From Bruges with Love

by Pieter Aspe

  Hannelore removed the cassette from the shelf. It felt heavier than an average videotape.

  Liliane jumped to her feet. “Did you find something?” she asked optimistically.

  Hannelore opened the box to find a cloth-bound notebook with the words My Diary on the front.

  “Is that what you were looking for?” Liliane asked with an enthusiastic smile.

  Just as Hannelore was about to open the notebook, her mobile started to ring. “Hannelore Martens.”

  It was Prosecutor Beekman.

  “Vandaele is dead,” he said. “His housekeeper found him this morning.”

  “Murdered?”

  Liliane almost had a heart attack when she heard the word murdered.

  “No, Vandaele was in the last stages of cancer. He vomited his lungs out.”

  Hannelore gestured to Liliane that there was no need to worry, but the woman started to sob nonetheless. “It’s not about Carine,” Hannelore said, covering the mouthpiece with her hand.

  Van In kicked off his shoes, headed to the refrigerator, and grabbed a Duvel. Two confessions in one day had left him in a bit of a spin. Aerts’s confession didn’t bother him. The man had written it all down on paper, and there would be time enough to go over it later. Baert’s confession was much more tragic.

  Just as he was about to take a drink, he heard Hannelore’s keys in the front door. He knocked back half the glass just to be on the safe side.

  “Out together, home together,” he said with an innocent smile.

  Hannelore paid no attention to the Duvel. She seemed excited. “Carine went back to Care House for a test photo session after all, and she was planning another visit the night she disappeared.”

  She threw the diary on the table, and Van In read the passage to which she had referred.

  “She says she’s ready to do whatever it takes to successfully complete her assignment,” Hannelore seethed. “If anything happens to that girl, I’m never going to forgive you, Pieter Van In. You filled her head with cowboy stories. I was in her room this afternoon. The child still believes in goodness and justice, romantic heroes, the whole nine yards. Life for her is a movie with a happy ending.”

  Van In let her blow off steam. The last entry in Carine’s diary rang a bell in the back of his mind. “But one thing struck me about him: the man smelled of toilet cleaner,” he read under his breath.

  “What are you muttering about?”

  “Benedict Vervoort.” Van In laughed grimly. “The bastard stank of toilet cleaner.”

  “I’m calling Beekman,” said Hannelore.

  Johan Brys pulled a leather mask over his head and checked his instruments. Everything was neatly lined up. It wasn’t the first time the minister had appeared in a snuff movie. Carine Neels was in the cellar, chained to the frame of an old-fashioned bed. She was naked. Benedict Vervoort attached his camera to a tripod, ready for a trial run. The container full of quicklime in the corner had to be kept out of the shot. He adjusted a couple of spots until he was happy with the lighting. The guests would be here in less than an hour, and he wanted to be sure everything was perfect.

  Prosecutor Beekman listened carefully to Hannelore’s report. “We can’t screw it up twice,” he said when she had finished. “And no one’s going to blame us for strong-arming that kind of scum.”

  Hannelore nodded, and that was a sign for Van In to make his move. Within minutes, a trio of police MPVs was heading full-speed in the direction of Waardamme, sirens wailing. Van In and Hannelore followed in the Twingo.

  “Does Baert know anything about this?”

  Hannelore hit the gas on Baron Ruzette Avenue. Van In fastened his seat belt. “I don’t think so. Baert only wanted revenge for his brother.”

  Hannelore slowed down at the bridge over the Bruges-Courtrai Canal. Her speedometer read 50 mph. The Twingo protested when she ripped into the bend in the road.

  Van In held his breath and tried to organize his thoughts. Dirk Baert’s three-hour story needed more than just a word or two of explanation. “Dani needed money for a breast augmentation, and it was urgent. He asked his brother for advice, and he introduced him to the Cleopatra.”

  “In 1985?”

  “Yes.”

  Hannelore overtook the MPVs, then slowed down.

  “Baert’s been on Vandaele’s payroll for more than twenty years. He knew all about the Cleopatra,” said Van In, lighting a cigarette.

  “What d’you mean he was on Vandaele’s payroll?”

  “Baert worked as a spy. He kept Vandaele up-to-date on what was going on within the force, warned him if there were raids on the way, and helped incriminating police reports to disappear.”

  “How did he know the body was his brother?”

  Hannelore took a cigarette without asking.

  “Dani had had a lot of dental work done in the eighties, and it had cost him a small fortune. Baert started to suspect it when he read the autopsy. He also knew that Dani had broken his shin as a child and that he had worked for the gentlemen who ran the Love.”

  “So he decided to get rid of Provoost,” she said incredulously.

  “Not right away. Baert knew that Provoost was crazy about his brother, but he wanted to be sure.”

  Hannelore drove through the traffic light next to the church in Oostkamp. The MPVs provided the perfect cover.

  “He decided to set him up and sent Melissa.”

  “Melissa?”

  “His girlfriend,” said Van In. “Baert met her at the Cleopatra. She had been one of Provoost’s favorites before she and Baert moved in together. Melissa called Provoost on the evening of the murder, and the man was apparently up for a visit …”

  “Now I get it. Melissa rings the bell, Provoost opens the door, and Baert cuffs him.”

  “Correct, according to Baert at least,” said Van In.

  “So Dani Baert was killed in 1985.”

  Van In shook his head.

  “Baert claims the last time he saw his brother was in April 1986. Dani had just come back from the Netherlands after the breast augmentation. He wasn’t happy with it and needed more money.”

  It took five minutes for word to get around and a lot less for the streets to fill. Commissioner Decloedt of the Waardamme police kept an eye on things as his Bruges colleagues forced open the front door of Vervoort’s business. The procedure was illegal, but the prosecutor had assured them that he would take personal responsibility for the entire operation. The judiciary was ready to stick its neck out now and again.

  The officers went about their business in an orderly fashion. Fifteen minutes later, Vervoort’s office looked as if a tornado had struck it.

  The invitees took their places on folding chairs lined up in the shadows. Carine listened to the commotion and cringed in terror. The light was powerful enough to penetrate her blindfold.

  Vervoort opened the door, and Johan Brys appeared, pushing a cart in front of him. With the exception of his leather head mask, the minister was naked. An array of tools was laid out on the cart: knives, tongs, and bores … ready for use. A quiver of lust ran through the audience as the executioner entered the room.

  Guido Versavel arrived at Vervoort’s business looking tired and pale. Hannelore winked and pointed at the door to Vervoort’s office. The sound of shattering glass and furniture being tossed around didn’t bode well.

  “Pieter went berserk when the search warrant yielded zilch,” she said, concerned. “He’s tearing the place apart.”

  Versavel had spent the last few days learning for himself what it was like to feel powerless. He opened the door to the office and stuck his head inside. The room had been wrecked, and the wrecker wasn’t finished.

  “Save the window for last?” asked Versavel with more than a hint of sarcasm.

  Van In looked up. The rage in his e
yes could have made a platoon of marines back off. He grabbed an office chair that had seen better days and pitched it through the window.

  “Satisfied?”

  Versavel opened the door wider and went in. “Hannelore called me,” he said. “She’s afraid you’re going to hurt yourself.”

  “So what?”

  Versavel edged closer, deftly navigating his way through the debris. “You’re not doing Carine Neels any favors.”

  “Oh no?”

  Van In smashed the heel of his shoe into a PC keyboard. Half the alphabet exploded in every direction.

  “There’s a huge mirror in the front office,” said Versavel dryly.

  Van In extracted his foot from the shattered keyboard. He stared at Versavel and ran his fingers through his sweat-drenched hair. “Can you conjure a white rabbit from a hat?”

  “Maybe,” said Versavel, unruffled.

  “What d’you mean, maybe?”

  Versavel fished a bundle of papers from his inside pocket. “Do you remember asking me to check out Catrysse’s story?”

  Van In lurched across the wreckage to stand in front of Versavel. His forehead looked like an apple after a winter in the attic.

  “Catrysse lives in an abandoned farmhouse owned by Vandaele.”

  When Hannelore was sure that Van In’s demolition work was over, she too went inside.

  “Now you tell me,” she heard Van In say.

  Versavel apologized. “I was on sedatives, Pieter. It was only when Hannelore called me that I realized—”

  “OK, OK,” said Van In, clearly still irate. “Catrysse lives in a property owned by Vandaele and works as a gardener for the charity. What else do you have?”

  “Catrysse’s got a history with the police,” said Versavel. “He was sentenced to two years in 1982 for raping a young girl, a neighbor’s daughter.”

  “Jeez.” Hannelore sighed.

  “Baert must have known about that too,” said Versavel, “but kept his mouth shut because Vandaele forced him to.”

  Van In didn’t have to think much further. If Vandaele was protecting Catrysse, then he had to have a good reason. After Dani was killed, Vandaele closed down the Love. It only made sense that he moved his business elsewhere.

  “Warn Beekman,” said Hannelore. “I wonder what our gardener has been up to.”

  John Catrysse’s job was to keep an eye on the driveway leading up to the farm. But now that all the guests had arrived, he decided to sneak down to the cellar and enjoy the spectacle from the shadows.

  Carine Neels felt a scrawny male body glide over her. Someone removed her blindfold, and she blinked for a second or two in the glare of the spotlights. She froze at the sight of the leather head mask hovering six inches above her face.

  Her heart skipped a beat and then another. She tried to scream, but when nothing came out, she closed her eyes. The man started to hump her wildly, but there was no penetration. It felt as if someone had propped a deflated balloon between her thighs.

  Vervoort let the camera run. He knew it would take a while before Brys reached his climax.

  Hannelore pushed the Twingo to its limits. The steering wheel shuddered uncontrollably in her hands as the speedometer needle went off the dial. Van In removed his gun from its holster and placed it on his lap. The MPVs followed at less than six hundred yards, their blue lights swirling, but without sirens.

  Catrysse didn’t notice the sound of tires tearing over the gravel on the driveway outside. The spectacle had him completely in its spell. It took the executioner all of ten minutes to ejaculate. The thin guy always needed his time, he thought, wondering who it was behind the leather mask.

  Brys got to his feet, and Carine cautiously opened her eyes. For the first time, she caught sight of the cart and the instruments of torture. Her scream was harrowing, and the audience muttered approvingly.

  Brys selected a pair of pincers. Vervoort zoomed in on Carine’s left breast, shook his head, and signaled that Brys should wait. He took an ice cube and rubbed it over her breast until the nipple was erect. Brys nodded. He had gone through the scenario with Vervoort in advance. First he let the victim see the instrument of torture, as they did during the inquisition. Carine’s screams were now beyond human. Vervoort filmed her twisted face. Brys placed the pincers on her ripe nipple and waited until Vervoort had framed the image to his satisfaction.

  Van In threw open the cellar door, aimed his pistol at the man in the mask, and fired three shots. The first bullet penetrated Brys’s right eye, the second shattered his shoulder, and the third made a neat hole in Vervoort’s forehead as he stepped into the firing line.

  Ten seconds later a first wave of police officers spread out over Catrysse’s farm. A couple of audience members tried to escape in the confusion but were rounded up after a short chase.

  Hannelore took off her jacket and attended to Carine. The girl was in shock and barely reacted to the chaos around her. She was going to need all the help she could get to recover from this, but she was strong, and a team of caregivers had already been assembled to receive her.

  “Statistics would have given you one in a hundred thousand,” said Versavel.

  “Man does not live on statistics alone,” said Van In philosophically. “I’d never have been able to forgive myself if we’d arrived five minutes too late.”

  While the police cuffed the audience members one by one, Van In made his way upstairs much in need of fresh air. “What kind of world are we living in?” he asked himself when he was told the identities of the executioner and half the audience. De Jaegher, the incompetent police physician, was among them, as was Melchior Muys, the corrupt tax auditor. Van In looked up at the stars and hoped that there was a better life beyond them.

  Hannelore placed the two steaming plates on the table. She hadn’t made fries for the best part of three months, and she thought Van In might appreciate them. He had hardly eaten a thing for the last twenty-four hours.

  “Guido.”

  Versavel had snuggled up next to the fireplace. After fifteen minutes his eyes had closed, and he was now enjoying the sleep of the righteous.

  “Let him sleep,” said Hannelore. “There’s still some cheese left in the refrigerator if he wakes up hungry.”

  Van In wolfed down his fries in silence, treating himself to lavish amounts of mayonnaise.

  “I wonder what the headlines will be,” he said between bites.

  “Policeman Shoots Minister of Foreign Affairs Dead,” said Hannelore, tracing a line in the air with both hands. “Tomorrow you’ll be the most famous man in Flanders.”

  Van In dipped his last fry into the greasy mound of mayonnaise on the side of his plate. “The bastard got what was coming to him. Let’s see them try to brush the case under the carpet now.”

  He pushed his plate aside and lit a cigarette.

  “From one cover-up to another,” said Hannelore sarcastically.

  “What?”

  Hannelore jabbed a fry with her fork. “If I understand things correctly, you’re not planning to prosecute Baert.”

  Van In took a deep breath. “Dirk Baert’s offense is a trifle compared to the dirty tricks the big boys were getting up to. Provoost and Brys got what they deserved. I see no reason to burden the state with an expensive court case. Justice has been done. No questions will be asked.”

  Hannelore gulped. He was right, in principle, but as deputy prosecutor it was her job to make sure that the law was enforced.

  “Unless the public prosecutor insists on pursuing the case,” said Van In.

  “OK. I can’t see Beekman raising any objections. But what do we do with Aerts?”

  “Aerts confessed he was an accessory,” said Van In. “I have his signed statement right here. With a bit of luck, they’ll let him off.”

  He fished Aerts’s statement from
his inside pocket. “Our friend knows the law. He handed himself over more or less voluntarily, and he’s asking for a reduced sentence. He claims he was forced to do what he did. And anyone who might have testified against him is dead, don’t forget. No big deal. The real culprits have been tried and convicted.”

  Hannelore read Aerts’s statement while Van In uncorked a bottle of Moselle and planted himself next to his snoring sergeant.

  “Didn’t you say Dani had a breast augmentation in 1986?” said Hannelore after a few minutes of reading.

  Van In was struggling hard not to fall asleep. “Yes. Is that a problem?”

  Hannelore reread the passage. “But Aerts claims here that the incident took place in October 1985.”

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Van In cursed.

  “What?”

  “If that’s right, then the little fucker screwed me over.”

  William Aerts watched the evening news in his cell. The entire country was up in arms after news broke that the minister of foreign affairs had been shot dead while making a snuff movie. Aerts realized the game was over. The courts would never let him go until every detail of his statement had been verified a hundred times.

  Jos Brouwers arrived home to the sumptuous villa he had bought only a year before. The purchase was the realization of his final dream. The house was to be the ultimate status symbol, a visible climax to a successful career, and an ode to Gerda, who had taken care of him for so many years. In that order. But Gerda was never going to see the place again. She had packed her bags two weeks earlier, fed up, she said, of living a life in the shadows. There was no point in trying to catch up on lost time. She felt she had a right to her own life. The trip to the Caribbean had been a lie, something he’d made up for Vandaele because he’d rather have dropped dead than admit she’d left him and his marriage was a failure. Brouwers pictured the couple on the coach in Malta, the man pouring a glass for his wife, both of them waving, both of them perfectly happy. Even Brooks was better off. At least he had the sensual Penelope when he needed her.