by Pieter Aspe
“Question marks, man, massive question marks,” Van In groused. “What about you? Any progress?”
“Three eyewitnesses and a couple of neighbors who heard an explosion,” said Versavel, proud as a peacock. “And De Kee knows nothing about it. He didn’t even show up this morning.”
“Typical De Kee,” Van In sneered. “He’ll have been playing the Flemish Lion with his Vera. So much the better, then he won’t have been listening to the radio.”
“There was a call from Leo.”
“And?”
“He wants to have a word this evening. Six-thirty in l’Estaminet. He was really insistent. Kept reminding me to tell you.”
“Did he say what it was about?”
“Negative. Anyway, I was too busy taking calls from potential witnesses.”
Van In looked at his watch. The station courtyard was full of cops, most of them heading home for lunch.
“Fancy a juicy steak, Guido? My treat. Then you can fill me in on the details.”
“No problem,” said Versavel. “Name the place.”
“What about the gypsy’s place in the Wool Market?” Van In suggested.
Versavel gave him a questioning look.
“The Old Swan or the Three Swans. Whatever they are calling it these days?”
“Ah, you mean Huguette’s place,” Versavel nodded.
“That’s the one. No microwaves, and the fries are the real thing. I’m sick of pizzas and hamburgers.”
Van In was about to get back into the Golf, but Versavel grabbed him by the arm.
“Not in this weather,” he said disapprovingly. “We walk.”
Van In ordered a Duvel as aperitif, Versavel a Perrier. In the meantime, a couple of twelve-ounce steaks were browning with real butter in the kitchen.
“The Dutch couple was a bull’s-eye,” said Versavel. “They watched the perpetrators at work for a couple of minutes. I’ve arranged to meet them later in their hotel. They’re at Die Swaene.”
“From one swan to the other,” Van In joked. “When are they expecting us?”
“Two-thirty.”
“Perfect. Then we can take our time,” said Van In, contentment written all over his face.
Huguette’s traditional approach to preparing food meant that the fries and the béarnaise sauce took a little longer than in most other restaurants. She kept the steaks warm in a hot oven in readiness. Van In sipped at his second Duvel as the steaming plates arrived at their table. Both men fell silent as they tucked in with relish. Van In hated people who could ruin a decent meal with too much yapping. Americans were unrivaled. They could spend hours over a chicken thigh.
Van In tore in to a serious helping of béarnaise, dipping his fries in it and enjoying every bite. The steak was perfect: a dark crust on the outside, red and juicy on the inside. The oven’s intense heat had kept the meat warm to the last nibble.
Van In finished before Versavel and eagerly lit a cigarette. Versavel was a fervent non-smoker, but it didn’t bother him. The world was awash with rabid nicotine haters, but Versavel was unique among them.
“Don’t you think they took some enormous risks?” Van In asked out of the blue. “Especially when you know how much work they put in to preparing their stunt.”
“Maybe they’re less professional than we thought,” Versavel replied as he popped the last chunk of meat into his mouth and ground it between his powerful jaws.
“Or they had no alternative. They had to do their thing relatively early.”
Versavel neatly rested his knife and fork on his empty plate. “What do you mean?” he asked, all ears.
“Well, the perpetrators had the code and the keys at their disposal and they knew Degroof sometimes received customers after hours.”
“But never after midnight,” Versavel concurred.
“Precisely. They had to go to work early or the people at Securitas would have smelled a rat.”
“And by working in the open as they did, they probably didn’t run much of a risk. I thought the same thing,” said Versavel. “Even with people watching them, there wasn’t much danger. You know the people of Bruges and how much they love to cooperate with the police.”
“It’s not only in Bruges,” Van In sighed.
“Tell me about it. If the security cameras don’t pick it up, you can forget it. Nobody wants to stick their neck out. It’s all over the TV in the States.”
Van In nodded. He’d seen the shows.
“People don’t care. And you can be sure our buddies in the store counted on that indifference.” He gestured to the waiter with his glass. Another Duvel. “Something might surface if we take a browse in Degroof senior’s past.”
“What about De Kee? I thought we were just going through the motions.”
“De Kee can kiss my ass. Anyway, what can he do? Stop me from doing my job? He retires in a couple of years and there are local authority elections in October. Do you think the mayor’s likely to carpet me for doing what I’m paid for? Candy-ass wouldn’t dare,” Van In thundered. “Certainly not before the elections.”
The combination of champagne and Duvel was having a remarkable effect on Van In’s assertiveness. Even Versavel had rarely seen him in such good form.
“Maybe there’s politics behind it,” he ventured.
“Could be right, Sergeant. Why haven’t we considered politics? Political feuds are always thrashed out in the strangest of ways.”
Daniel Verhaeghe waited in line for a ticket at the Bruges train station. He was nervous.
A couple of French girls, complete with backpacks and camping gear, were having an animated discussion with the guy at the ticket-office window. He listened to them with stoic tranquility and then pointed listlessly in the direction of the information desk. Fortunately, Daniel’s train didn’t leave for another half hour. When the French girls finally cleared off without a ticket, the line started to move again.
“Liège, first class,” said Daniel, doing his best to appear normal.
“Return?”
“No. One way.”
He paid with a two-thousand-franc note and sauntered back to the main concourse. He checked the timetable for a second time just to be sure. He wasn’t comfortable in the clerical outfit, and the Roman collar was getting on his nerves. Every couple of seconds he stuck his thumb between the collar and his neck to alleviate the painful pinching. He suddenly stopped in his tracks and fished a tiny bottle from his trouser pocket. He unscrewed the top with the pipette, took off his glasses, and routinely deposited three drops in each eye. He then stowed the bottle and sauntered further. He let himself be carried along by the flow of hasty travelers, laden with baggage and in a hurry to catch a waiting train.
In spite of the delay at the ticket office, which in reality had lasted less than ten minutes, he still had to wait a good fifteen minutes before the international train from Oostende to Cologne trundled into the station. Daniel didn’t have too far to walk. Belgian Railways were very considerate: the first-class carriages always stopped in the middle of the platform.
Laurent had driven back to Namur that Friday night. But Daniel had insisted on staying in Bruges until today. He wanted to experience all of it, from start to finish. Laurent, after all, had organized the operation on his behalf.
When the train set off with a couple of jolts, he made sure he was alone in the carriage. He then waited five full minutes before producing his pocket flask and tossing back a couple of gulps of J&B. The whiskey was lukewarm and immediately resulted in a mild euphoria. Laurent had made him swear that he wouldn’t smoke in public, but he couldn’t resist. He enjoyed the prickle of the smoke in his lungs, and for once he was happy that Laurent wasn’t around.
“Watch out, boy. You know what drink and cigarettes can do to you,” he heard him say, concerned yet angry.
But Daniel Verhaeghe squarely ignored his mentor’s advice. Drink and cigarettes weren’t going kill him, he groused to himself. He was immune. Anyway, he n
eeded the kick to control the adrenaline coursing through his veins.
Daniel tried not to look out of the window. The landscape whizzing past and the sun-drenched fields hurt his eyes. The collar pinched, but he didn’t dare loosen it. He had to get used to the bloody thing. He had to play the part with as much conviction as he could muster. Daniel tried to sit still and concentrate on an advertising poster next to the carriage door.
They had started the ball rolling on Friday evening. The first phase of their plan had gone off without a hitch, he mused. It had almost gone wrong at one point, when an elderly couple seemed to spend forever watching them through the store window.
“Just keep going,” Laurent had whispered. “Try to relax. If you hesitate, they’ll think something’s wrong. Think of the goal, boy. Ours is a sacred task, and no one can stop us.”
And Laurent had been right. Laurent was almost always right. The best moment of all was when Laurent let him press the detonator button. The bang had been no louder than the pop of a champagne cork. The water bag in front of the safe had muffled the explosion, just as Laurent had said it would. Daniel’s heart started to pound anew when he pictured himself depositing the jewelry in the tank of aqua regis.
And that was only the start, he smirked. They were going to ruin the bastard, and with him the scum he cherished so much.
Daniel was proud, proud and happy that his short life already had a purpose.
I want to experience all of it, he repeated to himself. I want to see Ghislain’s face on Monday when he discovers what has happened. So he booked a room at the Holiday Inn on Burg Square. The hotel was Laurent’s idea
“The police never check the luxury hotels,” he had sneered. But he had insisted nonetheless that Daniel wear the priest’s outfit. “Just to be sure.”
Daniel had patrolled Steen Street that morning from eight-thirty A.M. Degroof hadn’t shown up. At nine forty-five, Daniel started to get worried. Just as he was about to go back to the hotel and call Laurent, a light blue delivery van stopped in front of Degroof Diamonds and Jewelry. Two men in overalls and a short, chubby guy went into the shop. As he watched the men haul a couple of lidded tanks inside, he realized that their work had been discovered earlier than they had expected. He hurried back to the hotel, raced up to his room, and poured a double whiskey. Then he called Laurent.
“Take it easy, boy.” Laurent’s deep warm voice calmed him. “Everything went according to plan. The police discovered the break-in on Sunday morning by accident. She contacted me this morning. Our plan worked. We screwed them.”
Daniel had broken into sobs. He had been crying tears of happiness for quite a while. Laurent had done nothing to interfere. The boy needed to get rid of his emotions. He had waited patiently at the other end of the line until the sobbing was over.
“We keep going. Freshen up, put on the outfit we brought with us, and catch the 14:07 train. I’ll be waiting for you in the Liège station.”
And Laurent was waiting as agreed. Daniel caught sight of his shiny bald head in the writhing crowd as it wormed its way through the swinging station doors. He held up a plastic bag and waved it in the air. Tears trickled over Laurent De Bock’s tanned cheeks as he embraced the boy.
“You make a first-rate priest,” he said with a smile as he quickly dried his eyes.
“Do you think so?” asked Daniel. He was overjoyed at being back in Laurent’s company, and he swirled like a catwalk model.
Laurent looked around nervously. It was better not to attract attention.
“Come, boy. The car’s parked in a taxi stand across the street. In the present circumstances, the last thing we want is a ticket.”
They passed a trash container on the way to the Mercedes. Daniel pushed up the lid and dumped the plastic bag on top of a pile of crushed beer cans and stinking leftover food. The contents of the bag rendered the descriptions provided by Mr. and Mrs. Cornuit as good as worthless. In addition to the suit Daniel had been wearing until that morning, it also contained a white wig and a false Vandyke beard.
Laurent held open the door for his pupil. When he noticed Daniel blinking, he said: “Don’t forget your eyedrops, boy.” He sounded strict at times.
Daniel did what he was asked and then lit a cigarette. Laurent didn’t stop him. He was going to have to bite the bullet extra hard in the coming days.
They didn’t talk much as they drove through the center of Liège. Daniel half closed his eyes. The glare of the traffic and the blinding sun irritated him.
When they were outside the city, Laurent took a thick brown envelope and a pair of sunglasses from the glove compartment.
“The letters are in here,” he said. “Enjoy.”
“I will.” A satisfied sneer appeared on Daniel’s face. “I can’t wait for tomorrow.”
7
VAN IN PAID THE BILL at two-fifteen precisely. To his surprise, they were the last to leave the restaurant.
Huguette raised a freshly tapped glass of beer and almost emptied it in a single gulp. Van In always treated her to a glass before he left. It was his way of saying thanks for her excellent cooking skills.
“Cheers, gentleman,” she shouted. “À la prochaine.”
The two policemen sauntered toward Rozenhoed Wharf—where the tourists lined up for the canal boats, their jackets over their shoulders. It was swelteringly hot, and only tourists ventured out in this sort of weather. The natives were either on the beach at Blankenberge or Zeebrugge, or relaxing in the shade in their own back yard.
Bruges-born and -bred, Versavel admired the intimate architecture of the city while Van In grabbed a pack of cigarettes at a nearby store. They were only a couple of minutes’ walk from their appointment, but Van In lit up nonetheless. Versavel had long given up reacting to such things.
Hotel Die Swaene boasted a subtle combination of fine linen, nostalgic floral wallpaper, subdued lighting, and dozens of little courtesies. There was always fresh fruit in the rooms, a cheerful bouquet of flowers in an art-deco vase, fragrant soap, quilted toilet paper, and puffed-up duvets.
The manager’s wife—blond, elegantly dressed, forty something—manned reception. When she saw them come in, she discreetly slipped her glass of sherry behind a Rolodex.
Van In introduced himself and his colleague. “Assistant Commissioner Van In and Sergeant Versavel. We have an appointment with Mr. and Mrs. Cornuit. I presume you were informed,” he continued stiffly.
“Yes, of course,” she said. “I’ll tell them you’re on your way up.”
Fortunately there was no one else in the lobby. She lifted the internal phone and punched in the room number.
“Mr. Cornuit,” she said, feigning a Dutch accent. “The gentlemen from the police are here. May I send them up?”
Van In could hear the Dutchman bellowing through the receiver. He sounded enthusiastic, to say the least. The manageress looked around nervously and signaled that they should follow her. She hoped their visit would be a once-only. There are three things a hotel doesn’t like: a corpse, food poisoning, and a police visit.
The Cornuits had rented one of the more spacious rooms on the first floor. Stan Cornuit opened the door in response to a discreet knock from the manageress. He was wearing a moss-green track suit and was a textbook example of your average Dutchman. He was tall, well-built, and well-groomed. Stan Cornuit was fifty-five but looked at least ten years younger.
Versavel was particularly impressed by the man’s moustache, which was almost as luxuriant as his own.
“Pieter Van In and Guido Versavel. Bruges Police.” He did his best to articulate.
Cornuit stepped back and invited them in with an exaggerated gesture.
“Come in, gentlemen.” He had a warm, clear voice. “Odd, don’t you think, that we happened to be in the neighborhood at that one moment. I said to Judith, didn’t I, dear: sweetheart, what are those guys up to? Back home, we would have reported it right away, but in Belgium nothing’s a surprise.”
His thunderous laugh echoed down the corridor. The manageress smiled by force of habit and then disappeared on the double. She had done her duty.
Van In and Versavel took a seat by the window at Stan Cornuit’s invitation. Each of the rooms had its own cozy sitting area.
“A drink, gentlemen?”
Without waiting for an answer, he lunged toward the fridge and produced a bottle of Bokma jenever.
“Cheaper here than back home,” he proudly trumpeted.
It was the first time Van In had drunk jenever from a paper cup.
All three took a sip. Versavel observed against the light that Cornuit had poured himself a generous measure, at least double the amount he had served the others.
Just as Van In was about to speak, Judith stormed in from the en suite bathroom.
“Hello, hello.” Her voice was loud and shrill.
She was wearing a silver streaked kimono. Judith was eight years younger than Stan and looked as if she had been plucked from a Weightwatchers commercial.
“The excitement,” she said in a schoolgirl voice. “A couple of days in Belgium and this happens. The kids will go crazy when we tell them. I was just saying to Stan last night in bed …”
“Judith, honey. The gentleman aren’t here to listen to our bedroom stories.”
“Of course you’re not. Don’t let me get in the way,” she said in an evident huff, taking a seat beside Versavel, her wings clipped, jealous. Her kimono blew open far above the knee as she sat, but she didn’t seem the least perturbed.
Here we go again, Van In thought to himself, ill at ease. He focused on a couple of etchings on the wall behind her.
Stan finally settled and launched into his story. Versavel took notes.
By four forty-five, the Cornuits were done. Versavel had filled five pages.
The younger of the two burglars was more than six feet tall, a detail on which they were in complete agreement. They figured he was twenty-five, had blond shoulder-length hair and a Vandyke beard. He was wearing glasses with thick lenses.
