The Square of Revenge

by Pieter Aspe

  “The best we can do now is proceed with practical matters,” Lootens continued in the same meaningless tone. “It is vital that we coordinate our efforts.”

  He looked at his watch with an exaggerated gesture of the arm.

  “In an hour’s time I’m expecting Professor Beheyt from the Faculty of Applied Psychology at the University of Ghent.”

  Van In knew Beheyt. He had made a useful contribution a couple of years earlier after the kidnapping of the son of a West Flemish textile baron.

  The Belgian authorities had little experience with kidnappings, but Beheyt had fended admirably for himself.

  “You’ll be working closely with the professor,” said Lootens, pointing to Van In and Hannelore. “Captain D’Hondt here will maintain contact with the Ministry of Internal Affairs and will be responsible for interventions at the national level should they prove necessary. It goes without saying that I will be supervising this task force (he pronounced it as if it was French—tasque-fors). None of you is permitted to speak with the press unless he has my permission, and no one takes decisions on their own. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Hannelore, consciously defiant.

  Lootens fortunately paid no attention to the tone of her response. He didn’t give a damn about emancipation. He belonged to the generation of magistrates who hoped they would never see the appointment of a female public prosecutor. Van In tried to distract Lootens’s attention nevertheless.

  “If I may, sir,” he said with a nervous gut. “According to the information Deputy Martens and myself have gathered, it’s more than likely that the kidnappers are the same two men who burgled Ghislain Degroof’s jewelry store last Sunday. And we have a detailed description of both men.”

  Van In’s observation knocked Lootens off his stride for a second.

  The outrage on Ludovic Degroof’s face was a picture to behold. “Precisely why, Commissaire Van In, we have entrusted the investigation to you. The incident last Sunday at my son’s shop was a waste of energy, don’t you think, far too banal. A kidnapping is something else, I’m sure you will agree.”

  Van In got the picture. Degroof had to have a serious reason for keeping the two cases apart.

  D’Hondt, who didn’t appear to be aware of the burglary, kept his emotions in check as one would expect of a police captain.

  “Of course,” Van In concurred, resuming his deferential stance. He studied the expression on Degroof senior’s face, but it was much the same as trying to penetrate the mask of a sphinx.

  “So I can take it for granted that we all know what’s expected of us?”

  When no one responded, Lootens turned his back and started a conversation with Degroof in fluent French.

  “I’ll ask Versavel to organize some sandwiches and a case of beer,” said Van In. “Can I get you something too, Captain D’Hondt?”

  D’Hondt was glued to the spot, disconcerted by Van In’s apparent friendliness.

  “A Coke will suffice,” he said humorlessly.

  “Good, a Coke for Captain D’Hondt then. Let’s see what Deleu has been up to,” said Van In with a wink at Hannelore.

  They could see through the window that the crowd outside was swelling by the minute, but the barriers appeared to be doing their job.

  Versavel saw Van In give a sign and came dutifully running. Van In saw three or four camera crews keeping a close eye on the house. Twenty or so police officers made sure they didn’t reach the front door. The assembled masses had been informed in the meantime that the public prosecutor would be giving a press conference at seven forty-five and not at seven fifteen as Ludovic Degroof had announced earlier.

  The commercial TV reporter lit one cigarette after the other. He was in permanent contact with the news studio via his car phone. In spite of his pleas, the police held their ground. No one was allowed inside the barriers until seven thirty. At moments like this, Versavel was the right man in the right place.

  A journalist from the state-run channel took a surreptitious sip from his hip flask. He was sitting pretty, no matter what. The state channel was set to broadcast exclusive pictures of the kidnapping to every household in the country in the middle of the evening news.

  13

  WHILE DANIEL VERHAEGHE WAS SENDING his first fax at ten past four, Laurent was parking the white Ford Transit in front of the chalet on the outskirts of Namur.

  Bertrand Delahaye was lying on the floor of the van covered with a checkered travel blanket. The chloroform was beginning to wear off, and the boy groaned as Laurent dragged him to the loading platform. It wasn’t going to be easy to carry him inside in this limp state. Laurent could feel the blood coursing through his veins. He was afraid he might black out, so he decided to rest a little first.

  There were no prying eyes to worry about. The chalet was located at the end of a private road and was obscured from view by a forest of pine trees. He sat on the edge of the platform and waited until the dizziness had passed. He then made his way to the driver’s compartment and fetched a linen bag containing a box of syringes and a vial of haloperidol. He filled a syringe with a double dose of the tranquilizing concoction and injected it into Bertrand’s upper arm, his hands trembling with every move. The boy was half conscious but made no effort to resist when Laurent dragged him inside the chalet, a chore that took him the best part of ten minutes. He placed the boy on a bed, reluctantly handcuffing him, and carefully locked the door of the room. Panting and drenched in sweat, he collapsed into an old and musty armchair.

  He was determined not to set a foot outside until their demands were met. They had stocked up on provisions for a week, and he could always call Daniel if anything unexpected happened. He considered their chances of being detected negligible. The chalet was his own property, and if everything went according to plan, the entire affair would be over by Monday.

  He muttered a prayer and tried to imagine what Degroof must be feeling at that moment.

  An hour before his daughter called and reported the abduction, Ludovic Degroof had been sitting alone at the kitchen table in his dreary canal house on Spinola Street. His gray eyes followed the cognac waltzing in the snifter he had just filled.

  Like Eichmann on trial in Tel Aviv, locked inside a glass cage, he realized that his time was at hand.

  He had received a letter two weeks earlier warning him that he was going to suffer for his misdeeds, but he hadn’t let it worry him much. The letter had been anonymous, but he knew who had sent it. He and his friend—well, former friend—Aquilin Verheye had spent nights on end talking about the Templars’ Square.

  After more than fifty years, Degroof was in little doubt that the square at the bottom of the letter was the signature of Aquilin himself.

  He also knew why Aquilin wanted him to suffer. The only thing he didn’t understand was why it had to happen now. They were both old, and fifty years was enough to heal any wound, wasn’t it?

  While he hadn’t let the letter worry him, he still took its contents seriously.

  No police. Otherwise everything would be forced into the open. And because Degroof was used to paddling his own canoe, he hired a private detective to track Aquilin down, a routine assignment the man accepted with pleasure.

  Degroof was unable to estimate what Aquilin knew and how he would use his knowledge to avenge himself. If the private detective found him, Degroof planned to pay him a visit and try to buy his silence. If that didn’t work, he would have him eliminated. He had the necessary contacts and money was absolutely no obstacle.

  Why did the old fool sign his letter with the Templars’ Square? he asked himself. Why be so stupid? He must have known I would have made the connection.

  The ridiculous incident at Ghislain’s store had made Degroof nervous, leading him to presume that Aquilin was deliberately looking for press attention. He then pulled rank with De Kee and insisted on having the investigation shut down. After all, it was only a question of time before the detective located Aquil
in. And Degroof was determined to keep his past a closed book. He didn’t want anyone sniffing through its pages.

  He had been drinking for the best part of twenty-four hours. The private detective’s report had left him at a complete loss. If somehow the man threatening him wasn’t Aquilin Verheye, then he was in serious shit.

  Daniel Verhaeghe waited until nine o’clock before going to the public fax next door to the Vienna Tearoom on Vlaming Street. The tearoom was relatively busy and there were dozens of shoppers eagerly perusing the windows in the snug new shopping arcade. Daniel punched in Delahaye’s number and slipped a sheet of paper into the machine.

  Sergeant Lobelle was manning the switchboard in the company of an official from the telephone company and keeping a close eye on Delahaye’s line. He reacted immediately.

  “How much time do we need?” he snarled.

  “It depends,” said the nervous official as his fingers danced across his computer keyboard.

  Lobelle radioed in to his colleagues on Bishop Avenue.

  “We’ve got him,” the official screamed after twenty seconds or so. “Vlaming Street. The public fax in the new shopping arcade.”

  A relaxed Daniel Verhaeghe strolled across Market Square as a slew of police cars with wailing sirens honed in on Vlaming Street from every direction. Just before the impressive army of police hermetically sealed the entire block, Daniel dipped his handkerchief in the fountain on Zand Square. The tension excited him, and the wet handkerchief almost sizzled when it touched his forehead.

  Captain D’Hondt read the incoming fax line by line as it rolled out of the machine. He had seen some crazy things in his career, but this topped them all.

  Van In and Hannelore were in the lounge trying to cheer Mr. and Mrs. Delahaye. They hurried to the fax machine, followed by Degroof senior. Public Prosecutor Lootens had already left. He had excused himself shortly after the press conference and handed Van In the number of De Karmeliet, a three star restaurant on Long Street where he had an urgent appointment. At least that’s what he said.

  “Has to be a bunch of jokers,” said D’Hondt in an effort to calm everyone down. “Here, read this.”

  He handed the fax to Van In. But before Van In read the first line, he caught sight of the small square at the bottom of the page. “Forget it,” Van In snarled. “Oh, my God,” Charlotte sobbed. Patrick Delahaye stood beside her and took her hand. Hannelore read the fax over Van In’s shoulder.

  Your son is alive and well. If you carefully follow the instructions below, the boy will be left unharmed. One thing should be clear: there will be no negotiation on the ransom. Any attempt to delay the procedure can have potentially fatal results for Bertrand.

  If you wish to see Bertrand again and in good health, you must do the following: on Monday July 8 at 8 a.m. precisely you must bring the paintings listed below to Zand Square …

  A list of paintings followed, each with the name of the artist.

  … at 9 a.m. Patrick Delahaye must remove a strip of paint at least four inches wide from each of the paintings with a scraper. This must take place on Zand Square in front of the cameras. The paintings are then to be piled up in front of the fountain and set alight.

  The public are to be informed about this event via radio and television. On the day of the burning, the public must be given free access to Zand Square, and the distance between the first row of people and Patrick Delahaye is to be no more than six feet. During the burning, however, the distance may be increased to thirty feet.

  Should this procedure not be followed to the letter, or in the absence of public or media interest, Bertrand will be killed. There will be no further communication.

  The Templars’ Square served as a signature.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” Van In muttered.

  No one paid any attention to his exclamation. He passed the fax to Delahaye. The color drained from Patrick’s face as he read, and he leaned for support on Charlotte, who was head and shoulders taller.

  Van In had noticed the paintings, of course, but hadn’t realized they were by painters like Delvaux, Permeke, Mondriaan, Peire, Magritte, Appel. There was even a work by Gustave Klimt, on its own worth tens of millions of francs.

  “This can’t be true,” Delahaye screamed. “Charlotte, tell me it’s some kind of wicked prank.”

  The man was beside himself and Charlotte put a reassuring arm around his shoulder.

  “If I may, Mr. Delahaye,” said D’Hondt, his tone resolute. “I don’t think we have to take this seriously. No kidnapper in his right mind would insist on burning a fortune in paintings.”

  He sounded so self-assured that Delahaye raised his head. Was there a glimmer of hope? A tentative smile appeared under the policeman’s obligatory moustache.

  “Forget it,” said Van In for a second time. “I’m sorry, but this is from the kidnappers. There’s no doubt about it.”

  Van In hadn’t found it necessary to fill D’Hondt in on the background. The captain glared at him.

  “Is that right?” he sneered.

  “Commissaire Van In is completely right.”

  Everyone recognized Ludovic Degroof’s authoritarian voice. “Captain D’Hondt is probably not aware of all the facts of the case, otherwise he would never defend such a hypothesis.”

  D’Hondt stood his ground, but inside his ego withered like a deflating balloon.

  “What makes you so certain?” Delahaye asked, clinging to the last straw.

  “Just take it from me, my boy,” said Degroof, trying to sound sympathetic. “Paintings can be replaced.”

  Van In spotted Hannelore whispering something in Charlotte Degroof’s ear.

  “Excuse me.” Everyone turned to the front door. Van In recognized the short, dusty man immediately.

  “Professor Beheyt, perfect timing. The kidnappers have just made contact.”

  Versavel had opened the door for Beheyt and now joined him with the others.

  Adelbrecht Beheyt looked as if he had walked out of a comic strip. He was wearing an ill-fitting, old-fashioned three-piece suit and kept one hand tucked upright in his vest pocket, a pose that afforded him a certain degree of dignity. He was in his early sixties and small of stature, but a pair of intelligent boyish eyes sparkled behind his horn-rimmed glasses. Many a student could testify to his fiery character and his exaggerated sense of honor, but outside the classroom he was an affable man.

  “I was a little late, so I decided to book a room in a hotel first.”

  Making him even later, thought Hannelore, unable to follow his crooked logic.

  Beheyt spoke with a warm voice, and anyone could tell that he had spent more than ten years teaching at a Dutch university in Leiden.

  “There was no need for that, Professor. You would have been most welcome chez moi.” Ludovic Degroof’s reaction was closer to that of a concerned host than a grandfather at his wits’ end.

  “That’s most kind of you, Mr… .”

  “Degroof, Ludovic Degroof, grandfather of the kidnapped boy.”

  It took a good five minutes before everyone was introduced according to the rules of etiquette.

  Van In took it upon himself to bring Beheyt up to speed. The professor listened attentively, and when Van In was done his only request was to see the fax. Charlotte handed it over and Beheyt took a moment to study the kidnappers’ demands. He was intelligent enough, however, not to draw any immediate conclusions.

  There was an unearthly silence in the room as he read. The arrival of an expert always kindled a spark of hope.

  “I suggest we sit down for a moment,” he said, “take time to talk things through and put together a strategy.”

  His approach seemed to work. Even Patrick Delahaye breathed a little more freely.

  “Shall I make a pot of coffee?” Charlotte suggested.

  In contrast to an hour earlier, she appeared relieved. For her, it was an open-and-shut case. They would bring the paintings to Zand Square on Monday and burn them.
Then Bertrand would be set free.

  “With cognac perhaps?” she asked halfway between the lounge and the kitchen. Van In said yes on everyone’s behalf.

  The lounge was in proportion to the rest of the house and took up the space of an ordinary room. There were enough armchairs for everyone. Since no one had dismissed him, Versavel likewise took a seat. He was in the mood for coffee.

  “I think the time has come to collect all the available information.”

  Van In took the floor, and it pleased him that Beheyt spontaneously concurred. This time he provided a comprehensive report of what had happened between Sunday and the present. He intentionally omitted a couple of details, notably the pressure Degroof had been applying to have the investigation buried. He didn’t fail to observe that Degroof had nodded approvingly in his direction every now and then. He figured the old fox must have stuck his neck out. By insisting that the public prosecutor and De Kee assign Van In to the case, he had limited the spread of a potential scandal.

  “Extraordinary,” said Beheyt when Van In had had his say. “At first sight I’m inclined to agree with Commissioner Van In’s conviction that we’re dealing with a personal vendetta. The demands of the kidnappers suggest revenge rather than material gain.”

  Captain D’Hondt was boiling with rage because Van In had failed to mention the information he had now provided. Hannelore considered throwing what she had discovered that Friday into the pot, but Van In had been silent about their visit to Loppem and she presumed he had his reasons.

  At that moment Charlotte marched in from the kitchen carrying a wooden tray with coffee, cookies, and a bottle of Otard cognac. She had been away for the best part of twenty minutes. Hannelore saw from her eyes that she had been crying.

  When everyone had been served coffee and cognac, Beheyt continued.

  “The Templars’ Square points in all probability in the direction of a romantic run amok. The style and language of the fax leads me to presume that whoever wrote it is well educated. If you ask me, he’s not young either, and that would appear to tally with what I’ve just heard from the commissioner. The combination of an old man working with a young accomplice is a curious one. When an old man seeks revenge, it’s usually for something that happened a long time ago. Perhaps the young man somehow engendered his actions.”