by Pieter Aspe
Van In was taken aback, to say the least, when he suddenly caught sight of a woman’s head sticking out above the table.
“Do we have visitors, Guy?” From the tone of her voice, she clearly hadn’t been expecting anyone. She got to her feet and looked Van In up and down, evidently put out.
“May I introduce my wife Anne-Marie, Commissaire?”
Van In was frozen to the spot and Degroof’s drivel was instantly transformed into background noise. Anne-Marie was wearing nothing more than a tiny bikini bottom. She walked toward him unashamed. Van In’s eyes were glued to her form for a couple of seconds. He had little alternative. She was now just a few feet away. She had the body of a twenty-year-old girl, shapely everything, tight, tanned skin, an angular jaw line, a straight nose, and big gray eyes.
“My wife is a former model,” said Degroof with the emphasis on “former.” Her eyes appeared to flicker for a second.
Van In flushed hot and cold when she shook his hand. She was so close, her breasts touched his shirt.
“I’m here about, er … yesterday,” he jabbered.
Anne-Marie could see that Van In was flustered and it seemed to amuse her.
“You should have told me we were expecting someone, Guy,” she said reprovingly.
“Mais cherie, I announced it to you.”
The fact that his wife was almost naked in front of Van In didn’t seem to bother him in the slightest. Worse than that: it looked as if he had orchestrated the entire tasteless scene.
“Perhaps we could use the table, Commissaire,” he said finally after a couple of uncomfortable seconds.
“As you please.” Van In tried to look the other way.
“Coffee?”
Anne-Marie turned and made her way back to the sun bed, deliberately swaying her hips.
“Or would the Commissaire prefer a glass of champagne?”
She moved out of eyesight and Van In breathed a sigh of relief.
“Why not,” he said gratefully. The sweat was streaming down his back, and it wasn’t only because of the sun.
“You too, ma chère?” Degroof sneered. His wife rolled over, lying on her side now facing the table.
The Indian draped a spotless napkin around the champagne bottle’s neck and poured three glasses. He served Anne-Marie first, followed by Van In and Degroof. He then withdrew discreetly.
“Santé, Commissaire.” Degroof raised the glass to his lips and sipped sparingly.
“Your health.” Van In followed his host’s miserly example. Champagne wasn’t designed to quench the thirst.
“Surely you’re not here to tell us that the case has been solved, commissioner,” Anne-Marie whined. He wasn’t sure how to respond. “Or is it one of those cases that solve themselves? Literally …”
Van In smiled out of politeness, but a sense of resentment was fermenting inside him. They were clearly mocking him, and that made him mad.
“Come, come, cherie, let the Commissaire do his job,” said Degroof appeasingly. She snorted and turned onto her other side. Van In seized the opportunity to take a seat, opting for the safety of the opposite side of the table, with his back to Anne-Marie.
“My wife has a sens de l’humour, it’s a little special,” said Degroof in an old-buddies tone of voice.
He collapsed into a chair and stretched his legs lazily under the table. He didn’t touch the champagne. Van In flouted etiquette and tossed back half his glass.
“But now to business, Commissaire,” said Degroof as Van In returned his glass to the table with a gesture of regret. “Fire away with your questions. I’m all ears.”
Van In cleared his throat and took out his notebook.
He hadn’t yet decided how he was going to approach Degroof, not certain whether every word would be transmitted via Degroof senior right back to De Kee.
“I believe we’re dealing with an extraordinary and bizarre crime,” he said, starting in neutral. “Had the perpetrator, or perpetrators, taken everything with them, then their motive would have been obvious. They would also have had to get rid of their pickings, a delicate point, bearing in mind that the objects were exclusive and as a consequence hard to sell in their totality. Only a handful of key receivers would have been interested in such a transaction.”
“You’re telling me,” Degroof nodded enthusiastically.
“I presume the value of the jewels runs into the millions.”
Degroof’s accountant was putting an inventory together at that very moment. Little attention had been paid to the matter the day before.
“Between twenty and twenty-five million, Commissaire. The safe contained the collection for an exhibition in Antwerp.”
Van In took note of this new piece of information and continued.
“In my humble opinion, the motive behind such a meaningless act has to be revenge or jealousy, Mr. Degroof. Unless we’re dealing with a crazy person.”
Degroof leaned forward, planted his elbows firmly on the table, and rubbed his chin.
“Who knows, Commissaire,” he said, with a hint of perverse pleasure.
“Do you have enemies, Mr. Degroof?”
“Enemies? Anne-Marie,” he yelped. “Do we have enemies?” Van In took advantage of the question to look in her direction. He couldn’t stop himself. But she didn’t turn around.
“Everyone has enemies,” she answered abruptly as she turned the page of a magazine, evidently bored.
“Bien sur, but enemies capable of such a crime? I don’t think so, Commissaire.”
“A jealous competitor perhaps?” Van In suggested. “Give it some thought, Mr. Degroof. Something from the past? Were you ever the victim of blackmail? Were you ever approached by the Mafia? Has anyone offered you paid protection recently?”
“Mais non, Van In,” Degroof blustered. “Here in Bruges? I can’t think of anyone who … besides, why didn’t they take anything with them?”
Van In spotted a moment of nervous hesitation in his eyes. And why the sudden use of his name instead of his title?
Van In cursed himself for asking the questions one after the other. Now it was impossible to tell which of them had put Degroof on edge. It made no sense to repeat them. Spontaneous reactions were a one-off thing.
“The perpetrators knew the code to the burglar alarm. They had a key and were clearly aware that you still received clients after hours from time to time,” said Van In, all in one breath. “The Securitas guard even claims he recognized your voice,” Van In continued, chancing his luck.
“I told you already. I did not call Securitas that evening. I also made a statement to that effect to Commissioner De Kee,” he said, evidently irritated.
Hold on, easy does it, Van In thought to himself. He’s getting worked up.
“But you still received clients after hours on a regular basis. The people at Securitas were familiar with the entire procedure. If I’m not mistaken, they’re obliged to call you every time the alarm is switched on or off at an unusual hour. That’s precisely what happened yesterday.”
“Of course, Commissaire. But I did not call Securitas on Friday evening,” said Degroof in a sugary tone. He was back in the driver’s seat. “And what in God’s name does that have to do with anything?”
“It proves that the perpetrators must have been watching you and the store for quite some time and that they were more than likely working on a tip from someone you know, family, an acquaintance,” said Van In, determined not to let Degroof see he was talking bullshit and knew it. “I presume you aren’t the only one who has access to the code?”
“Mon Dieu, mon Dieu,” Degroof grumbled. “Who are you accusing?”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Van In muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothing, Mr. Degroof, nothing at all. A lapsus linguæ.”
While Degroof was doubtless trying to work out what “lapsus linguæ” meant, Van In continued. “I only need this information for the file. Without it, the Deputy public prosecu
tor will just send it back and we’ll have to start over.”
“Bon,” said Degroof, who understood what he meant. He relaxed back into his chair, stretching his legs under the table. “My father knows the code, my business manager, and Idris,” he declared with a certain nonchalance.
“Idris?” Van In frowned.
“The houseboy,” Degroof reluctantly explained. Why Idris?, he wanted to ask, but instead he said: “Who is your business manager?”
Degroof took a sip of champagne.
“Georges is beyond suspicion. You can count him out. I’ve known Georges Hoornaert for years. Anyway, he’s on vacation in the Fijis.”
Van In noted the name and scribbled a question mark after “Idris.”
“Satisfied, Commissaire?”
Degroof smiled to reveal a set of pearly white teeth not unlike the houseboy’s. But Degroof’s were made of porcelain and his dentist had spent the fee on a Peugeot 204 for his daughter, who was at university in Leuven.
“One last detail, Mr. Degroof. Did the same people also know the combination of the safe?”
Degroof kept his emotions under control this time.
“No, only Papa and myself know the combination.”
“I see,” said Van In. “And how long has the store had electronic protection?”
Degroof pursed his thin, bloodless lips.
“Seven years,” he answered after a couple of seconds. “The insurance people insist on it these days.”
“And the alarm code hasn’t been changed in that time?”
“Every year, Commissaire. Comme precaution, n’est-ce pas?” he said, a little too quickly.
“I imagine the safe was installed earlier and that its combination has always stayed the same?”
“Précisément,” said Degroof, audibly surprised.
Van In picked his nose, something he always did when he was satisfied. Degroof had apparently underestimated him, if only a little.
“Incidentally, Mr. Degroof. Do you know if your insurance covers this kind of risk? Loss, theft, that I can understand, but aqua regis? Most policies don’t cover that sort of thing, do they?”
“Indeed,” said Degroof. “I’m not covered for what happened with the aqua regis. But now you’re probably asking yourself why I’m so relaxed, n’est-ce pas?”
Van In nodded. Degroof had neatly anticipated his next question.
“Well, let me explain,” he said with a hint of pride. “When they informed me yesterday about the robbery, I called Papa. At least, that’s what we were thinking, you understand, that it was a robbery. I was furious, but not without hope. Papa assured me that we had the best of insurance and everything was fine. But when I realized back at the shop that nothing had been stolen and that the entire collection was at the bottom of a tank of aqua regis, I started to get nervous, very nervous.”
“And then you called your father again from the shop,” said Van In.
“How did you guess, Commissaire? Yes, I called Papa and … You should know, Papa has a solution for everything.”
“Then your father called the chief commissioner,” Van In guessed again.
“Précisément. With Monsieur De Kee as witness and an official analysis by the laboratoire judiciaire, I was free to deduct the entire loss from my taxes, one hundred percent,” Degroof junior beamed. “As you know, Monsieur Vanmael is the expert on the case. Everything is being transferred to the laboratoire in Ghent in the course of the morning.”
“Excellent, Mr. Degroof, excellent news,” said Van In dryly. If Degroof had incurred no losses, the case was likely to be shelved even earlier than he had hoped.
“Another glass of champagne, Commissaire?”
Van In checked his watch. It was ten-fifteen.
“Why not?” he said with eager gratitude. “Krug isn’t exactly on the menu every day.”
He stayed with Degroof until the bottle was empty, and when he got up to say good-bye, his frontal lobes positively effervesced with overconfidence. He marched up to Anne-Marie brimming with self-assurance.
“An exceptional pleasure to have made your acquaintance, ma’am,” he said, barely able to disguise the effects of the Krug on his voice.
And this time, yes, she turned toward him and leaned up on one elbow. Van In resolved to etch the image forever in his memory. She held out her hand and he came close to kissing it gallantly. Their eyes met. For a fraction of a second her boredom made way for icy determination.
“Good luck, Commissioner, and who knows, perhaps we’ll meet again,” she said in a slightly conspiratorial tone.
Degroof also wished Van In success and accompanied him back to the lounge. Idris took it from there.
Had Van In been sober, he would certainly have sensed that they had wanted to get rid of him. But the Indian servant gave nothing away as he accompanied Van In impassively to the front door. “Have a nice day, sir,” he said with a sad smile and gently closed the door.
Idris followed the departing Golf from behind the window until it disappeared from sight.
6
ONCE INSIDE THE CAR, VAN IN hastily lit a cigarette and tried to organize his thoughts during the short drive from Varsenare back to Bruges.
He started with a sort of psychological profile of Mr. and Mrs. Degroof, although his mind wasn’t exactly clear after five glasses of champagne.
Ghislain Degroof was an empty-headed weakling. It was clear that the father called the shots and the son simply ran the day-to-day business affairs. It was also Degroof senior who had insisted in hush-hushing the affair. Negative publicity, my ass! A robbery usually meant a load of free advertising.
Ghislain Degroof had clearly been taken aback when asked about potential enemies from the past. Van In was referring to either him or his father, of course, and Van In was convinced that Degroof had reacted differently to that second part of the question. It was perfectly possible that the perpetrators wanted to get at the father and not the son. Degroof senior must have made enemies by the dozen in the course of his career.
The champagne, on reflection, seemed to be more of a help than a hindrance when it came to his powers of reasoning.
And what about Anne-Marie, the voluptuous wife? She had obviously married him for the money. Did she perhaps have a lover intent on getting one over on Degroof?
And why give the burglar alarm code to the houseboy?
If he stuck to the facts, there were four suspects: Ghislain Degroof, Ludovic Degroof, Georges Hoornaert, and Idris. They were the only ones who knew the alarm code. But none of them had an acceptable motive, and Hoornaert even had a watertight alibi.
There was nothing substantial to go on. Where do you begin when a case appears to have no suspects and no motive?
Two lines of reasoning remained. Either someone else had gotten hold of the code without Degroof’s knowledge, or the perpetrators had cracked the system. The latter seemed the least plausible. And then there was the letter with the Latin text that made the entire affair feel like a student prank.
He nervously lit another cigarette. Versavel would probably have more news.
A long line of traffic had built up at the Smedenpoort, a surviving medieval gate that stood at the city’s entrance. It was eleven forty-five A.M. and he knew that Versavel would go home at noon on the button. They had agreed to meet, but Van In urgently wanted to talk to him. But there was no point in getting overly anxious. The traffic wasn’t going anywhere.
He understood why so many people hated driving in Bruges. Hardly a day went by in the summer months when the city center didn’t grind to a standstill because of one or other event. Only the day before, they had shut down the city for the best part of the afternoon for the annual marathon on June 11. The finish was on Burg Square, and driving in the city center at any point that day was more or less impossible.
What was the reason for today’s holdup? The forty-sixth anniversary of brass band “The Sound of the Polders,” or a historical reenactment of a visit by Ja
n van Eyck’s great-nephew to his grand-uncle’s atelier?
The constant flow of oncoming traffic made passing impossible. He decided to contact Versavel on the radio. It wasn’t the best option. He hated the fact that everyone would be listening in.
“ONA 3446 calling ONA 3421, over.” The connection crackled and peeped and it took all of thirty seconds before someone answered.
“ONA 3421 here, Sergeant Saelens, over.”
“Afternoon, Robert. Van In here. Do me a favor, Robert: will you run up to 204 in a moment and see if Versavel’s still at his desk?”
“No problem, Assistant Commissioner,” Saelens replied obligingly.
Sergeant Saelens was one of the few who used the title assistant commissioner. The majority simply called him commissioner. It was shorter, and assistant commissioners tended to prefer it. As in every police division, rank was rank, even if it wasn’t official.
“Ask him to wait for me. I’m stuck at the Smedenpoort in a fuck of a traffic jam.”
“At your service, Assistant Commissioner. Is there anything else?”
“Maybe you can try to get your hands on the officer directing traffic out here? It already seems like an eternity.”
“Consider it done.”
“Thanks, Robert.”
“My pleasure,” the loudspeaker crackled.
Two minutes later, the line of traffic finally started to move. Saelens deserved a pat on the back. Van In nervously stepped on the gas and tore around the corner.
Versavel was waiting for him in the courtyard in front of the police station. From a distance, he didn’t look a day over forty. In contrast to Van In, who had been living on junk food and Duvels since his divorce, Versavel took care of his body and went to the gym. There were even rumors that he had his uniforms and shirts taken in by a seamstress to give them a more fitted look.
“Where’s the fire?” Versavel jibed as Van In got out of the car.
The sergeant grinned from ear to ear. That perfect set of teeth almost sickened Van In. He was determined to have his own ivories restored, but that was for next year. He looked forward to being able to smile in public for once.
