by Helen Grant
‘The gallery is closed,’ said the voice irritably.
‘We don’t want to see the gallery,’ Kris told him. ‘We want to see Fred. Tell him it’s Kris Verstraeten and Veerle De Keyser.’
‘Monsieur,’ came the reply, in tones of festering dislike, ‘the gallery is only open to serious enquirers. If you will kindly—’
‘Look,’ interrupted Kris. ‘Tell him it’s Schorpioen and Honingbij. OK? Schorpioen – and Honingbij.’
There was a silence so long that Veerle began to wonder whether the person at the other end of the intercom had decided to disengage from the conversation altogether and wait for her and Kris to go away.
When the voice spoke again the tone was quite different; the contemptuous edge had gone and the speaker sounded anxious, almost furtive.
‘What did you come here for?’
Kris opened his mouth to reply but the voice went on, ‘No, don’t say anything. I’ll come down.’
There was a click and then silence. Kris straightened up, shooting a glance at Veerle. They waited, and after about a minute they saw the silhouette of someone approaching the door.
The door opened inwards and Veerle saw a man of perhaps forty with a smooth face and grey eyes and thick dark hair with the first stripes of silver in it. He probably blow-dries it, she thought. She took in the expensive tailored shirt in a bold shade of papal purple, the Italian shoes, the gleaming aviator watch. The armour of wealth. In spite of it, he was clearly ill at ease, the gaze of those grey eyes dancing nervously over the pair of them and flickering towards the street behind.
‘Come in, come in,’ he said hastily, flapping at them with a well-manicured hand.
Kris shouldered his way past, Veerle following, looking all around with interest.
We don’t see students, he’d said. She wondered whom he did see, what sort of person dropped into a place like this to pick up an ornamental chunk of sandstone or a gossamer dish.
The narrow space between the two display windows opened out into a large room with white walls and a polished wooden floor. There were rows of spotlights, but most of them were off, so that the various sculptures and artworks loomed eerily in the half-light. Veerle saw what looked like a horse’s head on a pedestal, and something else that looked vaguely architectural. The effect was reminiscent of an oversized chess game, the pieces abandoned in the dark. There was no time to take a closer look; Fred – at least she assumed the dark-haired man was Fred – was leading them towards a flight of stairs going to the upper floor. He was moving quickly and nervously, his hands carving shapes in the air, and it sounded as though he were carrying on one half of an argument, complaining about their sudden arrival in a rather rhetorical manner; he clearly expected no reply and no sympathy.
The upper rooms had a distinctly businesslike atmosphere that contrasted with the sleek elegance of the gallery below. The office into which Fred led them was cluttered with files and papers. There were no finely spun gilded glass bowls or horses’ heads here, although Veerle noticed several large black-and-white photographs on the walls. They were closeups of architectural details, chunks of carved masonry and inlaid wooden panels. One of the Koekoeken places? she wondered, but there was no way to tell.
‘Sit,’ said Fred, indicating a couple of spindle-legged chairs. He moved behind the desk and sat down, and Veerle noticed as he did so that he never took his eyes off them. There was a large chrome coffee machine in the corner of the room, but he didn’t offer them anything, nor did he take anything for himself. He looked at Kris and Veerle and said, ‘How did you get this address?’
Kris leaned forward. ‘I called people. Seven people, to be exact. The sixth knew someone who knew you, and the seventh gave me the address.’
‘Persistent,’ commented Fred.
Kris shrugged.
‘But unwise,’ Fred went on. ‘If you ever have to contact me again, and I strongly advise against it, kindly do it through the website.’
‘The website’s the problem,’ said Kris curtly.
Up went Fred’s eyebrows.
‘Look,’ said Kris, ‘there’s something going on, and we think it has something to do with the group. First Vlinder vanished—’
‘You think that had something to do with the group?’ interrupted Fred. ‘They don’t even know where it happened, poor girl.’
Why do I think he sounds insincere? thought Veerle.
‘No,’ conceded Kris. ‘But now there’s Egbert – Horzel – too.’
‘Schorpioen—’ began Fred in a faintly ironic tone.
‘Kris.’
‘Kris, don’t imagine that this has not occurred to me. But what do we have? Two people, unfortunately both dead, found in completely different locations, both of them outdoors. Not in a house, no; certainly not in one of the houses we visit.’ Fred saw that Kris was about to interrupt and put up a hand. ‘This may seem like a coincidence. Certainly it is a coincidence. But let us think about those two people. Members of a group like ours, they are unusual people. If they did not enjoy taking risks they would do something else with their spare time.’ He shrugged. ‘They would go to the cinema, or press wild flowers – who knows?’ Fred leaned forwards, across the desk. ‘But people like Vlinder and Horzel, they enjoy danger. And therefore, by necessity, there is more likelihood of something happening to them than there is to the population at large.’ He shook his head. ‘After all, who knows what else they were mixed up in?’
He’s brushing us off. Veerle could feel her temper rising. ‘It’s too much of a coincidence,’ she told him hotly. ‘Both of them Koekoeken—’
‘Nevertheless—’ began Fred, and then Kris interrupted both of them.
‘Vlinder and Horzel, did they know each other outside the group?’
Fred gave him an outraged look. ‘How should I possibly know that?’
‘Well, who introduced them to the Koekoeken? Did one of them introduce the other?’
He won’t remember that, thought Veerle, but to her surprise he did.
‘No. Gregory introduced Vlinder, and some friend of his seconded it. I don’t recall who. Egbert – I introduced him myself.’
‘Who seconded him?’ asked Kris.
‘No one.’ Fred’s pale gaze rested on him for a moment. ‘It was not necessary, since he was personally known to me. And Egbert is a very useful person. Was a very useful person.’ He sat back. ‘Unfortunately, he was also a rather unpredictable person. It’s impossible to say what else he was involved in.’
‘You knew him?’ blurted out Veerle. ‘He was your friend?’ She could feel indignation bubbling up again from some magmatic chamber deep inside her. How can he sit there arguing so coolly when one of his friends is dead?
‘Friend?’ repeated Fred. ‘No, it wasn’t really a friendship. More of a’ – he thought for a moment – ‘symbiosis. Egbert was able to access properties for me, you see. Not the sort of places you two probably visit.’ He sniffed. ‘Beautiful, ancient buildings. Sometimes I do what small things I can to maintain them. Sometimes all I can do is record their beauty before it crumbles.’ He nodded at one of the black-and-white blow-ups on the wall.
‘And what did Egbert get in return?’ asked Kris.
Fred shrugged. ‘A chance to break the rules. To break the law, in fact, since all these places are private property.’ He glanced from Kris to Veerle. ‘He wasn’t, as you two appear to be, involved in it for the social aspect.’
Veerle saw a stormy expression cross Kris’s face, but he didn’t rise to the bait.
‘So as far as you know,’ he asked levelly, ‘Vlinder and Egbert didn’t know each other?’
Fred dipped his head. ‘So far as I know.’
‘So the only connection between them is the Koekoeken,’ persisted Kris.
‘Still a coincidence,’ commented Fred. He put a hand on the desk, palm down, as though laying down a deck of cards. ‘Look, people die. We are all going to die – one day. It is tragic that this has happened to
Vlinder and to Egbert, but you cannot assume there is any connection.’
‘Well, what about the British girl, Clare?’ asked Veerle. She felt very tempted to stand up and lean over the desk with its highly polished surface and watch her reflection reach out and slap Fred very hard around the face. When she looked at that cool, unruffled expression she could almost feel the smooth skin of his cheek under her open hand. With an effort she kept her seat.
‘Clare?’ repeated Fred.
‘Yes, the girl who vanished from the house near Oudergem Woud.’
Of course, Fred knew whom she meant; hadn’t he posted a warning on the website, that everyone should avoid that house? Now he was looking from her to Kris and back again with apparent incomprehension.
‘If you mean whom I think you mean, she vanished from England,’ Fred pointed out.
‘But the police think she came back to her parents’ house,’ said Kris.
‘We don’t know that.’
‘The media were filming outside it,’ Kris pointed out. ‘They must have had some reason for doing that.’
Fred looked at him. ‘Nevertheless, I don’t see what this has to do with Vlinder and Egbert. You have been trying to tell me that what happened to them was something to do with the group. This girl, Clare, wasn’t one of the Koekoeken.’
Kris didn’t look at Veerle, he kept his eyes on Fred, but Veerle could almost sense the words Told you so drifting towards her. He was silent for almost half a minute, thinking. Then he said, ‘Something may have happened to her in that house. A Koekoeken house.’
Veerle held her breath, waiting for Fred to ask the inevitable questions, for Kris to reply.
This is it. This is where we tell him we saw her.
For a long moment Fred said nothing at all. Then: ‘Why do you think that?’
‘Because we went there. To that house.’
‘When?’
‘February. Before they reported her missing on TV and you warned everyone off.’
‘A precaution,’ said Fred.
‘We got to the house and we were about to go in when we realized there was someone already inside,’ said Kris.
‘How?’
‘A light was on. So we went round to the back of the house to see if we could see anything.’
‘And you saw this girl?’
‘We saw something. Veerle looked in through the kitchen window and saw someone lying on the floor.’
‘The girl?’ Fred sounded shocked.
‘We don’t know. All she saw was a hand.’
‘A girl’s hand,’ Veerle cut in. ‘And it was still. Completely still. I thought at first maybe she was sick, maybe she’d collapsed. But we looked again and then we saw someone standing up.’
‘So she was all right?’ Fred sounded a little mystified, as though he wondered where this was going.
‘It wasn’t her. It was a man,’ Veerle told him.
‘So let me be clear,’ said Fred. ‘You saw a hand and thought it belonged to a girl, but then you saw a man?’
‘It wasn’t the same person,’ said Veerle firmly.
‘I see. And did you see this man attack the other person? Is that what you are saying?’
‘No—’ How can I tell him what I saw? She recalled the strange, vague feeling of dread that had come over her when she saw that figure unfold to his full height behind the kitchen unit. It had been more than just the realization that he was tall and broad-shouldered, hulking, probably strong enough to knock her down with a single blow. There had been something wrong, something that had made her hackles rise instinctively; she had felt that as strongly as if she had been leaning over the concrete rim of a big cat enclosure, watching tigers rending a side of beef, the air thick with the pungent yellow scent of jungle animal.
‘There was just something wrong,’ she said, wishing that she could think of some better way of expressing it.
‘What did you do?’ asked Fred. ‘Did you call the police?’
‘No,’ put in Kris.
‘Why not, if there was “something wrong”?’
‘Because we weren’t sure what we’d seen.’
Fred’s eyebrows went up.
‘But look,’ Kris went on, ‘the house was supposed to be empty. The people who owned it, Clare’s family, they were away. While they were away, Clare vanished, and we saw a girl lying on the floor in the kitchen.’
‘But you didn’t feel concerned enough to call anyone,’ Fred pointed out.
‘That was before Egbert,’ said Kris.
‘You see a pattern,’ said Fred. ‘But there is no pattern. This British girl, she had nothing to do with us. Maybe you saw her. Who knows? But I don’t see what that has to do with Egbert – or Vlinder.’ He glanced at Veerle and the expression in his grey eyes was unreadable. ‘Two quite separate deaths and a disappearance. Tragic, yes, but there is no pattern.’
‘It may be more than those three,’ said Kris grimly. ‘There’s Hommel. Her real name is Els Lievens.’
‘I know,’ remarked Fred. ‘And what is the problem with Mademoiselle Lievens?’
Out of the corner of her eye Veerle saw an almost imperceptible movement. She glanced down and realized that Kris’s right hand had curled into a fist; the knuckles were white.
When he spoke, however, his voice was quite neutral. ‘She’s vanished too.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Nobody’s seen her for weeks.’ Kris looked Fred straight in the eye, challenging him to try brushing this aside. ‘She doesn’t answer calls, either to her home or to her mobile. Veerle went and talked to her mother and she doesn’t know where Hommel is either.’
Fred glanced at Veerle and she was irritated to see an assessing air about the look. She glared at him.
‘Has the mother reported the disappearance?’ asked Fred.
‘She’s under her husband’s thumb,’ said Kris shortly. ‘Hommel’s stepfather. He’s not reporting it, partly because she’s over eighteen but mainly because he’s a klootzak.’
If Fred was taken aback by this piece of Flemish invective tacked onto the end of a stream of French he gave no sign of it.
‘If her own family aren’t concerned, why should you be?’ he asked Kris, and Veerle was infuriated to see his gaze flicker back to her for a moment. ‘Are you one of the friends trying to call her? Maybe she doesn’t want to speak to you.’
‘It’s not just me,’ said Kris tightly. ‘Koen has been trying to contact her to get back the keys from the last place she visited. He’s left half a dozen messages. It’s clear he’s not going to give up. It’s more trouble than it’s worth for her to ignore him.’
Fred eyed him for a moment. Then he said, ‘I think we can clear up the question of Hommel. She returned the keys to me a few days ago.’
Veerle heard Kris say, ‘What?!’ but she was too stunned to even look at him. She stared at Fred as though she could not believe what she had just heard.
‘You saw her?’ Kris was saying.
‘No, of course not. You think I encourage people to come here? She sent them in a padded envelope.’
‘Was there a note?’
‘I don’t know.’ Fred threw up his hands. ‘No – well, I believe there was a label attached to the keys.’
‘Do you still have it?’
‘No. I sent them on to Koen.’
‘How long ago was this?’ asked Kris.
‘A few days. A week perhaps – or ten days.’
‘So,’ said Kris slowly, ‘you don’t actually know that it was Hommel who returned the keys.’
‘Who else would it be?’ demanded Fred. He shook his head. ‘Why look beyond the obvious?’
‘Because we can’t afford not to,’ snapped Kris. The colour was rising in his face.
‘It’s a fairy story,’ said Fred. ‘No – a horror story. You have created a horror story.’ He leaned forward again, his grey eyes bright and ironic. ‘What is your theory, then? You think that someone inside th
e group is making people disappear? There is absolutely nothing to base that upon. Two deaths – regrettable, yes, but neither of them was found indoors, much less in one of our houses. A completely unconnected disappearance of some spoiled expat girl who is probably in Ibiza with an unsuitable boyfriend. And Hommel, who has also vanished, according to you, but apparently not to any location lacking a post office.’
There was a sharp screech as Kris stood up, pushing back his chair. Veerle had the satisfaction of seeing the ironic expression drop from Fred’s smooth features in an instant. Now he was leaning back in his own chair, his hands clasping the arms so tightly that the knuckles were white, and his mouth was open.
‘What if you’re wrong? What then?’ Kris barked at him. ‘Someone else could be next.’
‘Calm yourself,’ said Fred faintly, but Veerle thought that in truth he was the one who needed to calm down – the colour had drained from his face, and when he stretched out a hand as though to ward Kris off she saw that his fingers were trembling. Kris had noticed too; he drew in a deep breath and backed off, sinking back into his chair. But he didn’t take his eyes off Fred.
‘Why did you come here?’ Fred asked him querulously. ‘If you think your friend has disappeared, why didn’t you go straight to the police?’
‘Because we’re all involved,’ Kris told him. ‘How many of us are there? Twenty-five? Thirty?’
‘Over forty,’ said Fred.
‘Once we tell the police, they’re going to want to see everyone, all forty. They’re going to want names, and they’re going to want a list of houses. Maybe they won’t care too much about the old ones, the ones where nobody lives, especially if you’ve been doing them up. But what do you think the owners of the other places are going to say – the big smart houses in Auderghem and Tervuren? We’ll be dead meat.’
If Fred had looked grey before, now he looked as though he were about to faint.
His hands moved convulsively and Veerle saw his gaze flickering about the room, panic-stricken, dancing from Kris to herself to the black-and-white pictures on the walls. She could see quite clearly what he was thinking, could almost pick it up like a radio signal: They can’t touch me, I didn’t do anything, I only did the old places. I renovated them, for God’s sake. Oh God, oh God, let this be a bad dream.
