by Pieter Aspe
“Van der Eyck didn’t set this up, did he?” asked Van In abruptly.
Hannelore turned to him, wrinkled her forehead, and glared at him in astonishment.
“What kind of nonsense is that, commissioner?”
“Why not?” he responded calmly. “I don’t have to lecture you on how far people will go to fulfill their ambitions.”
She clearly wasn’t impressed. She indignantly straightened her neck and stared grim-faced at the windshield. It took a couple of seconds before she could come up with an argument that could screw his hypothesis into the ground.
“Van der Eyck wouldn’t leave one or other note with a cryptic Latin message behind,” she snorted. “And don’t forget: I told him about the Degroof case first, then he came up with the idea. Timing!”
“That’s what you said… . So you put the idea into his head from you.”
“Exactly,” she snapped. “I based myself on your conclusion. Revenge looked like a logical motive.”
“So you immediately assumed there had to be some unsavory secret in Degroof’s past behind the attack, a scandal perhaps, something your ‘promoter’ could use to his own advantage.”
Hannelore didn’t react. She continued to scowl at the windshield. Van In was worried he had gone too far.
“But you’re probably right,” he said, putting a good face on it. “It’s a bit far-fetched to think that Van der Eyck would get up to this kind of trickery. But you have to understand … I can’t leave any stone unturned. Anyway, everybody knows that cops can get a bit paranoid now and again.”
Hannelore sat behind the wheel like a window dummy. The unpleasant silence was getting on Van In’s nerves.
“So it’s time to pay Aurelie Degroof a visit, I guess?” Van In felt helpless. Why did women always make him nervous? Maybe she was really vulnerable and that was why she pretended to be unnaturally macho every now and then. When he was with Sonja, it took an eternity for him to take the first step after an argument. That gave minor disagreements the time to escalate into major rows. And once they had reached the major row stage, even words of reconciliation were often taken the wrong way.
“Sorry,” he said hesitantly. “What I just said about ambition wasn’t intended to be personal, Hannelore.”
Van In found “sorry” extremely hard to say. As far as he could remember, it was the first time he had succeeded. She eased off, turned to look at him, and twisted the left corner of her mouth into a smile. “Tut tut… .” She paused, “Okay, let’s call it quits,” she said in a not unfriendly tone. The skin on her cheekbones was like polished ivory. “But on one condition. In the hospital you play my assistant!”
Van In nodded in agreement. He actually didn’t care who took the lead.
It took a while before someone came to the door at Our Lady’s Psychiatric Hospital in Sint-Michiels.
Hannelore introduced herself to the nurse in her spotless white uniform. She was in her early thirties, slenderly built, and seemed anything but naïve. People who work in psychiatric hospitals are often inclined to assess the mental health of the people they meet with a single look. It’s hard for them to resist the temptation.
Hannelore explained their visit. The nurse listened carefully but didn’t react to the name Aurelie Degroof. It had been less than a year ago that a couple of men disguised as nurses had tried to kidnap their friend.
“Please walk this way,” she said emotionlessly.
They followed her along what felt like an endless series of corridors until they arrived in a small waiting room.
“I’ll be back in a jiffy,” she said as she closed the door behind her.
Van In knew that the word “jiffy” mostly meant half an hour or more in hospitals. He took a seat and rummaged through a pile of rumpled magazines in search of something to read.
Hannelore refused to sit.
“What’s keeping her?’ she said after ten minutes.
“Pretend you’re in court,” he grinned.
Every now and then they heard hurried footsteps in the corridor, but no one stopped at their door.
“I can’t imagine being in a place like this for more than a day,” she sighed. “The place alone would drive a person crazy.”
“Maybe magistrates should be required to do an internship here for a couple of weeks,” said Van In. He couldn’t help it. It was out before he realized it.
“Also not to be taken personally,” she snarled.
“I wouldn’t dare, ma’am.”
Just as they both collapsed in hysterics, the door flew open. A tall thin man in a doctor’s coat watched them in amusement.
“So you like it here?” he asked tongue-in-cheek.
Van In couldn’t disagree. He would have thought the same thing if he’d found a Deputy public prosecutor in his office laughing her head off. Luckily Hannelore managed to pull herself together.
“Hannelore Martens, Doctor. I’m here about one of your patients,” she said with instant and exemplary gravity, as if everything was normal.
“I’m Doctor De Boever, chief psychiatrist. May I ask why you want to speak to Mrs. Degroof?”
The nurse had clearly filled him in on the reason for their visit. Van In felt fortunate that he didn’t have to answer the question. He studied one of the framed artworks that filled the walls.
Hannelore had anticipated the question. She had to think of a pretext for being there. Officially she didn’t have a leg to stand on.
“There are claims that Aurelie Degroof was placed here without good reason,” she blurted.
Van In held his breath. She was skating on very thin ice.
“I’ve been commissioned to determine whether there are grounds to review the procedure.”
Doctor De Boever scratched cautiously behind his ear. If this works, Van In thought, I’ll paint my house bright blue.
But De Boever was a seasoned expert and had spent a career listening to the weirdest stories. Some of which also turned out to be true, nonetheless.
“Aren’t there, shall we say, more official channels for this sort of thing?” he suggested.
“Of course, Doctor. But I presume you know the Degroof family. And if I tell you that the person asking for a revision of Aurelie’s involuntary internment is a member of the same family, then I’m sure you’ll understand why I prefer to follow a less official route in the given circumstances. If her doctor’s advice is negative, then I’ll inform the complainant and the case will be dismissed without a word being committed to paper. The person in question also made his request in the context of a spoken interview.”
She didn’t bat an eyelid during her peroration. She deployed the same breezy, authoritarian tone she had used the previous Sunday.
“Extremely wise, Ms. Martens,” said De Boever.
Van In left the abstract watercolor for what it was and took his place next to Hannelore. She had done the necessary dirty work with considerable cunning.
“But I fear I’m not going to be much use to you,” said De Boever flatly. “Medical information is strictly confidential. I can only speak if I’m summoned as an expert in a court of law.”
“I understand completely, Doctor,” Hannelore concurred. “But I’m not asking for medical information. I would simply like to speak with Aurelie; under supervision, of course.”
“I fear I’m going to have to disappoint you there too, Ms. Martens. Aurelie Degroof is extremely weak, and in her condition emotions can be damaging. She’s been here for more than twenty-six years. False hope of release would bring her endless suffering. I’m not even sure she would understand what it meant, to be honest.”
“But would it be possible just to see her for ten minutes?” Hannelore pushed the envelope. “An eyehole in the door would be enough.”
De Boever was aware that he couldn’t refuse every request.
“If you insist,” he said, clearly reluctant. He couldn’t see what good it would do. But if he let her have her way, she might leave them i
n peace.
“Aurelie’s in the recreation room for the moment. If you promise not to attempt contact with her, I can let you see her, but only briefly.”
They followed De Boever through another series of black-and-white-tiled corridors. The occasional patient shuffled past, their eyes dull and vacant. As they climbed a flight of stairs Hannelore jabbed Van In in the ribs. He almost missed the following step. He figured from the expression on her face that she wanted to know what he was thinking. He ran his finger across his throat. She grinned and stuck her tongue out at De Boever.
A number of older women were sitting in easy chairs in a spacious room on the first floor. The majority stared into space or busied themselves with some kind of useless occupational therapy. A tall blond woman in her mid-forties piled wooden blocks on top of each other until the tower she had made came crashing down with a terrible din. She started anew. Another wiped the leaves of the indoor plants with a moist sponge.
De Boever signaled with his head toward the window where a woman was calmly knitting. The sun engulfed her in a yellowish aureole. The clicking of her knitting needles seemed to devour time like a clock. She looked up for a moment and smiled at the newcomers.
Aurelie was the only patient to react to their presence. She was almost fifty-one, but her skin was still as smooth as silk. She had a fashionable hairdo and, in contrast to the others, she wasn’t wearing a nightdress or dressing gown. She was elegantly dressed and her bearing was dignified. Her sharp jawline suggested a certain intelligence. But her eyes didn’t fit the picture. Hannelore sensed a sea of sadness in them. After a couple of minutes, De Boever indicated that their time was up, and five minutes later they were standing outside.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if our young friend at the town hall in Loppem was right,” said Hannelore, visibly shaken. “Did you see what she was knitting?”
Van In hadn’t paid any attention. Men never do.
“Baby clothes,” she said.
“Really,” said Van In. “Situations like that used to be common enough in the better circles. Problem kids were dumped in institutions without much fuss. It was safe and respectable, and it protected the family name.”
“So you share my opinion,” she asked rhetorically.
“I think so. Behind every big name there’s often a huge pile of dirty linen.”
“Shall I drop you off at home?” asked Hannelore as she drove under the viaduct on the outskirts of Bruges. He nodded, and she stopped at Saint James’s Church, not far from the Vette Vispoort.
“Are you coming in?” asked Van In, hoping she would say yes.
“Sorry, Pieter, but I have an appointment at the courthouse at five-thirty.”
“Then you’re seriously late,” he said. “It’s five past six.”
“I know, I know. But a Deputy’s allowed to be late,” she laughed.
“I’ll call if there’s news.”
“Do that,” she shouted through the open window. “But now I really have to get a move on.”
Deep in thought, he sauntered through the Vette Vispoort. After so many years of dry routine and restrained obedience, the excitement of breaking the rules was surprisingly refreshing.
He suddenly felt like whistling, and he would have done so now if he had ever learned to.
11
HANNELORE CALLED VAN IN ON Friday morning at seven forty-five, startling him, but fortunately he was at least awake.
“Hello, Pieter. It’s me. Hope I didn’t wake you.” She sounded excited. “I can’t say much on the phone. Somebody passed me an important tip yesterday. I’m following it up as we speak. I’ll see you tonight.”
“What do you mean?” asked Van In, astonished.
“Sorry, Pieter, this is one I have to take care of on my own. Trust me. Bye!”
“That’s nice,” he grumbled as he hung up the phone. I should have seen this coming, he groaned. It wasn’t the first time he had been dumped. Deep in thought, he grabbed a Duvel from the refrigerator despite the early hour and installed himself outside in his garden chair.
The grass was wet and cold, but he hated wearing slippers. All sorts of strange ideas lurched through his mind.
Had he allowed himself to be taken in by an ambition-crazed magistrate? Was the conspiracy real or imagined? And if it was real, wasn’t it all a bit far-fetched? Why was Degroof senior so afraid of an investigation? What was he trying to hide? If he had let the investigation run its course, no one would have paid the slightest attention to what happened with his son, but his meddling had raised a huge red flag. Did the one have anything to do with the other? Did Degroof expect further actions? Three Duvels and a hundred questions later, Van In dozed off in his garden chair. The sun caressed him like a satisfied baby and he had a Robin Hood-themed dream. He was Friar Tuck, waiting on the bank of a fast-flowing stream for his merry-men brothers, in the company of a hogshead of ice-cold Rhine wine.
Hannelore sipped a Campari-and-soda. A young woman sat opposite her mechanically stirring a cup of coffee. She had classical elongated features and her hennaed hair was tied up in a bun. Her skin was deep brown and she was wearing a short beach dress without a bra. She wasn’t particularly pretty, but she had so little on that most passing men couldn’t resist a stealthy peek.
“No one gets on with my father,” she said in a toneless voice. “He dominates everyone. That’s why I ran away. My mother doesn’t have a life. I hate my father.” The bluntness of her words did not mask the rawness of her emotions.
She placed her spoon on a napkin and took several hasty sips of coffee.
Hannelore smiled gently but didn’t interrupt her.
“No wonder my sister entered a convent. She couldn’t take any more. Charlotte … she was the lucky one. She was a good student so my mother sent her to boarding school. When she was studying in Leuven she came home three or four times a year, no more. Otherwise he would probably have taken her too.”
“Are you saying that your father mistreated Benedicta?”
Nathalie lifted her head and sparks of hatred flashed in her gathering tears.
“He tried to rape her,” she sobbed.
“And did he succeed?” Hannelore asked.
“She claims he didn’t. Aurelie protected her.”
“Did he rape Aurelie?”
Nathalie lifted her cup but returned it immediately to its saucer. Her hand shook as if she had just spent an hour with a pneumatic drill.
“He came to her room three times a week. That was the price she had to pay for Charlotte and Benedicta.”
“And did he get her pregnant?”
“God, no. He was too smart for that. And there are plenty of ways to avoid getting pregnant… .”
Hannelore felt sorry for the young woman sitting in front of her. She reached out and took her hand.
“My sister-in-law was next in line,” Nathalie sobbed. “But at least she made him pay.”
“You mean Anne-Marie?” asked Hannelore, surprised.
Nathalie nodded.
“He slept with everyone. And if there weren’t enough victims, he would hire a whore.”
“Did your father arrange the marriage between Ghislain and Anne-Marie?”
“What do you think?” Nathalie snorted. “Ghislain is gay. My father never dealt with it.” She spoke at speed, as if she wanted to shake it all from her shoulders in a single breath.
“But he didn’t get me,” she said with sudden solemnity. “I got out in time. Men only want one thing and I’ve known what that is for a very long time. I hate men. Haven’t you seen them gawping?” she said, gesturing toward the street. “Innocent family men, yeah, right. I wear suggestive clothes on purpose. At least I know it makes them feel awkward or lines them up for a row with their little wives when they catch hubby darling driveling at my tits.”
Hannelore thought of Van In. Nathalie’s bitter testimony left her confused. She hadn’t had a lot of experience with men, and Nathalie’s story was hardly a selli
ng one.
She lit a cigarette and offered the pack to Nathalie.
“No, thanks,” she said. “I don’t smoke tobacco.”
“Are you still in touch with your mother?”
“She sends me money now and then.”
“A lot of money?”
Nathalie didn’t answer. Hannelore wasn’t sure if she was being impolite.
“A thousand francs, ten thousand francs?”
The information she had received from Van der Eyck had been correct thus far. That was why she had to keep pushing on the money.
“My mother understands me,” Nathalie rasped.
“How much is a gram of heroin these days?”
Nathalie shook her head and grabbed her bag.
“If you walk now, you can forget the twenty thousand I have in my pocket for you. Has your mother stopped sending you money?”
Nathalie’s eyes filled with hatred. Hannelore had taken a calculated risk and it had paid off. Nathalie let go of her bag.
“Were you planning to blackmail your family because your mother didn’t send enough money?”
A couple of passersby stared angrily in their direction when Nathalie burst into hysterical laughter.
“Me? Blackmail my family? My father wouldn’t pay a cent. Who would believe a junkie? Would you believe a junkie?”
“Even if you threatened to turn to the press?” Hannelore whispered. “Your father is a prominent Catholic, a knight in the Order of Malta, a Prolife benefactor. What would be left of his reputation if it went public that he was sleeping with one of his daughters?”
“Don’t you think I’ve thought about it?” said Nathalie grim-faced. “And by the way, do you think I don’t know you work for the public prosecutor’s office?”
Hannelore was taken aback.
“Next time you pretend to be a journalist, you should at least invent a false name. There’s only one Hannelore Martens in the phone book and she happened to be a Deputy to the public prosecutor. It’s printed in bold after your name.
