The Midas Murders

by Pieter Aspe

“Shall I make some coffee?” asked Versavel with a worried expression on his face.

  “No objections, Guido. Stop me when you get bored.”

  “No way, Pieter. Your modus operandi fascinates me.”

  “Modus operandi is for criminals with no imagination, Guido. This is what the Americans call brainstorming.”

  “And you can only ward off a storm with chaotica,” Versavel teased.

  “The Dutchman bugs me,” said Van In as Versavel spooned coffee into the filter.

  “The Peruvian fart?”

  “So you do understand after all,” said Van In with a hint of admiration.

  “Small leaks sink ships. Chaotica is as old as the hills,” Versavel repeated.

  Van In stretched his legs. The sun was shining outside, and its oblique rays accentuated the presence of dust on the filing cabinets.

  “If the Dutchman is an accidental factor, we have to be extremely careful. Without strong evidence Vandekerckhove will grind us to pulp,” said Versavel, switching on the coffee machine and returning to his desk.

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” Van In sighed. “But without Frenkel, we would never have found out that Vandekerckhove had something to do with the murder.”

  20

  JASPER TJEPKEMA WAS EXPECTING A call from Belgium. The words of Adriaan Frenkel’s recently deceased uncle Meir had also made a deep impression on him.

  “Hello, Jasper. Pieter Van In here, Bruges Police.”

  “Hi, Pieter. I take it you’ve read the fax.”

  Tjepkema was due for retirement in six months. He had lived through the war, and the excesses of the Nazis still chilled him to the bone.

  “Unbelievable, don’t you think?”

  Van In gestured to Versavel that he should listen in. “The serpent has closed the circle,” he said cryptically.

  Tjepkema didn’t react. Belgians often used strange expressions he didn’t understand, and he didn’t want to appear stupid by asking for an explanation.

  “If you ask me, Frenkel was murdered, Jasper. The killer set the house on fire to get rid of the evidence.”

  “But he didn’t succeed,” said Tjepkema. “Meir’s notes were in Frenkel’s flat in Groningen, not on Schiermonnikoog Island. He stopped at the flat on his way from Bruges to his holiday house. A neighbor on Schiermonnikoog confirmed that he arrived on Monday evening.”

  “That’s something the killer could never have known,” said Van In.

  “Unless he asked around,” said Tjepkema. “I’ll send a team to question his neighbors in Groningen.”

  “Excellent, Jasper. Is there news from the autopsy?”

  “I’m expecting the report tomorrow, Pieter. Do you think he murdered Fiedle?”

  “We have to wait for some DNA results: there was a tiny piece of tissue under one of Fiedle’s nails. If the blood group matches, we’ll know we’re moving in the right direction.”

  “You must be running out of time,” said Tjepkema with a hint of pity.

  A DNA test took two weeks and offered close to 100% certainty. A test to determine a blood group only took minutes, but was virtually useless in terms of evidence.

  Van In wasn’t planning to take his colleague into his confidence. The connection between the bomb attack and Fiedle’s murder was nothing more than a hypothesis, and he was beginning to have serious doubts about it.

  “Fiedle was a big shot,” he answered evasively. “The quicker we get this behind us, the better.”

  “Beware of political pressure,” Tjepkema laughed. “Those bastards don’t have a clue about police work.”

  “Good advice, Jasper. It sounds as if you guys have the same trouble up north.”

  “It’s all over the place, my friend. We deal with it differently this side of the border, but people are people wherever they are.”

  “That’s what I call a word of encouragement,” said Van In in good spirits. “When the case is closed, you and your wife are welcome for a day out in Bruges, my treat. I’m anxious to meet you both.”

  “It’s a deal,” said Tjepkema. “Janet will love that.” Van In gave him his phone number, and they agreed to keep in touch on a regular basis.

  “What do you think, Guido?”

  Versavel took off the headphones and scratched his moustache.

  “If Frenkel’s the fart that turned the system upside down, why was he killed? Because of something he heard, or witnessed?”

  It took a few seconds for the meaning of his words to penetrate.

  “The Madonna or Vandekerckhove,” said Van In.

  “Have you got a better idea?”

  “So you’re beginning to believe me,” Van In nodded approvingly.

  “I never said your chaos theory was worthless,” Versavel defended himself. “But it certainly doesn’t make things any simpler.”

  Versavel sat down at his word processor and opened the Fiedle file. “Let’s see what we have so far.”

  Van In joined him, peering at the screen over his shoulder.

  “Fiedle is spotted in the Villa Italiana in the company of Vandekerckhove, director of Travel Inc.,” said Versavel. “Adriaan Frenkel happens to be sitting within earshot and listens in on their conversation. Later that night, Fiedle takes a beating and Frenkel leaves the city post-haste. Vandekerckhove denies he was in Bruges that evening, and a few days later Dutch detectives find Frenkel’s charred remains in Friesland. The judicial police are doing their best to sweep the case under the carpet on the insistence of Investigating Magistrate Creytens.”

  “Well, I’ll be,” said Van In in admiration. “I thought you just typed words into that thing, but this is an exceptionally clear analysis of the situation.”

  Versavel blushed. A compliment from the commissioner always made his day. “And there’s more,” he beamed. “A photo of Michelangelo’s Madonna is found in Fiedle’s wallet. Leo Vanmaele identifies the vegetation in the background as pokeweed, a plant that doesn’t grow in the Northern Hemisphere. The statue was copied at the end of the Second World War by a certain Meir Frenkel. The original is most probably in South America. Meir Frenkel dies on March 8 this year. The elderly artist’s diary occasions his nephew’s hasty visit to Bruges. Two days after that visit, terrorists blow up the statue of Guido Gezelle. According to State Security, the attack was the work of an extinct Walloon splinter group.”

  “Keep going, Guido,” said Van In enthusiastically. “I don’t understand why you don’t publish these stories. You have talent, man.”

  Versavel finally got into his stride.

  “There appears to be a connection between Fiedle, the Madonna, and the 1967 bomb attack. The Madonna was recovered after the war in Altaussee. Dietrich Fiedle lived in neighboring Hallstatt. In 1967, a criminal gang under the leadership of a certain Scaglione avoids prosecution in Bruges and is given a symbolic prison sentence in Tournay. Six days after the decision to transfer the case is made in chambers, a powerful bomb explodes on Burg Square. Those responsible are never found. Spicy detail: Scaglione and his cronies had just returned from a diving expedition in Austria. An indiscreet gang member tells a local journalist that they had found ‘the treasure of the SS,’ a fortune in gold hidden by the Nazis at the bottom of Lake Toplitz. Altaussee, Lake Toplitz, and Hallstatt are only a couple of miles apart. At the time Scaglione and his gang were avoiding trial, the father of our current investigating magistrate, Creytens, was prosecutor general. He was probably the one who gave orders for the case to be transferred to Tournay. Inspector Bostoen was in charge of the investigation, and now he’s one of the top boys in State Security. Bostoen also suggested the possibility that the MWR had risen from its ashes like a phoenix and had chosen Bruges as the target of its terrorist activities after the July 11 incident.”

  Versavel was happy as a kid at Christmas. “If we ask the right questions,�
�� he said with pride, “the solution is at our feet.”

  Van In was impressed. Versavel was up there with Hercules and his twelve labors. He had just cleaned the stables of Augias.

  “Let’s check the name of Scaglione’s 1967 defense lawyer,” said Van In.

  Versavel was taken aback. The commissioner often had a surprise up his sleeve, but now he was having trouble following his line of argument.

  Van In explained: “If Scaglione was responsible for the bomb attack in ’67, something must have gone wrong between the moment Edgar Creytens transferred the trial to Tournay and the Monday on which the bomb exploded. Scaglione’s lawyer has to know what.” Van In was deep in thought, his brow furrowed. “And why was Vandekerckhove so determined to prove he was in Nice the night of the murder here?”

  Versavel took note of the question.

  “The next point is the most delicate,” said Van In in a dull tone. “If I’m not mistaken, the threat of further bomb attacks is intended for Moens, to put him under pressure. The question is….” Van In hesitated. He was skating on exceptionally thin ice. “… does the city council have to make a certain decision soon in which the mayor holds the decisive vote? And if so, which decision?”

  “I’ll do my best, Pieter,” said Versavel. “Let me start with the lawyer.”

  “Good,” said Van In.

  In the old days, you could get information on “friends” of the police with a simple phone call to the local Records Office. But the new law on privacy has made that impossible. All the files are now held by the National Records Office and are only accessible to the federal and local police. At least that’s what they say.

  Van In identified himself on the phone as police commissioner and within five minutes a list had been faxed to his office of all the Scagliones registered in Belgium. He then called Missing Persons and asked for Enzo Scaglione’s dossier. An obliging inspector referred him to the public prosecutor’s office in Neufchâteau.

  “I’ve got Scaglione’s lawyer on the line.” Versavel winked at Van In with the receiver in his hand. “His name’s Dewulf, and I’m afraid he’s deaf as a post.”

  Van In took over and tried to speak as loud as he could. Dewulf might have been hard of hearing, but his memory was unimpaired. He remembered the Scaglione case as if it had been yesterday.

  “It was decided in chambers to refer the case to Tournay on February 6,” said the elderly lawyer without hesitation. “I only heard about it eight days later. The reason it took me that long to find out was that I had just had an operation, and my wife didn’t want my substitute to visit me in the hospital.”

  “So Scaglione was only informed of the decision on February 14?”

  Van In wanted to shout hooray.

  “The fifteenth, actually,” Dewulf corrected him like a know-it-all schoolteacher. “I remember how much it excited him. He still owes me money, by the way.”

  Van In thanked the man profusely and lit a cigarette. It was only his third that day, and he was proud of it.

  Scaglione thus had had, or had thought he had, a motive to organize a bomb attack on the courthouse in Bruges. But just as a mountain climber discovers new challenges every time he conquers a difficult peak, new questions inevitably arose in an inquiry. How, for example, did a gangster from Marseille manage to put pressure on Edgar Creytens, and why hadn’t Fiedle’s killer finished him off on the spot? Were they dealing with an amateur, or was Frenkel simply an accidental witness to the murder?

  He left chaotica for what it was and tried to concoct a simple solution. There were two possibilities where Creytens was concerned: money, or blackmail.

  Gold seemed the most attractive motive. The treasure of the SS was estimated at several billion. Van In grabbed a pen and frantically scribbled some notes.

  Hannelore rang the doorbell on the stroke of eight forty-five p.m. Van In removed a pot of sauerkraut from the burner and hurried to the front door.

  “I’ve made your favorite,” he said in the best of form.

  “Good for you,” she said listlessly.

  “Is something wrong?”

  She took off her coat and tossed it nonchalantly on a chair. She was wearing jeans and a turtleneck sweater.

  “Don’t be silly,” she barked. “Of course there’s nothing wrong. I’m just beat. It’s a free country!”

  Van In ran his fingers through her wet hair.

  “Did you get a carpeting from the prosecutor?” he asked, sensing that something wasn’t right.

  She shook her head and made her way to the kitchen as if she wanted to evade him.

  “Sauerkraut,” she mumbled. “You should always keep a hundred jars in the house.”

  Van In shivered at the thought. Women and pickles, what else could it mean?

  “No problem,” he said. “I’ll go to the store tomorrow.”

  She grabbed a wooden spoon, returned the pot to the heat and stirred mechanically.

  “I forgot to take the pill on Tuesday,” she said after a few seconds. “Didn’t even cross my mind.”

  “So what?” Van In laughed. “Once is no big deal. I’m forty-three, Hanne. I drink like a fish and smoke like a chimney. According to statistics, my sperm is about as fertile as an orange pit in the Siberian permafrost.”

  “Don’t underestimate mother nature, Pieter Van In. I fell victim to ovulation on Tuesday.”

  Only a deputy prosecutor could make ovulation sound like a crime. Van In wasn’t sure if he should laugh or throw a comforting arm around her shoulder.

  “The sauerkraut smells good,” he said.

  She turned and smothered him with kisses.

  “I’m watering at the mouth,” she snorted. Van In took the wooden spoon.

  “Are you still up to setting the table?”

  “Would it be so terrible if I was pregnant?”

  He stopped stirring and grabbed her firmly.

  “I would be over the moon with joy, Hanne.”

  The sound of sizzling sauerkraut put an end to the embrace.

  “These are the last two jars,” he said apologetically.

  Hannelore took a couple of plates and danced toward the kitchen table.

  “There’s still a bottle of white in the cellar.”

  Van In had been dry for forty-eight hours, but Hanne’s hints had inspired him to give in to temptation.

  “A copy of an airline ticket doesn’t prove Vandekerckhove was in Nice for four days,” she said a minute later, between bites.

  Van In offered her what was left in the pot, and she shoveled it greedily onto her plate.

  “The south of France is only an hour from Brussels by plane,” she continued. “There are some, let’s call them the stinking rich, who wouldn’t think twice of flying back for half a day, leaving time for a visit by limo to Bruges and Ghent.”

  “Versavel checked all the flights.”

  He helped himself unnoticed to a second glass of wine.

  “The private jets too?”

  Hannelore ate like a starved construction worker.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” she grinned when Van In didn’t respond.

  By nine fifty-five, they had cozied up in the living room. Two glasses of wine had never tasted so good.

  Van In let her lean on his shoulder, and he turned on the TV.

  Moens appeared on the screen after a piece about the war in Bosnia.

  “According to a recent police report, the bomb attack was the work of an extremist Walloon faction….”

  “Jesus,” Van In groaned.

  Hannelore woke with a start when he turned up the volume from six to ten.

  “According to State Security, the Mouvement Wallon Révolutionnaire has been active for almost twenty years,” said the journalist taking the interview.

  “That’s correct,”
said the mayor.

  Moens was wearing his best suit, but was struggling to disguise his thick West Flemish accent.

  “In the nineteen-seventies and eighties, the MWR was responsible for a wave of arson attacks in Wallonia, in most instances on Flemish-owned property. Just like today, they never claimed responsibility for their terrorist activities.”

  Moens used long complicated sentences, and it was close to a miracle that they made any sense at all.

  “Are you expecting further attacks, Mayor Moens?”

  Moens turned to the camera like a tormented Churchill. “The security services are on red alert, and the minister of the interior has just granted permission for two special-intervention platoons to be positioned at strategic points in the city throughout the night.”

  “So the citizens of Bruges can sleep secure?”

  Moens conjured a smile that would have made many a U.S. presidential candidate jealous. “Bruges at this moment is unconquerable,” he declared with pride. “We’re determined to nip any potential acts of terror in the bud.”

  Van In zapped angrily to a commercial station. Anything was better than Moens’s bullshit.

  “In a hundred years’ time, they’ll be able to use his statement for high school TV,” he growled. “The fall of Western democracy in ten installments.”

  Hannelore let him blow off steam.

  “Anything else worth eating in the house, Pieter?”

  Van In looked deeply into her eyes.

  “There’s a jar of pickled herring in the refrigerator,” he said, not quite sure what she was on about. “Don’t tell me you’re really—”

  “Go get it. I’m starving.”

  “Are you serious? I thought you were joking. How can you be so sure, for Christ’s sake?”

  “We’ll see who’s laughing in nine months,” she said playfully.

  Van In wasn’t in the mood for a discussion on women’s intuition. He got to his feet and headed for the kitchen.

  “There are still three of them swimming in the jar.”

  “I’ll take all three, and pour the juice in a glass.”

  Van In didn’t protest. As a father-to-be, he just did what he was told.