The Midas Murders

by Pieter Aspe

  “Good morning, Deputy Martens.”

  Croos jumped to his feet and rushed to meet her. Vermeire followed the greeting ritual through the window. Enough to confuse a blind eunuch, he thought to himself, licking his lips. Hot!

  “Your assistant informs me you’re extremely busy, Commissioner. So I won’t keep you.”

  Her sarcasm flew over his head. She was wearing a black jersey dress, tight-fitting, elastic, that adapted automatically to the shape of her body.

  With a gallant gesture, Croos invited her to sit; then he returned to his desk. He spirited the soggy Kleenex into the wastebasket as inconspicuously as he could. Hannelore deliberately looked the other way and casually flicked her ponytail with the back of her hand. Her short hair bounced back into shape.

  “I came to ask if we have new information on the Dietrich Fiedle murder.”

  She crossed her legs. Croos lowered his gaze and took a mouthful of cold coffee in the confusion. It burned like citric acid on an open wound.

  “I sent you the autopsy report, ma’am, together with the official depositions and a list of the victim’s personal possessions.”

  He hadn’t told Creytens about this. If the investigating magistrate got wind of it, he would be in serious shit.

  “Yes, Commissioner, they arrived safely. But I presume you also contacted the German federal police,” she said with a hint of derision. “And I presume you had the lab take a look at the photos.”

  “The photos!” Croos covered his eyes with his hand. “I completely forgot about them. What an idiot. One moment, I’ll contact Leo Vanmaele.”

  He grabbed the telephone. This was the opening move in a procedure known as “le système parapluie,” with an exclusively Belgian patent. The philosophy is simple: if you’re in trouble, find a subordinate to take the blame.

  “No need, Commissioner. I’m sure Mr. Vanmaele will let me know directly if there’s anything unusual.”

  Croos bit his bottom lip. Bitch, he thought.

  “Perhaps it’s time to send someone to Germany with a rogatory letter,” he said parenthetically.

  Creytens would forgive him this indiscretion. A rogatory letter is, after all, an official document. She was bound to find out, sooner or later.

  “Did the investigating magistrate talk to you about an official visit?” she said, fishing for more.

  The wrinkles around his eyes tightened. “I can’t say.”

  Hannelore didn’t believe him. Police people often forget that they can be very clumsy liars.

  “Then why raise the issue?” she snapped.

  Croos tried to look her in the eye as he forced his lips into a relaxed smile. “Wouldn’t a rogatory letter make sense, ma’am? For us, Fiedle is an unknown German businessman who happened to get himself murdered in Bruges for some shady reason or other. Extending our investigation to Germany might bring extra clarity.”

  Croos found his own argument convincing. He thought he had succeeded in distracting her, but from the frown on her forehead it didn’t look as if she shared his opinion.

  “And the witness?”

  “Witness, ma’am?”

  Hannelore leaned forward, and Croos did his best not to peer down her cleavage.

  “Adriaan Frenkel. According to the police, he was the last to see the victim alive.”

  Croos suppressed a sigh. It was common knowledge that Van In and Martens were screwing each other, and there was little point in asking her where she got her information.

  He stared at the deputy open-mouthed for a second or two, trying to work out why such a gorgeous specimen would want to hang out with a drunk like Van In.

  “Didn’t you receive the report?” she asked bluntly. “Surely someone has to contact Frenkel.”

  Of course someone should have contacted the Hollander, but Creytens had explained why it made sense not to. Croos knew well and good that young magistrates weren’t much interested in the discretionary-powers principle.

  “I should inform you, ma’am, that Investigating Magistrate Creytens has charge of the case,” he answered evasively. “But I’m sure he would be happy to discuss the dossier with you personally.”

  Hannelore crossed her legs anew. The slit in her dress reached far above the knee. She now knew the score.

  Tacent, satis laudant, she heard Professor Daems proclaim. Daems, like Timperman, was a monument. He taught criminology, and the auditorium was always full when he was lecturing.

  Silence is answer enough. Daems resorted to Terence at the drop of a hat. A story did the rounds in her student days that a nervous freshman was rewarded with twelve out of twenty for blurting “Tacent, satis laudant” in response to a difficult exam question.

  “Is there anything more I can do for you, ma’am?”

  “No, Commissioner,” she smirked.

  The anecdote about the dumbstruck student stayed with her. Croos was convinced she was laughing at him. He turned his gaze away from her legs. When she stood, he remained seated like a paralyzed vulture.

  “Have a good day, Commissioner.”

  “I genuinely hope so,” he responded indifferently. The bitch left him cold. When she was gone, he summoned Vermeire and had him fetch a bottle of vodka from the store around the corner.

  15

  “HI.”

  Hannelore scurried inside and gave him a shivering kiss. Van In had slept off his hangover and felt great. He was happy to see her.

  “I’m making hot chocolate. Just for you. Take off your coat and grab a seat by the fire. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  Under her beige gabardine raincoat she was wearing an amply low-cut dress in shiny silk. His T-shirts were longer.

  “No wonder you’re frozen to the bone.”

  There wasn’t a lot of empathy in his words. He didn’t have the energy, the concentration, needed for empathy: he couldn’t keep his eyes off her when she was scantily dressed.

  “I was just about to leave for De Korre when Versavel called. It’s always sweltering in the stalls!” she said apologetically. “And I had to park the car in the Biekorf.”

  “What’s a couple of hundred yards on foot for a date with Romeo?” Van In smirked.

  “It’s a little warmer in Verona at this time of year, Romeo.”

  She settled elegantly on the couch and massaged her own shoulders with her arms crossed. Van In retreated to the kitchen and poured a quart of milk into a saucepan.

  “Versavel sounded worried on the phone,” she shouted from the living room. “That’s why I rushed over as fast as I could. So, what’s the matter?”

  Van In didn’t hear her question through the clatter of cups and saucers. “When did Guido call?”

  “Twenty minutes ago. He kept apologizing.”

  Van In stirred chunks of dark chocolate into the milk. He had to stir continuously to keep the mix from burning.

  The powerful aroma of chocolate made her mouth water, even from that far away. A splash of cognac, and it was right up there with the nectar of the gods.

  “Cognac?” he asked as if he could read her thoughts.

  Van In knew what Hannelore liked, and the bottle was already uncorked.

  “A splash,” she shouted.

  He managed a little more than a splash. In fact, if he had been cooking with gas, the whole thing would have gone up in flames.

  “What’s playing at De Korre?” asked Van In as he placed the cups of piping hot chocolate on the coffee table.

  “The Raphaels, an absurd piece about deranged archangels.” Theater wasn’t his thing. And she didn’t have to bother him with the details.

  “Never heard of it. Modern, or what?”

  “Postmodern,” she chuckled. “That’s why I didn’t ask you to join me.”

  “Excellent, then I don’t have to feel guilty that you’re
missing it,” he said cheerfully.

  Van In sat down beside her and wrapped his arm around her shoulder. He stared into the flames and didn’t say a word. Versavel had contacted her. The commissioner’s mood swings had been getting worse. Up and down like a bungee cord.

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” said Hannelore after a minute. “Go on,” she wheedled when he barely reacted. “Your servant is listening.”

  Van In wrapped his free hand around his cup, but had to let go right away.

  “Muuuch too hot,” he grumbled.

  “Not yet,” she laughed, “but we’ve got plenty of time for that later.”

  Van In’s arm slipped from her shoulder, and he stared at the steaming cups of chocolate.

  “Come on, out with it, Pieter Van In,” she insisted. “There’s something on your mind. I know it.”

  There was no sense in sulking and pouting. Van In cleared his throat. This was awkward. She loved him, and he had cheated on her.

  “There’s nothing to be ashamed about.”

  She took his arm and returned it to her shoulder.

  “You been walking around like a peeved granddad the last couple of months. And don’t try to put me off with any of that midlife-crisis crap.”

  The words “midlife crisis” melted his modesty, his lack of self-confidence, and made him defiant. Women had problems with menopause, okay, that was a fact. But the midlife crisis was the invention of a bunch of butch feminists.

  “I’m waiting, Pieter Van In.”

  Her steadfast determination spiked his burgeoning defiance. He now understood why some successful business types were ready to part with a fortune now and again for the services of a leather-clad dominatrix.

  “I’ve hit financial rock bottom,” he finally admitted, reluctantly.

  Hannelore listened attentively to his story. When he finished speaking, she checked the temperature of the hot chocolate, wrapping her hand around the cup. He had never seen her drink so greedily.

  “You have a great place here, Pieter, don’t get me wrong. But I can’t figure why a real estate agent would be crazy enough to offer five million for it if he knows it would go for a lot less in a foreclosure auction.”

  “That’s what I thought at first,” said Van In. “But a quick call solved the mystery. Die Scone isn’t a third-rate real estate agency, not by any stretch of the imagination. It’s part of a much bigger concern. And guess who owns the controlling share.”

  “What difference does it make?” she asked.

  “Does Travel Inc. ring any bells?”

  Hannelore sat up and carefully put her cup on the coffee table.

  “You can’t be serious.”

  The warm blush on her cheeks and her wide-eyed surprise made him shudder.

  “Travel Inc. is a massive company,” he said. “If they’re willing to offer such an inflated price, they must know there’s a profit to be made.”

  “But the real estate sector is in crisis.”

  “And two years ago the pig breeders were up to their necks in swill,” said Van In.

  Hannelore looked at him and frowned. He couldn’t be drunk already, she thought.

  “Ease off, Hanne. Let me finish.”

  “Did I stop you?” She pulled him toward her for a cuddle. “Tell me. I’m listening.”

  “Well, a couple of years ago a television crew was interviewing a pig breeder. The reporter asked the hick farmer with more than a hint of condescension why he was buying up pigs left and right while the price of pork was nosediving.”

  “Sounds like a fairytale,” Hannelore whispered. She rubbed his shoulder with the side of her head.

  “Not far from it. And do you know what the farmer answered?”

  “No,” she said playfully.

  “Now, when pork isn’t profitable, nobody wants to breed. But that means a shortage in a couple of months, and then my pigs will be ripe for the slaughter.”

  “So you’re saying that Travel Inc.’s expecting a rush on property in Bruges?”

  “No idea. But Travel Inc. is the biggest tour operator in the country and Fiedle worked for Kindermann, which controls forty-five percent of the European travel market.”

  Hannelore shook her head, grabbed her cup, and took a mouthful of Van In’s excellent hot chocolate.

  “You’re not trying to tell me that there’s a connection between the Fiedle murder and the foreclosure of your house, are you?”

  It was inadvertent, but her words were like a vicious slap in the face. Rage began to gurgle in his gut like seething lava. He had expected sympathy, but had hit a brick wall instead. An irrepressible hopelessness overwhelmed him. He fell stubbornly silent. His hand felt like dead weight on her shoulder.

  Unlike Van In’s ex-wife, Hannelore wasn’t ready to throw in the towel. If depression sets in, she thought, we can forget the rest of the evening.

  “But it’s all hypothetical, Pieter. This house isn’t for sale. I’ll cash in some of my savings tomorrow and pay the arrears. More hot chocolate, please.”

  Her almost flippantly formulated suggestion stemmed the oncoming tide of melancholy. At least she understood him. It was time he got a grip.

  He stood up and headed into the kitchen.

  “We’re not talking a couple of hundred francs, Hanne,” he shouted. “And I’ve got no idea when I’d be able to start paying you back.”

  “I’ll deduct fifty francs for every cup of hot chocolate you make for me.” She pulled up her legs and snuggled into the couch. The warmth of the fire was making her sleepy. She thought of extra ways to spoil him later in the evening.

  “But I can’t accept your offer.”

  It didn’t sound particularly sincere, but he still felt he had to protest, if only a little.

  “Did I hurt your pride?”

  “What pride?” he replied predictably.

  “I know you, Pieter Van In. And I know this wasn’t easy,” she teased. “But you don’t have to concoct a conspiracy.”

  What made her say such a thing? The irrational heavy-heartedness returned. He clenched his lips. His breathing accelerated and he was on the point of hyperventilating.

  “You never let me fucking finish,” he screamed.

  Hannelore was shaken by his reaction. She’d thought that the tide had turned.

  “Sorry, sweetheart. I wasn’t trying to wind you up. It was a joke, nothing more.”

  She jumped to her feet and rushed to the kitchen. Van In was at the stove, stirring angrily. There were splashes of hot chocolate all over the place. He barely reacted when she pressed her body against his back. But he felt every bit of her, and the testosterone succeeded in pushing back the adrenaline, only just. The pressure in his chest subsided and his menacing jaw muscles loosened up.

  “Make sure it doesn’t burn, sugar, and tell me the rest when you’re done.”

  Her body registered relaxation. The anger in his lips curled into the beginnings of a crooked smile. As he continued to stir, he felt his woes slip from his shoulders like snow from a roof.

  “You’re priceless,” he said, positive and upbeat.

  “You too,” she laughed. “Literally, that is.”

  Van In was obliged to put the pan on the counter and take her in his arms. She smelled of warmed-up winter cold and charred birch logs.

  “The insiders are saying that Travel Inc. and Kindermann’s are about to merge,” said Hannelore when she sensed the tension refocus on another part of his body.

  “I read that too,” he said, his voice thin and fragile. “But—”

  “Don’t forget the hot chocolate.”

  Hannelore preferred to take things slow. A quickie in the kitchen was okay for teenagers.

  “Fine, but let me get on with it,” he said with a hint of disappointment.

  She gave
him a peck on the forehead and returned to the living room like a prissy vestal virgin.

  Van In told her about his meeting with Vandekerckhove over a second cup. When he was forced to reveal his source, she shifted the shoulder strap of her spotless bra. A routine gesture.

  “Is she pretty, Véronique?”

  “Not bad,” said Van In impartially. “I did her a favor once and—”

  “You don’t need to apologize, Pieter. I believe you, honestly.”

  He gulped, but luckily she didn’t notice.

  “So you’re still convinced there’s a connection between the German and Vandekerckhove.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Hannelore rubbed her nose pensively with the back of her forefinger. This was what she looked like when she was in court, listening to the defense.

  “If you ask me, there’s something not kosher about Vandekerckhove.”

  “Aha, at least they know that much at the public prosecutor’s office,” Van In exulted.

  “They call him the Flemish ‘Godfather,’” Hannelore admitted magnanimously.

  “Just like his buddy Viaene, the trendy oil baron with the dodgy lead-free gas,” he sneered. “The man screwed the state for three billion, and what did he get?”

  “Three months suspended,” she said, a little ashamed.

  “But that never surprised me. It’s a public secret that magistrates who filled up at his gas station got a discount.”

  “True,” she said resolutely. “I filled up at Viane’s. Does that make me corrupt?”

  “Not corrupt … depraved, perhaps, and ever so slightly voluptuous.”

  “Cool it, big boy.”

  She leaned forward, and Van In’s eyelids fluttered.

  “Correction, slightly depraved and very voluptuous.”

  “If you keep this up, I’ll be sleeping on the couch,” she threatened. “And don’t think the cognac’s going to make me cooperate.”

  “It’s the chocolate that does it,” he drawled. “Beats oysters any day.”