The Midas Murders

by Pieter Aspe

  Nicolai lowered his telescope. He figured he could be at the top in twenty minutes if all went well. He was determined to get the job done in less than an hour and a half, which made three in the morning the best moment to start the climb. According to statistics, even the hardiest of cops would be ready for a nap at that time of the night.

  Inspector Vollekindt of the Special Detective Division kept a careful eye on the tourist with the telescope. Under normal circumstances he probably wouldn’t even have noticed him. Thousands of people a year use telescopes to peer at the Belfort, but Vollekindt had been given orders to take note of anything or anyone suspicious.

  He pulled a compact Nikon from under his trench coat and snapped a few shots of the fishy tourist. The camera was loaded with super-sensitive 2000 ASA film. The light of a burning match was enough to ensure perfect photos.

  Vollekindt followed the man and stopped by the window of De Reyghere’s bookstore. The location allowed him to keep a perfect eye on the “suspect.”

  Nicolai sought shelter in one of the niches at the bottom of the Belfort and installed himself on a broad windowsill like a tramp settling in for the night. He barely noticed the man in front of the bookstore.

  He nestled into a corner and prized open the can of caviar with the bottom of the spoon. This was the height of decadence. He scooped a generous spoonful from the tightly packed tin. The gray crispy globules exploded between his tongue and the roof of his mouth. The saline nutty flavor of the Royal Black served as foreplay to a refined oral orgasm.

  17

  COMMISSIONER JASPER TJEPKEMA OF THE Groningen police called Van In’s private number. He knew it was Saturday, but he considered his reasons important enough to not have to wait until Monday.

  “Is this Assistant Commissioner Van In?” The Dutchman’s voice was clear and extremely agitated. “It’s about Adriaan Frenkel.”

  “Who? What?” Van In mumbled.

  Carton had just given him a serious dressing-down. The previous day’s escapades had evidently gone down the wrong way.

  “Can you repeat that?” the Dutchman asked politely.

  Van In tapped the mouthpiece with his finger, pretending it was faulty.

  “Just a second, I’ll pick up on another phone.” He waited ten seconds and cleared his throat.

  “Good morning, Commissioner Tjepkema. Pieter Van In speaking.”

  “That’s much clearer,” said Tjepkema. “I’m calling about Adriaan Frenkel.”

  “Have you been able to track him down?”

  “Well, yes, in a manner of speaking,” said Tjepkema. “Sorry to have kept you in the dark for so long, but we had been watching his apartment in Groningen and there had been no sign of him for days. Then one of the detectives discovered that he was spending time at his holiday home on Schiermonnikoog Island.”

  “Excellent,” said Van In. “Have you been able to question him?”

  “That’s the problem. Frenkel is dead. His holiday home was burned to the ground last night.”

  “Jesus H. Christ.”

  “What was that?”

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Van In repeated.

  Tjepkema raised his eyebrows, but didn’t take his Belgian colleague’s odd exclamation any further.

  “The fire department found his charred remains in the living room. We don’t know the cause of death yet. The autopsy should tell us more.”

  “A pity,” Van In sighed. “Have you searched his apartment in Groningen?”

  “I have a team on it as we speak. I’ll let you know right away if we find anything new.”

  “That’s very good of you, Commissioner Tjepkema. I’m afraid our friend Frenkel was caught up in a hornet’s nest. This fire seems a little too convenient for my liking.”

  “So you think Frenkel had information that wasn’t for public consumption,” Tjepkema concluded.

  “To say the least,” said Van In. “I’m giving priority to the investigation at this end. It’s high time we rounded things up. As soon as I know more, I’ll contact you.”

  “We have a deal, Commissioner Van In.”

  “Call me Pieter.”

  “Okay, Pieter. Jasper’s fine by me too. I’ll fax the autopsy report as soon as I have it.”

  “And I’ll keep you posted on evolutions here in Bruges.”

  “Excellent,” said Jasper Tjepkema.

  Versavel had followed the conversation, more or less. But the sergeant wasn’t exactly in the best mood either. He too had been put on the carpet by Carton, and the old bastard hadn’t pulled any punches. He had even threatened sanctions if the same excesses repeated themselves.

  “Frenkel’s dead,” said Van In almost enthusiastically.

  Versavel didn’t react. He switched on his word processor and started to type up a report.

  “Is something the matter?” asked Van In, surprised.

  Versavel stopped typing and looked sternly at Van In.

  “I think we should focus on the bomb attack,” he barked. “We’ve been on the case for five days and haven’t made an inch of progress. If we keep it up, we’ll have the public prosecutor’s office on our ass.”

  “Come on, Versavel. We stood up to De Kee for eight years. Don’t tell me you’re buckling under for Carton.”

  Versavel returned to his word processor and said nothing.

  “Guido! After everything we’ve been through together. Don’t do this!”

  “There’s a fundamental difference between Carton and De Kee,” Versavel replied dryly. “De Kee thought he knew it all, but Carton is right, Pieter. It’s getting out of hand.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Van In laughed sheepishly.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Pieter. You drink too much. You used to know your limits, but the last couple of months….”

  “Can’t a man celebrate being declared fit as a fiddle?” Van In snorted.

  “A stomach ulcer isn’t what I call fit as a fiddle,” Versavel retorted.

  “Okay,” said Van In. “According to you, I neglect my work. The old bastard’s treading water; and because he enjoys a drink now and then, the moral crusaders have decided he’s suffering from premature dementia. And that from a … from a … ”

  “Fucking faggot!” Versavel completed his sentence and shook his head. “I feel sorry for you, Pieter.”

  “Yeah, right. And spare me the Hannelore speech.”

  Versavel said nothing and returned to his work. He had finally said what he had to say. Anything further would only make things worse.

  “If it’s okay with the boss,” Van In said angrily, “then I plan to concentrate from now on on a still-unsolved bomb attack. And because the investigation isn’t likely to make much headway if overdue paperwork nails us both to our desks, I’ve decided to hit the street. Or does the boss think we can solve the case by staring at a goddamn word processor?”

  The entire floor shook when Van In slammed the door behind him. He was so angry, he almost knocked over a young cop.

  A motley bunch of visitors was poring eagerly over a selection of hefty reference works in the sweltering reading room, a representative cross-section of intellectual Flanders: a couple of awkward students, a balding writer specializing in legends and folklore, a pair of encyclopedia hags, and an elderly lady who had signed up for an ikebana course and wanted to read all about it in advance.

  A civilized young gentleman complete with neatly trimmed stubble and tortoiseshell frames was manning the counter.

  “I’d like to consult the Bruges Trade Journal for 1967, if I may,” said Van In before the young clerk had a chance to say “good day.”

  Van In was rarely mistaken when it came to sizing up civil servants, but this time he was wide of the mark: the young man was on his toes and exceptionally friendly.

  “C
ertainly, sir. Shall I fill out a form for you?”

  “Thank you,” said Van In, overwhelmed. He didn’t like surprises. Bureaucrats were supposed to be rude and impolite.

  “Take a seat at one of the tables in the meantime. I’ll bring you the documents as soon as they’re available.”

  If the friendly smile that followed was anything to go by, the young clerk meant every word.

  Less than five minutes later, a dust-covered bundle of frayed newspapers appeared on Van In’s table wrapped in a musty marbled cardboard binder that had clearly seen better days.

  “Would you like the entire year?” the clerk asked.

  Van In looked at him, not sure what his question meant.

  “This is the first semester,” the young man explained.

  “Thank you, but this will be enough to get me started.”

  Newspaper articles from the time were all he had to go on. By some coincidence or other, the public prosecutor’s office had managed to misplace the file on the ’67 bomb attacks. At least that’s what Croos had told him. Van In turned ten pages at a time until he came to the edition dated February 17. The headline said it all: bruges roused from its sleep by violent explosion.

  He read the article, which covered an entire page, and allowed the old-fashioned language to irritate him.

  “In the early hours of Monday February 13 around 3 a.m. a powerful bomb exploded on Burg Square. The device had been equipped with a timer and had been placed at the entrance to the courthouse. Alarmed residents rushed to the scene in their night attire and observed the resulting havoc with great consternation.”

  The journalist described the force of the explosion and the reaction of the locals who had been torn from their sleep in well-turned, melodramatic sentences.

  “Unimaginable damage was done to the centuries-old stained-glass windows of the Basilica of the Holy Blood…. A great loss for the city of Jan Breydel…. No trouble or expense should be spared to restore the magnificence … residents shocked at such a barbaric act of terror…. Governor sizes up the disaster in person….” Van In read the article line by line. He was still none the wiser. Coverage of the event was sprawled all over the two following editions of the weekly paper. The judicial inquiry struggled to get started. The public prosecutor’s office interrogated a number of random suspects, and the entire affair was shelved with alarming speed. The perpetrators were never found. Bruges’s public prosecutor’s office chugged along in those days like a Soviet Trabant declared unfit to drive: it produced a lot of smoke and made a lot of noise. In less than half an hour, Van In had read all the articles dealing with the bomb attack.

  Not of a mind to return to the station with his tail between his legs, Van In thumbed back through the pages. It made him feel nostalgic. An article near the front caught his eye.

  The police had arrested five troublemakers after a scrap at a nightclub on the coast. The gang’s leader, Luigi Scaglione, and his cronies were being held in Bruges’s prison, waiting for their case to be called to court. The journalist had clearly sunk his teeth into the affair and had managed to spread it out over six reports. Van In read each installment with increasing astonishment.

  “Excuse me, sir. The reading room closes at twelve-thirty.” Van In glanced at the enormous clock in front of him in disbelief. It read twelve-forty. He looked around. The room was empty.

  “We open again at two,” said the young clerk. He had already put on his coat and gloves.

  Van In could have pulled out his police ID and flatly insisted that the young man show some patience. American cops did that all the time on TV.

  “Sorry,” he said with a smile. “I lost track of time. I’ll come back this afternoon.”

  He closed the musty pile of newspapers and followed the clerk to the door.

  “Shall I reserve the entire year for you?” he asked as if he was talking about a best-seller.

  “Yes, do that. Thanks a lot.”

  Van In had to get used to the biting cold outside. He thought about treating himself to a couple of Duvels on Market Square, but changed his mind. Versavel’s sermon had haunted his thoughts while he was reading. They had worked together for more than eight years now, and he had never seen the calm and collected sergeant so worked up. It made more sense to go home now and return at one-thirty with some apologies.

  The sun suddenly broke through the clouds. A patch of clear blue sky peered through the monotonous gray. According to the weather guys, things weren’t likely to improve any time soon. The forecast was still snow, for at least three more days.

  Van In made his way to the Vette Vispoort bathed in sunshine. The sun followed him to the front door of his house.

  He found a can of mackerel in tomato sauce and a banana in the refrigerator. He emptied the mackerel onto a plate, sliced the banana, and started a pot of coffee brewing. As the coffee machine perked and spluttered, he tidied up the living room. He found a book under the coffee table and was about to return it to the bookcase….

  “That’s odd,” he mumbled. “Chaos.”

  Van In vaguely remembered that Versavel had been browsing through it that Wednesday when the sergeant had tucked him in.

  He opened the book and started to read. He poured himself a cup of coffee with the book in hand and sat down at the kitchen table. Completely captivated by the intriguing read, he squashed the slices of banana into the tomato sauce and wolfed it down together with a chunk of mackerel. The unusual combination was delicious.

  It was already dark when Versavel rang the bell. No one answered, and he headed away, fearing for the worst. The commissioner was capable of anything when he was depressed. For once in his life, he genuinely hoped that Van In was in a pub somewhere.

  “Hey, Guido,” he heard Van In shout.

  He turned back and saw the commissioner in the doorway, waving.

  “Thank God,” Versavel sighed, retracing his steps. “I thought you were out. I’ve been ringing the bell for the last five minutes.”

  “Come inside, Guido.”

  Van In had propped the book under his armpit.

  “Sorry for leaving you out in the cold. And I mean that both literally and figuratively.”

  Versavel took off his coat, and Van In hung it neatly on the coat stand.

  “Will you accept my apologies for this morning?”

  The sergeant stroked his moustache and grinned. The Versavel Van In knew and loved.

  “Of course, Commissioner. I wasn’t exactly easy on you either, and when you didn’t show up….”

  “You were right, Guido. It was time someone told me the truth. But you have to promise me one thing.”

  “Anything, Commissioner.”

  Van In ushered him into the living room and switched on the light.

  “Promise me that you’ll call me Pieter from now on. I’ve been sick of that Commissioner crap for years.”

  “At your command, Pieter,” Versavel laughed.

  Van In tossed a couple of firelighters into the fire, lit them, and arranged four logs of beech on the grate.

  “Sorry I abandoned you this afternoon, but you’re partly to blame … indirectly.”

  He showed him the book.

  “I finished it in one go, and I think we should let chaos theory loose on our mystery to see where it gets us.”

  Versavel took a seat and stared at the book. He was certain Van In hadn’t been drinking, but….

  “But I’ll come back to that later. First let me tell you what happened at the city library.”

  Versavel nodded submissively. He wanted to give the commissioner every credit.

  “Do you remember the Scaglione gang?”

  Versavel placed the book at his side and furrowed his brow.

  Van In rattled off energetically: “1967, a brawl in Knokke. Five people arrested, including Luigi Sca
glione, a notorious gangster stationed in Marseille.”

  “Weren’t they settling some score or something?” asked Versavel after a moment.

  The wood began to crackle and fill the room with a pleasant smell of smoke.

  “Exactly. Scaglione claimed that the nightclub owner owed him a million, and when the man refused to pay, his cohorts laid into him.”

  “It’s coming back to me,” Versavel mused. “A bit of a looker, that Scaglione.”

  “I hadn’t thought about it that way,” Van In sighed. “And don’t try to tell me that’s all you know about the case.”

  He poked the fire and maneuvered the logs into the best position.

  “There were problems with the court case,” Versavel said. “Scaglione insisted on appearing in front of a French-speaking tribunal, and I believe he finally got his way. The case was transferred to the district court in Tournai a couple of months later. If I’m not mistaken, he got a six-month suspended sentence.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with your memory, Guido. According to the papers, the judge decided on February 7 that Scaglione was not to be tried in Bruges, and on February 13 a bomb exploded in front of the courthouse.”

  “But Scaglione certainly couldn’t have had anything to do with that. Why would he use a bomb to press home his demands if they had already been granted a week earlier?”