, he had succeeded summa cum laude. He enjoyed prestige and influence in certain circles, and that was enough for him.
Brouwers took a pair of compasses, checked the scale of the map, and drew a three-hundred-mile circle around Rome.
Versavel looked nervously at his watch and rubbed his mustache. Van In had left his beeper in the office as usual. Intentionally unavailable, yet again. Chief Commissioner De Kee called every half hour, insisting that Van In report to him the minute he got in. Versavel did his best and called around. Miss Calmeyn assured him that the commissioner and Deputy Prosecutor Martens had left more than an hour ago. Leo Vanmaele suggested he call his favorite café, l’Estaminet, and the clerk at the courthouse informed him that Deputy Martens was away from her desk.
Versavel tried the same people a second time before checking in with De Kee. The diminutive chief commissioner was furious. Versavel swallowed the abuse and promised he would contact Van In before the day was out. The chief commissioner could rest assured. Versavel had left a message on Van In’s answering machine.
When Van In hadn’t appeared by noon, Versavel threw in the towel. Frank was waiting with a delicious lunch.
“Hello, is this Lodewijk Vandaele?”
Vandaele recognized Brouwers’s voice and attached a scrambler to the telephone. They always followed the same procedure. “Jos. What’s new?”
Brouwers immediately noticed that Vandaele sounded tense.
“Is there a problem?” His direct question was met with a moment of silence.
“Provoost is dead,” said Vandaele. “Murdered, apparently.”
“Messy, sir. Do you want me to investigate?”
“Out of the question,” said Vandaele decisively. “I’d rather hear what’s been going on with you.”
Brouwers sensed that the old man was hiding something but didn’t push the matter. “Aerts is in Malta,” he said.
“Malta. What makes you think that?”
“Because I have evidence to support it, sir.”
Vandaele didn’t ask any unnecessary questions, giving Brouwers the opportunity to develop his hypothesis.
“Aerts transferred sixteen million to an account with the Banco Condottiere in Rome. If he’s as savvy as everyone claims, he knows well enough that the transaction was traceable. If he doesn’t want to leave a paper trail, he’ll have to withdraw the money in person. That’s why he started off with half a million in cash, money he needs to survive while the situation cools down. Aerts is presuming that the judiciary will forget about him after a couple of months. I would have done the same, and I would have picked out a safe hiding place to wait out the storm.”
“Sounds plausible,” said Vandaele. “But why Malta of all places?”
Brouwers had expected Vandaele’s response. He had asked himself the same question. “I presumed that Aerts would prefer familiar territory to go underground and preferably not too far from his money. If it were me, I would opt for somewhere I knew.”
“Continue, Jos.”
“Malta isn’t part of the European Union, and it’s been growing in popularity of late as a tax haven. The island is less than three hundred miles from the Italian mainland. Anyone with anything resembling a boat can make the crossing without being noticed. And of course, Aerts has been there on vacation a couple of times.”
Brouwers had called dozens of travel agencies in search of information when he struck gold with the last one on his list. He had a good story, and he told it with vigor. His brother-in-law, William Aerts, had recommended an apartment hotel on Malta, but he’d lost the address, and his brother-in-law was temporarily out of reach. All he could remember was the name of the travel agency where William made the reservation. He needed the name of the hotel. Would they mind checking?
“How did you know Aerts was staying in an apartment hotel?”
“I made it up.” Brouwers grinned. “But his name was in their computer, and that was the important thing. According to the guy at the travel agency, William booked his first trip to Malta in 1988. He opened the account at the Banco Condottiere a year later. I’m guessing he’s been planning his disappearance for quite some time. I also wouldn’t be surprised if he got to know someone in Malta.”
“Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves, Jos?”
“I’ll be able to answer that question in a couple of days, sir.”
Brouwers had the half million bonus in mind, promised by Vandaele if he managed to liquidate Aerts within the week.
“So you’re going to Malta,” said Vandaele.
“If that’s OK with you, sir.”
“Of course, Jos. But keep me posted.”
“Of course, sir. I’ll call every night between eleven and twelve.”
Van In arrived at the Hauwer Street police station around two-fifteen. He had enjoyed a healthy lunch with Hannelore on the terrace outside the Mozarthuys. Meat roasted on a lava stone grill was an acceptable alternative for people on a diet.
Versavel was peering through the window and barely reacted to Van In’s cheerful greeting. “Problems, Guido?”
Versavel turned and sat down at his word processor without saying a word.
“I’m the one with the depression issues, don’t forget.” Van In laughed.
Versavel didn’t respond. The silence was heavy, like a wet bath towel on dry skin.
&nbs
p; “Is there something going on with Frank?”
Versavel reached for his mustache and rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand. Van In joined him at his desk. His arm floated aimlessly through the air for a couple of seconds then landed a little awkwardly on his friend’s shoulder.
“Nothing serious, I hope?”
Versavel appreciated the gesture. He turned to Van In with eyes full of sadness and despair. “Frank’s gone. There was a note on the table when I went home at lunchtime. He took his clothes and his kitchen stuff—that’s it.” He sounded as if he was still reading the note.
“Has Jonathan got anything to do with this?”
“Frank felt cheated, like he was nothing more than my house slave.”
Van In had been through a lot in his life, but a jealous fifty-six-year-old man was a first, and it pushed him to his limit. “Jeez, Guido,” was all he could think to say. “Just like that?”
Versavel shook his head. He’d seen it coming, and he cursed the day he set eyes on Jonathan again after so long.
“It’s my fault, when you think of it,” said Van In submissively. “If I hadn’t asked you …”
“I made the suggestion myself,” Versavel protested.
“D’you want me to take you home?”
Versavel looked at his friend, his eyes filling with tears. Van In felt a lump in his throat. “Not home, Pieter. It would drive me crazy.”
Versavel took his boss’s hand. He was the only man alive who could get away with it. “A breath of fresh air wouldn’t go amiss, Pieter.”
Carine Neels was taken aback at the sight of both men holding hands. Two days earlier she would have been sure to knock before entering Room 204, but now she felt like part of the team, a full member of Bruges’ Special Investigations Unit.
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know …”
“No need to apologize,” said Van In, making no effort to let go of Versavel’s hand.
“I thought you’d like to hear my report,” said Carine.
Her telephonic odyssey hadn’t been very successful. Five minutes ago she had talked to Dr. Verminnen, the last plastic surgeon on her list, but like the others, he too was unable to remember a young man having his jaw set back for aesthetic reasons. Much to her surprise, Van In didn’t seem to be bothered.
“Perhaps you could make yourself useful in another way, Carine.”
Her heart beast faster when Van In used her first name. “At your service, Commissioner,” she responded with enthusiasm.
“Are you free this evening?”
“Depends for what,” she said in a neutral tone.
Van In let go of Versavel’s hand and invited Carine to sit at his desk. “Do you know what an undercover agent is, Carine?”
Of course she did. She never missed an episode of NYPD Blue or Hill Street Blues.
“Then you know the risks involved?”
She nodded and tried to conceal her accelerated breathing by folding her arms macho-style.
“Good,” said Van In. “I want you to take the rest of the day off and …” He gave her a number of detailed instructions. “I’ll expect you at my place around eight. Then we can go through the rest of the operation.”
Carine Neels floated out of the office like a madonna on a cloud. She wanted to broadcast her happiness for all to hear, but she knew that wasn’t a good idea. If she did, she would blow her cover.
Gray clouds amassed above the towers of Bruges. After a long, warm summer, September was showing signs of an early winter. Van In headed toward the coast in the hope of catching a few final rays of sun. Versavel said nothing the entire journey, just stared ahead absently as if they were driving toward the end of the world.
Van In parked the Golf near the marina in Blankenberge, a busy seaside resort where the gray fall sky had made way for azure blue. A pleasant breeze wafted in from the sea. The people here seemed friendlier than in stuffy Bruges. The air was pure, and the murmur of the sea was enough to crush even Versavel’s stony silence.
“You’re a good man, Pieter,” he said out of the blue.
Van In rested his arm on his friend’s shoulder. “I know, Guido,” he said with a laugh. “And it’s good to hear it from someone else for a change. But you really knocked me for a loop back there. You and Frank? After so many years?”
Versavel filled his lungs with tepid sea air. In the car on the way from Bruges to Blankenberge, he had tried to find an explanation for the tragedy that had torn his orderly life to pieces. “I should have known,” he said. “I couldn’t keep up with him, I mean sexually. It must have been painful for him. He alluded to it more than once in the last few months. It made me want to prove myself. The affair with Jonathan was the last straw. Frank’s gone and I’m alone and old.”
Van In had experience with depression. Comforting words rarely helped heal the wounds, but silence made no sense either. “Spare me the nonsense, Guido. You don’t look a day over forty. There’s a big wide world out there, and you’re handsome, kind, intelligent, and …”
Van In told Versavel the things he didn’t want to hear from his well-intentioned friend when he had hit the bottom. Then he did something he could never have imagined doing in his wildest dreams. He turned and looked Versavel in the eye.
“And to cap it all off, you’re my best friend, Guido, and I love you.”
Even Versavel was taken aback when Van In embraced him. A kiss on the cheek eased the pain if only for a moment. Day-trippers gaped, but Van In paid no attention.
“Hannelore would have done the same,” he said. “We both love you a lot, Guido. Don’t forget it.”
Versavel looked up at the sky, at a loss for words to express his feelings. He stroked his mustache Versavel-style, and Van In read it as a good sign. “I think we both deserve a Duvel,” said Versavel unexpectedly.
“We?”
“I think I could use one too, especially today,” said Versavel.
A shrimp boat sailed into the harbor with a swarm of seagulls in its wake. It turned left at the lifeboat station and headed toward the eastern pier.
At the end of the pier there was a wooden warehouse that served as a café cum restaurant. The terrace out front was packed with hikers enjoying the late fall sun.
Van In just managed to secure a table where a group of four cackling Germans were arguing about the price of the sangria. He took advantage of their confusion, and the waiter clearly didn’t mind. He smiled knowingly when the Germans continued their “alcohol-free stroll.”
“Two Duvels,” said Van In. “Ice-cold if possible.”
When a stately yacht sailed past the pier, everyone on the terrace turned right, and the cameras started to click. This was the highlight of the day for many of them. An original photo would be evidence to those at home that the day-trip hadn’t been for nothing.
“Feeling any better?” Van In asked.
Versavel rolled up his shirtsleeves and loosened his tie. No one would have guessed he was a cop. “De Kee wanted to talk with you this morning,” he said.
“For Christ’s sake, Guido, relax.”
“I’m relaxing, Pieter, I’m relaxing. My work is all I have right now. It keeps the ghosts at bay.”
The waiter—friendly, fortysomething—served the Duvels with the usual thick head of froth. When Versavel took out his wallet to pay right away, the man held up his hand. That suited Versavel down to the ground.
“Any idea what the old bugger wanted to talk about?”
Versavel gulped down the high-octane beer as if it were mineral water. Tufts of froth glistened in his mustache. “He read your report, Pieter. I think he’s pissed about the list you managed to squeeze out of Linda Aerts. De Jaegher’s a board member at De Kee’s rotary club.”
“I can imagine some of the names will give him nightmares,” said Van In. He was t
hinking of Johan Brys, among others, the ambitious minister of foreign affairs. When guys like that reach a certain level, all that matters is money and sex.
“Whoever Herbert is, he must have been quite a special man,” Van In murmured.
“D’you think there’s a connection between Brys, Provoost, and Herbert?”
“Two of them are already dead,” said Van In.
“So you’re planning to move in on Brys?”
Van In had asked himself the same question a thousand times in the last forty-eight hours. Crucifying government ministers had become fashionable of late, but if he wanted to grill Brys, he would need proper evidence. The occasional visit to an obscure farmhouse for a bit of slap and tickle wasn’t a crime. “Some of the other names on the list are interesting too, Guido.”
Versavel nodded. Bringing in the minister of foreign affairs for questioning on the basis of a forced confession from a brothel keeper wasn’t worth the risks. The idea of turning up the heat on Brys by smoking out some of his cronies sounded a great deal safer.
Van In ordered another pair of Duvels and a plate of cheese. The light lunch he had enjoyed with Hannelore had clearly been a little too light.
“We have to find the weakest link, Guido.”
He fished a copy of the list from his inside pocket, and they reviewed the names together. After discounting the magistrates, they were left with a dozen or so politicians, a retired federal police colonel, four industrialists, a priest named Deflour, a couple of senior civil servants at the Ministry of Finance, Vervoort, and De Jaegher. Van In was certain that the list was far from complete. Linda Aerts only knew the names of the regulars. He took a pen and underlined the names of the Helping Our Own board members: Vandaele, Provoost, Vervoort, Deflour, and Muys.
“Let me deal with the canon,” said Versavel enthusiastically. “Priests aren’t supposed to lie, or so they say.”
Van In circled the name Deflour.
“Then I’ll take Muys,” he said grinning.
“Why Muys?”
Van In took a swig of his second Duvel. “Isn’t it obvious?” He laughed. “Muys rhymes with mouse rhymes with whorehouse.”