The Square of Revenge

by Pieter Aspe

  “He just knew. Divine inspiration?”

  “Sorry, Pieter. I should start from the beginning. Can you spare a cigarette?”

  Van In slid his lighter and cigarettes across the table.

  “You too?”

  Van In shook his head.

  “I’m trying to cut down. I get pains in my chest sometimes climbing the stairs. And you know how much men my age love hospitals.”

  Hannelore took a stiff drag, inhaled deeply, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and began. “Van der Eyck has spent months looking for a scandal he can use to eliminate one of the Christian Democrat heavyweights before the election. The Italians managed it last year just before their local elections, so why not in Belgium, he figured. And as we know, reality has caught up with him. The Socialists have been decapitated in a major bribery scandal, and if they dig any deeper there won’t be any Socialist representatives left.”

  “All rise for Judge Véronique Ancia, politician slayer. Or should it be Judge Hannelore Martens?” Van In jeered.

  “Don’t mock, Pieter Van In,” she snorted. “Give me the name of a police division that isn’t corrupt and I’ll sleep with all of them.”

  “You’ll what?” said Van In, his eyebrow raised. “I prefer to keep you to myself.”

  “Men! Jesus! Do you ever think of anything else?”

  “Sorry, but you provoked me.”

  “That’s what they all say,” she protested.

  “No more interruptions,” he promised. “I’m not in the mood for feminist indignation.”

  Hannelore sighed. “Where was I?”

  “Van der Eyck and his quest for a scandal.”

  “The man is captivated by power. He’d give his left arm for the mayor’s job,” Hannelore continued. “I met him at a New Year’s reception. I was a lawyer without work, a recently graduated working-class girl with a passion to restore some balance to the scales of justice. I’d had a couple of glasses of bubbly and we were chatting, you know, this and that. After fifteen minutes he hinted that he might be able to arrange something for me.”

  “And the same guy’s looking for a scandal to screw the opposition,” said Van In, but the sarcasm in his voice wasn’t intentional. He had also been expected to pull a few stunts before he was appointed assistant commissioner.

  “He called me three months later. There were plans to appoint a new Deputy. It was up to the Liberals to suggest a candidate, and I was fed up doing crossword puzzles.”

  “Nobody’s perfect,” said Van In philosophically.

  He kicked off his shoes and rested his feet on a garden chair. “That’s what happens when old age starts to set in,” he said, pulling off his right sock and starting to massage his painful foot.

  “You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you all this.”

  Van In was happy he was rubbing his foot. It meant he didn’t have to look her in the eye.

  “When I met you last Sunday for the first time, I felt a … how should I put it …”

  “A kinship?”

  “Exactly,” she said, relieved. “You too?”

  “You could call it that,” he muttered though his teeth.

  “What I meant to say was …”

  She hesitated and grabbed a cigarette. Van In held his breath. He could hardly believe his ears.

  “I like you, Pieter Van In. And don’t be thinking I say that to every man I meet.”

  “Thank God for that,” said Van In awkwardly.

  “Come, let me have a go at that foot.” She pulled her chair closer and rested his swollen foot on her lap.

  “Work at the courthouse isn’t what you’d think. The men just want to chat you up, and if they don’t get their way they spit you out like old gum.”

  “Wow! Man, that feels good,” Van In groaned. “You know what you’re doing.”

  “Picked it up as a student. I had to do something to pay for my tuition.”

  “You don’t mean you …”

  He jumped to his feet. Hannelore couldn’t control her laughter.

  “Take it easy, Van In. It was all aboveboard, quite classy really, next to a gym. Most of the customers were sportspeople and I always wore long pants, you know, like a nurse’s uniform.”

  “See-through blouse? Ouch, that hurt, Jesus!” he screamed when she pressed the swollen part of his foot with both thumbs.

  “That’ll teach you to be jealous.”

  Van In felt exhaustion make way for tingling bliss. He thought about Sonja and the sensations he had missed for so many years.

  “A policeman chumming it up with the public prosecutor’s office … people will talk,” he said, half serious.

  “Then we keep it a secret.”

  “Right, secrecy, stirring stuff! Why didn’t I think of that?”

  He took a swig of beer. Duvel had never tasted so good.

  “But before we get romantic, you have a story to finish.”

  She stopped abruptly. His foot massage was over.

  “Jesus H. Christ, I almost forgot,” she smirked.

  “One moment, miss, but it’s hard to listen properly when you have a sore foot.”

  Hannelore grabbed his foot and diligently resumed her massage.

  “Men!”

  Van In listened carefully to Hannelore’s accurate reconstruction of her conversation with Nathalie.

  “The dirty old bugger,” he snorted when she had finished her story. “But we still don’t know for sure if the two cases are related. That’s why I thought it better not to say anything about Aurelie earlier. We can pursue that separately once Bertrand is recovered. Most families have a skeleton in the closet, but they always put up such fancy façades. They need a place to hide their dirt.”

  “What’s the next step?”

  She caressed his foot with one hand and held her glass in the other. Van In had no plans to protest as long as his foot could stay on her lap.

  “I think it’s time to confront Ludovic Degroof with the facts. Face to face, that is.”

  Hannelore bit her lip.

  “Don’t misunderstand me. I think it’s safer if Degroof thinks only one person knows about his past. In his eyes, I’m just an insignificant police officer. If he lets something slip in the middle of a conversation, he knows he’s safe, that whatever he says can’t be used against him in a court of law.”

  She nodded, reassured.

  “If someone else is with me, he’ll close up, I’m sure of it, especially if it happens to be a Deputy public prosecutor.”

  “Sounds logical. But do you think there’s a connection between Degroof’s incest and the abduction of his grandson?”

  “I still don’t get a couple of things. That absurd incident at Ghislain’s store bothered me from the start. That’s why I suggested the entire operation might be geared against the Degroofs as a family and not Ghislain Degroof alone. If the perpetrators aren’t crazy, their only motive has to be revenge. But revenge for what? Aurelie? Something else? At first I thought the key was in the Latin text, but now I’m having serious doubts.”

  “An intentional red herring?”

  “Yes and no. The text itself is open to interpretation, but I’m more inclined to see the so-called Templars’ Square as a sort of signature.”

  “A signature only Degroof senior would understand. Are you suggesting he knows who did this?”

  “I think he does,” said Van In. “That was another reason to say nothing. The public prosecutor wouldn’t have believed me, ditto D’Hondt and Beheyt. I can imagine you’re not finding it easy yourself.”

  “Not easy, indeed,” she grinned. “No one’s stopping you from trying to convince me. But if Degroof knows who’s doing this, why doesn’t he say so, for Christ’s sake. They’ve kidnapped his grandson and they’re threatening to kill him.”

  “Maybe he thinks it’ll all work out if he pays the ransom, or should I say sets it on fire. I really don’t know. If you ask me, Degroof senior’s their target and they’re using the sam
e tactics as Van der Eyck. But I think any connection between the two is coincidental. It was your patron’s maneuvers that gave me the idea, by the way.”

  “But if they have incriminating evidence, why don’t they go to the press?”

  “I thought the same thing. I discussed the matter with Leo the day before yesterday. Why doesn’t Van der Eyck just go to the press? But there’s logic at work here. The world’s infested with scandals. They’re served up on a daily basis, and we forget them just as fast. You have to warm up your public, get them ready. The stunt with the gold was to focus attention on the name Degroof. The abduction, less than a week later, was intended for the international press. Their timing is perfect: soup, starter, and main course all in one week. The press will be begging for a follow-up.”

  “Just what Van der Eyck had in mind. If someone hangs out the dirty laundry about the daughter, Degroof is finished, a lamb to the slaughter.”

  “That’s why I thought Van der Eyck was also in on the plot, or at least knew what was going to happen.”

  “But then he would’ve had no need for us, as I already said,” Hannelore responded. “Van der Eyck’s just lucky that someone else is doing his dirty work. Aren’t you getting tired, Pieter?”

  “Maybe so,” Van In admitted. “But there’s more. The perpetrators have an accomplice within the family. I’d stake my life on it.”

  “Perhaps you’re right. I can’t make heads or tails of it anymore. Maybe we’re way off beam.”

  “You’re right,” said Van In. “It’s high time we talked about something else.”

  “You took the words right out of my mouth,” she said. “Maybe you could start by giving me a tour of this lovely house of yours.”

  “Try to get some sleep, honey. Fretting won’t help. You know that.”

  “Can you sleep?” asked Patrick Delahaye bad-temperedly.

  “Shall I make some hot milk?” Charlotte leaned on her elbow and groped around for the lamp.

  “He’s compensating you for the paintings. Why keep worrying about it? In five years’ time, you can show off your brand-new collection.”

  “It’s not about new collections, Charlotte,” he grumbled. “Why didn’t they just ask for money? Where’s the profit in watching me burn a bunch of paintings? And don’t forget, we have no guarantee they’ll—”

  “Stop this right now,” Charlotte interrupted him angrily. “No postponement, no delaying tactics. I won’t listen. This is about your son, for Christ’s sake.”

  Patrick Delahaye blinked when his wife switched on the other lamps. He rubbed his day-old beard disapprovingly. He hadn’t shaved that evening, something he always did before going to bed.

  “I’m sorry, Lotte. You’re right and I’m being stupid. Looking for alternatives makes no sense. But why make me do it myself? The very idea …”

  Charlotte blew him a kiss from the edge of the bed. She was wearing nothing but an old T-shirt, a habit from her student days.

  “Put a shot of whiskey in it,” he called as she left the room.

  The T-shirt had been laundered so often it had shrunk, and as she walked out the door he suddenly felt a desire to huddle up beside her when she got back to bed. It had been months since he last noticed her thighs. Maybe it would help calm his nerves. It had been the perfect remedy in the past.

  Charlotte filled a pan with milk and flicked on the gas burner. They refused to have a microwave in the house. She hated them. She found a bottle of Teacher’s Highland Cream in the drinks cabinet and splashed a generous measure into the large flowery cup. She remembered that she still had some marzipan left from a bar she had bought for charity the week before. The sugar would do her good. She hadn’t eaten since lunch the previous day.

  Patrick gulped greedily at his cup of grog. There had been so much whiskey in the cup that the boiling milk had more or less cooled. Charlotte blew over her hot milk and nibbled a portion of marzipan.

  “Want a bite?”

  She sat facing him on the bed with her legs crossed.

  “It’s the middle of the night. What are you eating?”

  “Marzipan. I’m hungry. Aren’t you?”

  “I’ll pass, thanks.”

  “Wait a minute. Marzipan! What made me think of marzipan?”

  “What?” he asked.

  “Marzipan. Marfan syndrome. One of the kidnappers … they can trace him … there’s a register,” she stammered, not making much sense.

  “What are you on about?” he asked in amazement. He could hardly remember a word of the previous day’s conversations.

  “The lanky guy, one of the kidnappers, the young man who took the bus from Oostkamp to Bruges and passed on the ransom demand to the press.”

  “Sorry, but I’m not getting it.”

  Whiskey on an empty stomach could have a surprisingly fast effect.

  “Two witnesses described him as exceptionally tall. He wears glasses with thick lenses and is constantly pumping drops into his eyes. It’s perfectly possible and it needs treatment. He might even have had a couple of operations. As far as I remember, Marfan syndrome is extremely rare. It has to be traceable,” she squealed euphorically.

  “And I thought you were a fervent opponent of doctors who diagnose patients without seeing them,” Patrick observed, not particularly convinced.

  “But it’s a possibility, remote perhaps, but still a possibility. I’m calling Van In.”

  “Now? At two-thirty?”

  “If they arrest the kidnappers, there won’t be any need to burn your precious paintings,” she snapped.

  Van In and Hannelore were still outside in the back yard. He had talked about his divorce for a while and then showed her around the house.

  Hannelore was particularly taken by the room above the cellar. She had to admit that Van In—or was it his ex—had good taste.

  “After the divorce, Sonja took all the furniture. It was the only way I could keep the house.”

  So he does have taste, she thought to herself.

  “I built the fireplace myself.”

  Hannelore felt completely at home. In contrast to the rest of the house, the room above the cellar was neat and orderly.

  “What a beautiful piece,” she said, pointing to a sensitively polished antique chest of drawers.

  “Did you buy it?”

  “Yes, from a divorced couple who couldn’t agree on who got what.”

  “Oh, the irony,” she laughed.

  “Watch out for the step,” Van In warned as they made their way toward the living room. Hannelore collapsed into one of the armchairs. It almost devoured her.

  “Fortified foam rubber,” he explained.

  “Expensive?”

  “Very. I can’t help myself. I’m addicted to beautiful things.”

  A pair of miniature Bose speakers hung from the ceiling.

  “Where’s the rest?”

  Van In pointed to a cabinet.

  “I’ll put on Carmina Burana for you in a minute.”

  She struggled free of the Ligne Roset armchair and made her way to the other side of the room. The entire wall opposite the music cabinet was taken up by a beechwood bookcase. She ran her finger along the spines.

  “Art lover and intellectual all in one,” she said in a slightly jeering tone. “Eco, Dante, Ruusbroec, Jung—what made you join the police?”

  “Don’t overdo it. I’m not one of the local boys. At least I can read and write.”

  They both laughed at the tired joke, and Van In suddenly realized how relaxed he felt in her company.

  “Come, let’s finish the tour.”

  He deliberately avoided the bedroom and she didn’t ask about it. He took her to the kitchen-dining room.

  “Sorry for the mess. But you know how it goes with bachelors.”

  “I should care,” she said. “I live alone too, by the way, and you should see my kitchen.”

  She stood in front of the enormous mirror above the mantelpiece. She turned sideways
and looked at herself in profile just as Van In was inclined to do.

  “Jesus, is that a Michel Martens mirror?”

  “Do you know him?” asked Van In, surprised.

  “I went to an exhibition last week. All I could afford was something small for my purse.”

  “Problem is …” he grouched, “you should see my overdraft.”

  “If that’s the case, then you have to be corrupt.”

  “If only.”

  He took her hand.

  “Dangerous stairs,” he gave as an excuse.

  They descended a spiral stairway built on to the outside of the house.

  “I love the oval windows. Are they original?”

  “It’s all original. Wait until you see the cellar.”

  The stairwell gave out into the cellar. Another door led to the back yard.

  “Are we now under the room I love so much?” asked Hannelore as she looked up at the whitewashed barrel vaulting. “Looks fifteenth century, no?”

  “Probably. The Vette Vispoort dates back to 1434. The five houses on the right are old almshouses and my house is on the left.”

  “Surely this isn’t an almshouse,” she said taken aback.

  “No, absolutely not,” he hastened to add. “No one’s sure why they built this place opposite the almshouses. They say it was commissioned by a fish merchant.”

  “Logical, I suppose … Vette Vispoort … Oily Fish Street … smelly!”

  “But the historians don’t buy it. Too obvious. They need evidence.”

  “So do we,” she grinned.

  They left the cellar and took the door into the back yard, which was no more than a long, narrow strip between the old canal wall and the back of the house.

  The silence of the summer night, the stars glistening in the sky, and the water of the canal gently murmuring in the background transformed the otherwise empty yard into an idyllic oasis. Morning can wait, Hannelore thought.

  “I didn’t know the house backed onto the canal. But it fits the picture. Wherever you find water, you find people fishing.”

  “Not really. There wasn’t a lot of fish to catch in those days. The canal was used more for transporting fish from elsewhere. At least that’s what I’ve read. This part runs along the old city wall dating back to 1127, which means—”

  They both froze at the sound of the telephone.