by Pieter Aspe
“Hello, Gerard. We’re leaving immediately.” De Kee’s voice became thin and nasal and sounded like a slowly turning blender.
Gerard Vandenbrande was De Kee’s private chauffeur. The chief commissioner had created the function himself the day after the mayor and his elected officials appointed him chief commissioner for life.
Gerard greeted De Kee and Van In in the prescribed fashion and dutifully held open the passenger door of the black Ford Scorpio. The Scorpio was just short of two years old. Nothing unique: De Kee had a right to a new official car every four years. The Scorpio’s number plate, on the other hand, was unique: DKB-101. “De Kee Bruges,” followed by the national police emergency number. The man’s vanity was boundless.
“How’s the baby?” asked Van In as he got into the car.
Gerard’s wife Kaat had given birth to a child with Down syndrome six months earlier. De Kee was aware of the fact but hadn’t gone to the trouble to get his own car out of the garage. Had he done so, Gerard would not have had to call his in-laws at the last minute and have them babysit. Kaat was a nurse and worked two weekend shifts a month.
Gerard discreetly shrugged his shoulders and took his place behind the wheel, a look of sadness on his face. Van In watched De Kee nod and Gerard stepped gently on the gas pedal.
The bronze fountain on Zand Square spouted powerful jets of water against a turquoise sky. The water splattered with comforting regularity into the basin. The enormous square was more or less empty, ready to catch the unsuspecting agoraphobe unawares.
Gerard turned into Zuidzand Street at a snail’s pace. Zuidzand Street ran into Steen Street, a Mecca for Bruges’s spoiled consumers. Degroof had set up business in an unexceptional building, although his collection was exclusive and as a result exorbitantly priced. It was said that Degroof junior designed the collections himself, but Van In knew from a reliable source that the man had a couple of young designers in his employ who were willing to sell him their inspiration and craftsmanship for a pittance.
A Volkswagen police van with revolving beacons had stationed itself in front of the store. Decoster and Vermeersch weren’t averse to a bit of show now and again.
“Who’s in charge of the investigation?” Van In asked as he got out of the Scorpio.
“Guido Versavel,” said De Kee. “He was finishing his night shift. But you know Versavel. There’s no stopping the man,” he added in what was close to a sneer.
“Versavel’s an excellent officer,” said Van In resolutely. De Kee looked at him in amazement but said nothing. He had spotted Degroof, who had left the store and was walking in his direction.
“Bonjour, mon cher Commissaire.”
De Kee walked up to Ghislain Degroof with a distinguished smile on his thin lips. They greeted one another elaborately on the sidewalk in front of the store with pats on the back, incomprehensible French salutations, and what seemed to be an endless handshake. In contrast to an hour earlier, Degroof was conspicuously relaxed.
Van In was demoted on the spot to a useless establishment appendage.
Versavel appeared at the door and saved the day. The sergeant nodded approvingly and beckoned Van In with a languid gesture. He was happy to hand over the investigation to Van In. Working with Vermeersch and Decoster was getting him nowhere.
“Guido, you look tired, my friend.”
“You’d be the same if you’d spent the entire night playing nanny!”
Van In raised his eyebrows.
“Petitjean,” said Versavel.
“Is that poor bastard still not married?” Van In smiled. Everyone on the force had heard about the young officer’s amorous crusade.
“Vermeersch and Decoster are taking photos in the workshop,” said Versavel. “The Deputy’s keeping an eye on them.”
“The Deputy!” Van In groaned. “Why not bring in the attorney general? No publicity. Jesus H.”
“What are you driveling on about?” asked Versavel.
“Never mind. So tell me, what’s the situation?”
Versavel quickly filled him in. He also confessed that he had played a joke on De Keyzer, the duty officer. “I wasn’t surprised when he walked right into it, but I hadn’t reckoned on her doing the same.”
“So she’s as dumb as the rest of her magistrate colleagues,” said Van In disdainfully.
“I don’t know if she’s dumb,” muttered Versavel. “But she’s certainly cute …”
“I’ll be the judge of that, Sergeant,” said Van In. “Since when did this sudden interest in the opposite sex emerge, by the way?”
Van In and Versavel had known each other for years, and Versavel had grown immune to his insinuations.
“I called Leo. He’ll be here any minute,” said Versavel, ignoring Van In’s provocation. Leo Vanmaele was a forensics expert for the NIC. He was also one of Pieter Van In’s closest friends.
“Excellent,” said Van In.
“Come, let’s go inside,” Versavel suggested. His tiredness was slowly getting the better of him.
Van In’s feet sank half an inch into the mouse-gray wall-to-wall carpet into which the Degroof Diamonds and Jewelry monogram had been woven.
“Call this art?” he muttered.
“Not impressed?” said Versavel, slightly surprised. Van In shook his head resolutely.
He took a careful look around. It was a small space, twelve by forty at the most, he figured. The walls, into which eight imitation gothic alcoves had been carved, were covered with old hand-cleaned bricks. The alcoves had glass doors and served as display cabinets for the jewelry. But on this particular Sunday morning there was nothing in the alcoves except the blue velvet display mats.
A pair of crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling and a couple of tables at which Degroof received his clients were the only furnishings. Van In couldn’t quite put his finger on their style. A mixture of all the French Louis put together, an excess of gold leaf, and yards of Cordovan leather. Each table had three chairs in the same indefinable style. The seats were covered in velvet.
Van In lit a cigarette.
“Maybe I should introduce you to our Deputy first,” said Versavel by way of precaution.
“Do you have to?” Van In growled. “You know I don’t like working with women. First they snare you, then they play the boss, and before you know it they’re somewhere else spending your money.”
Versavel knew what Van In had been through, but insisted nevertheless: “I think you should follow my advice this time. You only have to look at her and you know you can’t win.”
But there was no need to try to convince him any further. Hannelore Martens had heard voices in the front of the shop and had come to take a look. Versavel kept a careful eye on Van In. He was mesmerized, as Versavel had predicted.
“Deputy Martens, may I introduce you to Assistant Commissioner Van In? He’ll be in charge of the case from now on.”
The Deputy didn’t seem to mind Van In’s stare.
“Delighted to meet you, Commissioner Van In. I’m curious to hear your opinion on the case. If you ask me, there’s something weird going on.”
“I only just got here,” Van In snapped. “Sergeant Versavel was just briefing me.”
He could feel the sweat begin to appear on his forehead. It usually took a while before he was able to have a normal conversation with a strange female. He had to make a serious effort not to stutter. The sense of unease he had with women dated back to his adolescence. He was now too old to do anything about it. It’ll subside soon enough, he thought to himself, in a feeble attempt at comfort.
“Can we confer?” She pointed at one of the tables. Without waiting for an answer, she pulled back a chair and sat down. She crossed her legs with elegance.
Versavel noticed that Van In was having problems and came to his colleague’s aid.
“The chief commissioner is here, ma’am. He’s outside, talking with the owner. Shall I call him?” His question knocked her off kilter for a few seconds. R
epresentatives of the public prosecutor were expected to discuss matters with the most senior officer present. It was an unwritten rule.
“No, thank you, Sergeant. I’ll find him myself. We’ll talk later.”
“Whew,” Van In sighed as she walked out the door. “You could have warned me, man. Thanks a lot!”
“I tried.” Versavel grinned. “But you wouldn’t listen. By the way, have you forgotten what you did last year, cuffing me to that young German guy for half the night? Jesus, we were thigh to thigh. I had to control myself. You did that on purpose. It’s not my fault she’s cute.”
Van In took a deep breath. The throbbing knot of nerves in his gut had started to melt.
“Okay, that’s one all. Next time we arrest an Adonis, you get to frisk him naked, Versavel. Eh, kiddo?”
They both exploded with laughter.
4
LEO VANMAELE LUMBERED INTO THE SHOP at eleven-fifteen with the pretty Hannelore in his wake.
“The chief commissioner and Mr. Degroof are having a coffee together in Café Craenenburg, on the terrace,” she said before Leo could get a word in. “Mr. Vanmaele here is from the judicial police, part of their technical team,” she added in a school-teacherly tone.
“Good morning, Mr. Vanmaele,” said Van In with a wink.
They had often guzzled Duvels together into the wee small hours, but she didn’t need to know that.
Vanmaele had parked his screaming yellow Audi 100 in front of the shop window with two wheels on the sidewalk. He had had it sprayed yellow in a bet with Van In. If anyone managed to trace another yellow Audi 100 with Belgian plates, then Van In would have to pay for every Duvel they cracked together for a whole year. If Van In lost the bet, it was going to cost him a hell of a lot more than Vanmaele had coughed up for the spray job.
“Been a while since we worked together.”
“Indeed, Commissioner,” said Leo Vanmaele indifferently.
“So what’s the story?”
“Person or persons unknown appear to have dissolved Degroof’s entire collection in a tank of aqua regis.” Van In took a step backward and pointed in the direction of Hannelore and Versavel. “That’s all I know; I just arrived.”
Hannelore thought Van In’s approach was on the feeble side. Instead of doing something, all he could muster was “That’s all I know; I just arrived.” Would her colleagues at the courthouse turn out to be right in their claim that the Bruges police were only good for towing away illegally parked cars?
“Mr. Degroof is busy, or rather was busy, putting together an inventory of the jewelry he keeps in the shop,” she said with a professional air. At the moment, the information she had to offer was completely irrelevant. She noticed how Van In shook his head in pity and held his tongue.
“I’ll need to take a look at that tank of aqua regis.” said Vanmaele. “And the safe, of course. Oxyacetylene or explosives?”
No one had told him about a safe, but there was no need. Vanmaele had plenty of experience.
“Explosives,” Versavel chimed in. “I suspect he used Semtex with a water pillow to dampen the explosion. There’s still some cellophane stuck to the wall.”
Hannelore had no idea what Semtex was, but she flatly refused to ask for an explanation, not wanting to betray her ignorance.
“And no one heard the bang?” Leo looked at Van In.
“It would seem not. Nobody lives round here. The poor bastards with shops on Steen Street usually have a hovel somewhere in the suburbs,” he sneered. “But we’ll check it out, of course.”
“Passersby?”
“Maybe,” Van In nodded. The entire operation had taken place before midnight and there was always someone out for a stroll. But Van In wisely held his tongue. De Kee had insisted on discretion. Finding witnesses was the least of his worries.
“Why not send out a call on one of the independent radio stations, or contact local television,” Hannelore suggested. The assistant commissioner’s lack of initiative was beginning to annoy her. Versavel and Vanmaele shared her thoughts to the letter.
“We could, yes, indeed,” said Van In without evident enthusiasm. “But let’s take another look around here first. Mr. Vanmaele can start the ball rolling by taking a sample of the aqua regis and checking the tank for fingerprints.”
The ever-cheerful Vanmaele pulled an ugly face. This wasn’t the Van In he knew and loved.
“Right away, Commissioner,” he said, emphasizing the word “commissioner.” “I’ll get my materials.”
“And ask Vermeersch to take you back to the station, Guido,” said Van In to Versavel. “I imagine you’re dog-tired, but I’m afraid the paperwork can’t wait. I need your report before the day’s out.”
Versavel nodded. Van In wasn’t himself. But he knew him well enough. The man always had his reasons.
After Versavel had gone, and while Vanmaele was busy in the workshop trying to find useable traces, Van In took a seat at one of the tables. Hannelore observed him, barely able to contain her increasing amazement.
After a couple of seconds, the silence felt like a lead blanket. Keeping his mouth shut was more irritating than his shyness.
“Have you heard anything from your own people, ma’am?” he asked finally, in the hope that she would bugger off. A drop of cold sweat trickled from his neck down his spine.
“This is an exceptionally intriguing case,” she said, her response unrelated to his question. “Do you mind if I join you? I’ve never been present at a police investigation before. If anyone in the office needs me, they’ll know where to find me. I left Degroof’s number on my answering machine,” she added with a sense of pride.
Jesus H. Christ, thought Van In. Jesus H. come to my aid.
He said that a lot when he was in the shit.
She pulled over one of the chairs and sat down opposite him.
“Have you been involved in anything similar?
Van In shook his head. He looked at her full on for a second, but then immediately looked down.
“Dissolving jewelry in a bath of acid isn’t exactly an everyday occurrence. Probably the work of an unbalanced mind. And there’s nothing more difficult to get a handle on than a crazy person,” he said, consciously despondent.
“You don’t sound too optimistic.”
“If we don’t find any useable traces or reliable witness, I’m afraid there won’t be any reason to be optimistic, ma’am.”
“But it’s early days, isn’t it? We still have to launch the radio and TV appeal. I presume that’s part of your planning?”
Van In was faced with a dilemma. He couldn’t tell her what De Kee had confided in him. It was better not to wash the force’s dirty linen in public. Passing on confidences to a magistrate was tantamount to committing treason. His relationship with De Kee may not have been warm and hearty, but he still wasn’t planning to take this Deputy into his confidence.
But if she harped on any longer about an appeal on independent radio he would have to do something about it. Hannelore Martens may have been as green as pool-table baize, but she was also obstinate and persevering. He tried in desperation to think of an excuse to have her drop the idea.
“I think it would be better to wait first for the results of the inquiry.”
He suddenly sensed the warmth of her knees beneath the table. He hadn’t realized they were sitting so close.
“Nonsense,” she laughed. “The media are gagging for juicy reports like this. And don’t forget, their cooperation often uncovers useful information. The Dutch police have solved any number of cases with the help of the media. Bruges isn’t the sticks anymore, is it?”
“I’d have to run it past my superiors first,” said Van In tensely.
“Fine, Commissioner. But I want you to keep me up to speed. Do we have a deal?” She grabbed a brown envelope that was lying on the edge of the table and scribbled something in haste.
“Here, my address and telephone number.”
Van In ac
cepted the envelope. It was just an ordinary envelope, without a stamp or imprint. Hannelore had used the back. He glanced at the address and telephone number, which she had written in sturdy capitals. Just as he was about to slip the envelope into his inside pocket, he noticed three words scribbled on the front.
For you, bastard.
Van In ran his fingers over the envelope. Like everyone else, he had thought that Degroof or one of his associates had left it behind on Friday. He opened the flap and removed a small square of paper.
“What are you doing?” she asked in surprise. When she saw Van In staring at the piece of paper with raised eyebrows she got to her feet and stood beside him. She leaned forward and Van In peeked shyly at her out of the corner of his eye. She was wearing a flimsy lace bra. He turned his head. Jesus H., he thought.
“What’s this all about? What made you open the envelope?”
“Because it says ‘for you, bastard’ on the front. It’s hard to believe that Mr. Degroof gets this kind of mail on a regular basis,” he said impatiently.
Van In looked at the square of paper from every angle. It made no sense.
“Do you think whoever was responsible for the break-in left this behind?” She had moved in even closer. Her unabashed cleavage was unavoidable. Van In thought it better to look the other way. He tried to concentrate on the twenty-five letters on the piece of paper he was holding between his thumb and his forefinger. The fact that there were twenty-five of them was all he could figure.
“Perhaps Degroof can help,” said Van In cautiously. “Jewelers sometimes work with codes and the like. It’s all Greek to me.”
“But you said just then that you could tell from the text on the envelope that it had something to do with the case.”
“No, I didn’t,” he snorted. “I said that it was hard to imagine Degroof getting mail with ‘for you, bastard’ written on it.”
“But you still think the letter is from whoever broke into the place,” she persevered obstinately.
“Could be.”
“Could be,” she repeated. “Who else could have left it, may I ask, Commissioner?”
