by Pieter Aspe
“Together with Leonardo da Vinci, my dear friends, Michelangelo was the most complete artist of the Italian Renaissance.”
The church official held forth in French and English alternately.
“Don’t forget that the fifteenth century marked the beginning of a new era. Michelangelo and Leonardo were the forerunners of a movement that opened up new horizons for Western European civilization. Michelangelo Buonarroti was a uomo universale. He was self-aware, arrogant, and quirky. He locked horns with popes and refused to submit to the ossified rules that limited artistic expression. Michelangelo’s creations are refined works of art, and this statue is an excellent example.”
Every head turned toward the Madonna. Van In looked on, amused. The guide was a pompous blowhard, but he had succeeded nevertheless in fascinating his audience.
“Permit me an anecdote,” the man continued.
His audience was at once all ears, and that pleased him intensely.
“They say that when Michelangelo was commissioned to fashion the statue, he went in search of an appropriate model. He was intent on sculpting a young woman with the innocence of a virgin and the noble features of a lady. After a lengthy search, he found a girl who was prepared to pose for him, and because she had aristocratic blood in her veins he called her la contessina. While carving his statue, he fell in love with her, but his love remained unrequited. As was the custom in those days, la contessina was married off to a wealthy Florentine merchant. Michelangelo, who strongly opposed parochialism in all its forms, was so frustrated that he chiseled the initials MF in the statue’s plinth.”
The audience was spellbound. The guide’s anecdote had made more of an impression than his complex explanation of the Italian Renaissance.
“Since we know,” the man continued in a self-satisfied tone, “that Michelangelo never signed any of his other works, that makes our Bruges Madonna very special indeed. The statue is an ode to the love of a great artist for his Florentine sweetheart. ‘MF,’ ladies and gentlemen, stands for ‘mia Fiorentina,’” he concluded with a dramatic cadence. “My little Florentine girl.”
The elderly church employee conjured a heavenly smile and accepted his tips with exaggerated gratitude.
Van In cast a final glance at the statue and ambled nonchalantly toward the exit. When he was outside, he realized that the icy church interior had offered protection after all from the cutting wind. He turned up his collar and tried to suppress his shivers by walking at a sturdy pace. An Irish coffee would do him the world of good.
12
“YOU DON’T SOUND VERY ENTHUSED,” Versavel sniggered.
“Do you want to take my place?” Van In grunted. He lit a cigarette and started to pace nervously up and down.
“That’s what you get, Commissioner. Dura lex sed lex—the law is hard, but it’s still the law.”
“And durex sed hard sex,” Van In snapped. Versavel laughed out of politeness.
“Vandekerckhove isn’t just any old bugger. Not to mention the fact that I don’t have a leg to stand on,” Van In sighed.
“What did he sound like?”
“God the Father. His lordship can see me at ten-thirty, but he has to be in Paris for a three-thirty.”
“Then I’d get a move on,” said Versavel. “Or shall I order one of our mounted colleagues to ride ahead of you and clear the way?”
Travel Inc.’s headquarters, a tasteless angular cube of mirrored glass and steel, dominated the skyline of Zeebrugge’s harbor district. The multicolored signposts leading to the edifice were a waste of money: the monstrosity was impossible to miss.
Travel Inc. had started life thirty years earlier as a small family concern. Now it was one of the biggest tour operators in Benelux.
Georges Vandekerckhove had transformed his father’s taxi business into a modern multinational. The company had an annual turnover of 14 billion Belgian francs and employed no fewer than three thousand people. Vandekerckhove and his youngest brother Ronald ran their business empire with a firm hand.
Van In was blessed with a more or less complete ignorance of macroeconomic models and the imperative laws that control the world of moneymaking. It didn’t interest him in the least. He parked his Ford Sierra nonchalantly in the parking area in front of the building, next to the spaces reserved for the management. He stubbed out his cigarette in the unused ashtray and retrieved his jacket from the back seat.
The parking lot was kept free of snow. Travel Inc. didn’t have an orange sun in its logo for nothing. If your business was promoting travel to warmer southern climes, you didn’t want the parking lot in front of the company’s motherhouse looking like a film set for Amundsen Discovers the South Pole.
Van In made his way to the central entrance hall and presented himself at the reception desk. The receptionist, a painted Barbie Doll lookalike and the product no doubt of some Flemish modeling academy, welcomed him with an American smile.
“Let me see if Mr. Georges is in his office,” she said in cultivated West Flemish.
She worked the switchboard keys with the speed of a seasoned Internet surfer. As a phone discreetly buzzed elsewhere in the building, she glanced almost bashfully in Van In’s direction. He instinctively pulled in his belly.
“Mr. Georges can see you in fifteen minutes,” she said in a moment, pretending to be important. “If you wouldn’t mind waiting?”
She pointed toward a sitting area surrounded by fake palm trees.
An enormous clock—a sun with huge blue hands—read nine-forty. Van In looked around for an ashtray but didn’t find one. He lit a cigarette anyway. Miss Monroe coughed conspicuously but left him alone.
The telephone buzzed constantly, and just as Van In was crushing his third cigarette on the immaculate floor with the heel of his shoe, ex-Miss North Sea Cod gestured that he could go on up.
“Mr. Georges is on the sixth floor,” she said, grinning from ear to ear.
Van In kicked the cigarette butts under the fake palm trees and followed her pointing finger.
Travel Inc.’s headquarters were Georges Vandekerckhove’s visiting card, and that was the way he wanted it. Lithographs by Dali and Modigliani graced the walls, and there was also a kitsch reproduction of Van Gogh’s Irises. For Travel Inc., the destitute Dutchman’s sun-drenched canvas signified cash.
The deep-pile wall-to-wall carpet in Travel Inc. orange and blue added an extra spring to his step. The obligatory couches were made of leather, their frames of tropical hardwood. Hundreds of halogen lamps came relatively close to reproducing natural sunlight.
Van In announced his presence by pressing the buzzer next to the typical red and green panels: wait or enter. It took a good thirty seconds before the green enter panel lit up.
Georges Vandekerckhove was sitting behind his impressive desk with the telephone wedged between his cheek and his shoulder. His hair had been fashionably gelled and combed by an expensive hairdresser, but it still wasn’t enough to disguise the fact that the boss of Travel Inc. was almost bald. In an ordinary suit, without the trendy shirt, extravagant silk tie, and liposome cream, he could have passed for an ordinary office clerk.
Vandekerckhove gestured nonchalantly that Van In should sit.
“Egypt’s promising to be a fiasco this year,” Van In heard him say on the phone. “Traffic fell by sixty percent over the last eighteen months. Hotel capacity is massive, of course. The five-stars are selling at less than cost. Even free flights don’t seem to be making the difference.”
Vandekerckhove laughed apologetically and pointed to a tray with a pair of chrome-plated thermos bottles. He pushed a porcelain cup in Van In’s direction with his free hand.
“Turkey’s down forty-five percent. Even Greece is suffering from this PKK business. Our people on Rhodes are at a complete loss after last year’s bomb attack.”
Van In grabbed a thermos
and filled the cup. In contrast to the usual office sludge, he recognized the aroma of pure Colombian coffee, freshly ground and perfectly prepared. A rare treat.
“And Morocco isn’t any better. As soon as people hear the word ‘fundamentalist’ on the TV, they cancel in droves.”
“No, not Algeria,” Vandekerckhove snapped in response to an apparent remark from the other end of the line.
“Our clients don’t distinguish between Morocco and Algeria. For them, a burnoose is a burnoose and a camel is a camel.”
The man at the other end of the conversation probably offered an apology, judging from the smile that appeared on Vandekerckhove’s face and his cheerful tone as he continued.
“Ebola?” he roared suddenly.
There was silence for a moment. Van In presumed that Vandekerckhove was now being given a lecture about the deadly virus.
“Don’t let it worry you. Central Africa is a limited market … a loss we can absorb without feeling it.”
Van In looked out of the window for the sake of appearance. In the distance he could see a passenger ferry struggling valiantly against the North Sea tide.
“You’re absolutely right. Before long we’ll be left with Europe and nothing else, and let me tell you, my friend, the old continent is saturated. The Spanish have gone back to renting out goat sheds, and they even have trailers in the Provence with two floors.”
Van In took a second cup, filled it with coffee, and slipped it across the desk. Vandekerckhove nodded jovially and sipped sparingly.
“No, that’s news to me.”
Vandekerckhove’s voice changed pitch. In a fraction of a second, a look of concern filled his eyes.
“Listen, Jean. Call me back after ten tonight. I have an urgent meeting.”
He wasn’t ashamed to let Van In be a witness to his obvious lie.
“I’ll take care of that this afternoon,” said Vandekerckhove sullenly, and he ended the conversation.
“So what can I do for you, Commissioner?”
The sour expression on his face made way, as if by magic, for his infamous Travel Inc. Smile.
“Assistant Commissioner Van In. Pieter Van In.”
He liked to introduce himself Bond-style: Van In. Pieter Van In.
“Precisely,” Vandekerckhove laughed. “Sorry to keep you waiting. There’s never a dull moment round here.”
“The girl at reception was also pretty busy,” said Van In amiably. “I imagine it’s hard to find capable and presentable staff, both capable and presentable I mean.” Vandekerckhove’s smile suddenly disappeared. He pushed back his chair and folded his arms in expectation. Van In was uncharacteristically restrained. Vandekerckhove had consciously kept him waiting, so he felt no immediate need to come to the point.
“You have a magnificent company, Mr. Vandekerckhove. Business appears to be booming,” he said, giving the impression that he hadn’t been listening to the telephone conversation. “Not surprising, when you think of it. People want to travel, no matter what the economic situation is. Vacationing these days is big business. Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Vandekerckhove?”
“I wish you were right, Commissioner, from the bottom of my heart. But don’t forget that the sector is under enormous pressure. The competition is cutthroat, and consumers punish us for the least mistake.”
The cunning old fox didn’t flinch.
“But aren’t you insured against that kind of eventuality?” asked Van In with a twinkle in his eye.
Vandekerckhove ran his fingers through his thinning hair and took a symbolic sip of sugarless coffee.
“I presume you’re not here to book a holiday.” He clearly wanted to redirect the conversation.
“No, indeed, not for a holiday,” said Van In obliquely.
Vandekerckhove’s nerves shifted gear. His nostrils quivered and he started to rub his feet together.
“I wanted ask you a couple of questions in relation to the murder of Dietrich Fiedle.”
Vandekerckhove remained emotionless. “Poor Dietrich. I read something about it in the papers.”
He took off his glasses and rubbed the lenses with his silk tie. Then he shook his head. “Herr Fiedle was a valued business acquaintance. It’s all such a pity. If this had happened in New York or Mexico City, we could write it off to occupational hazard; but in Bruges!”
Van In felt uneasy. All he had to go on was the word of a whore.
“May I ask when you last saw Dietrich Fiedle?”
Vandekerckhove threw back his head. Van In watched his every move. This was a crucial question.
“One moment, Commissioner.”
He pressed the button on the intercom.
“Liliane, can you check and see when Mr. Fiedle was last here?”
“Certainly, sir,” he heard Liliane answer.
Vandekerckhove smiled and replaced his glasses, clearly at his ease. Van In had never seen a fattened vulture with glasses before.
“And are you making progress with the case, Commissioner? I presume you at least have something to go on. Evidence, a tip?”
His bulging lips looked like a pair of bicycle inner tubes with a kink in the middle.
“We have a suspect,” said Van In dryly. “But I can’t reveal any details, as you can imagine.”
Vandekerckhove was speechless for a moment, but Liliane saved the day.
“Mr. Fiedle was last here on February 15,” the intercom announced.
“Thank you, Liliane.”
His triple chin jiggled like Jell-O on the hood of a truck.
“So you didn’t meet with him on March 11? Privately, I mean,” Van In asked, pressing the point.
Vandekerckhove moistened his lips and pressed the tips of his fingers together.
“Mr. Van In.” He stressed each syllable. “On March 11 and 12, I was in Nice at a conference.”
The man’s self-satisfaction was thick enough to slice, bordering on arrogance. Van In was at a loss. His entire theory was collapsing in front of him like a house of cards.
“And you have witnesses to confirm it?”
“Dozens, Mr. Van In,” Vandekerckhove sneered. “Would you like me to name a few names?”
His chin jiggled once again, but this time the malignance in his narrow piggy eyes was undisguised. He pressed the button on the intercom with a resolute forefinger.
“Liliane, would you be good enough to bring in the reservations and tickets for my last flight to Nice?” Vandekerckhove leaned back in his expensive executive chair, evidently at his ease.
“There’s no need, Mr. Vandekerckhove. I believe you, honestly,” Van In said, making light of the situation. “We have to follow up every lead, you understand.”
“But of course, Mr. Van In. Another coffee? Or can I tempt you to try something with a little more punch?”
“No, thank you, Mr. Vandekerckhove. We don’t drink on duty,” said Van In without batting an eyelid.
“Nonsense. It’s almost eleven. An aperitif won’t hurt.”
“I’d rather not, sir. I want to be back in Bruges by twelve, and it’s not going to be easy in this weather.” For someone who had to be in Paris at three-thirty, Vandekerckhove seemed to be in no hurry.
Liliane was the prototype of the perfect secretary. She wore an elegant two-piece and trailed a cloud of Chanel n° 5.
“The reservation and the tickets, sir,” she said discreetly. “And a copy for the Commissioner,” she added unrequested.
“Thank you, Liliane.”
She placed the plastic folder on his desk and disappeared without a sound.
“Mr. Fiedle wasn’t having problems, was he?” Van In asked.
“Dietrich? No. But if Dietrich had enemies, then you’d have to look for them in Germany.”
Vandekerckhove handed Van In the folder wit
h the photocopied documents.
“Dietrich was a colorless man. He lived for his work. And I would be surprised if any of his friends and acquaintances were even aware that he held a top job at Kindermann. If you ask me, his murder was an accident.”
People don’t get murdered by accident, Van In wanted to say. “In any case, thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Vandekerckhove,” he said instead.
“My pleasure, Mr. Van In. Feel free to call if you think I can be of further assistance.”
Vandekerckhove got to his feet and accompanied Van In to the door. That was his way of rounding off a conversation.
Van In marched through the main hall. The conversation with Vandekerckhove had confused him. He couldn’t understand why Véronique would have lied. Why had she called him in the first place? Vandekerckhove was her boss, more or less. By betraying him, she had put her future on the line. One word from mister big man at Travel Inc. would be enough to send her back to the tundra. Van In tore a piece of paper from his pocket schedule and wrote her name in block capitals followed by a wobbly question mark. Outside, the biting cold stole his breath and he sought the shelter of his car as fast as he could.
13
EXAMINING MAGISTRATE JORIS CREYTENS WENT home earlier than usual. No one at the courthouse cared. The majority were happy he was gone.
After the seven-thirty news, he retired to his study as he did every night. He wife took care of the few dishes they had used at dinner and tidied the living room. She was planning to watch TV.
The examining magistrate had problems with acid indigestion. The pickled herring he had eaten at dinner hadn’t agreed with him. But the frugal meal didn’t explain his sullen mood. Suzanne was a nightmare in the kitchen and usually served crap. They had been married for thirty years and the only dish she was good at was instant soup. She once tried to prepare a joint of roast beef. Creytens remembered looking on with pain in his heart as she dumped the cremated lump of meat in the trash.
