by Pieter Aspe
“Let me think …”
The canon furrowed his brows and held his hand in front of his eyes. His memory was apparently not perfect. After a couple of seconds he rushed over to a metal filing cabinet and opened the bottom drawer.
“Debrabandere Georges, Debrabandere Adolf, Debrabandere Fernand.”
He pulled the file from the drawer and opened it.
“Pastor in retirement since 1982. He lives with the Sisters of Mercy in Ruiselede,” he crowed triumphantly.
The bishop produced a studied Pepsodent smile, the sort he saved for the faithful on feast days, and turned to Versavel with sparkling eyes. He hoped the media would appreciate the diocese’s spontaneous cooperation after the successful resolution of the kidnapping.
Versavel contacted the station on Hauwer Street by radio and passed on the information.
“Perhaps your grace would be kind enough to contact the sisters in person.”
Versavel caught himself striking an unctuous tone.
“Commissioner Van In insists that we question Father Debrabandere this evening. He’s on his way to Ruiselede at this very moment in the company of Deputy Public Prosecutor Martens.”
“But of course, Inspector.”
“Sergeant, your grace,” said Versavel. “I’m a sergeant.”
Hannelore leaped at the telephone like a tiger when it rang that evening at seven-thirty.
She had spent the entire time moping over the stunt Van In had pulled with her. She found it hard to believe that the conversation with Degroof had lasted so long. If he had discovered something, why in God’s name hadn’t he called?
Van In was straining at the leash with impatience when she turned onto Bishop Avenue. The adrenaline pumped through his veins. He had never managed to force such a breakthrough in his entire career. But honesty also compelled him to add that he had never been confronted with a case of this magnitude in all his years in the Bruges police.
Van In felt reborn, liberated in one fell swoop from twenty years of routine. If he managed to successfully conclude the Degroof case, he could finally salvage some of his long-lost self-respect.
“Hi, Hannelore!” It was the most upbeat he had felt in years.
“Do you need a chauffeur, or am I allowed to join in properly this time?” she snarled, her mood an antidote to his good cheer.
Charlotte was taken aback by the way they interacted, but she didn’t let it show. Van In was in such a euphoric mood that her sarcasm didn’t bother him in the least.
“Let’s call it a draw,” he chirped. “Don’t forget, you weaseled out on Friday in the interests of the inquiry.”
Hannelore caught sight of Charlotte and bit her lip. They were acting like an old married couple.
“But at least I gave you a full report, Commissioner,” she said, sounding a bit more formal.
“And you can expect the same from me, ma’am.”
Charlotte accompanied them to the front door. The tempo of the investigation had picked up since earlier in the morning. Now she had the impression that something was actually happening.
“Don’t wake your husband,” said Van In. “Who knows, perhaps we’ll have better news before morning.”
Just before they walked out the door, Charlotte grabbed Van In by the arm and gave him a warm kiss on the cheek.
“Every success, Pieter. You can’t imagine how much we’ll be in your debt if you find our son alive and well.”
Van In beamed, and he didn’t fail to notice the short but nasty look from Hannelore.
“Ruiselede, and don’t spare the horses,” he said as Hannelore started the Twingo.
Versavel had just returned from his visit to the bishop and was waiting in the station’s inner courtyard for them to pick him up. He had called Charlotte and knew they were on their way.
Sister Marie-Therese kept watch at the convent gate on mother superior’s orders.
“Don’t keep them waiting, whatever you do,” the bishop had insisted. “The life of an innocent child may be at stake.”
Hannelore steered her diminutive Renault at breakneck speed in the direction of Ruiselede, while listening carefully to Van In’s slightly revised account of his meeting with Degroof. He made no mention of Degroof’s bribe offer.
In the meantime, mother superior shepherded Father Debrabandere, the convent’s spiritual director, with considerable urgency toward the front door. The poor man had already been in bed for an hour and she had had to push her powers of persuasion to their limits to convince the half-senile priest that the police visit was of exceptional importance.
“The bishop himself called,” she had said when the stubborn clergyman protested. She deposited him in a chair in one of the parlors and hurried to join sister Marie-Therese at the gate. Five minutes and three Hail Maries later, Hannelore’s Twingo tore around the corner into Pensionaat Street. The convent door swung open before she got out of the car.
“Walk this way,” said the plain-spoken mother superior in what sounded like a cross between an order and a request.
“Father Debrabandere is still a little groggy. I think I should be present, given the circumstances … with your permission, of course,” she added devoutly.
Debrabandere was a quirky old clergyman. He had devoted his life to the Church, and as a priest he had instilled the faithful under his charge with awe. The simple among them had believed his every word, and the prominent among them had provided him with the necessary prestige.
He was now eighty-two. He had watched the Church slide from a mighty organization to a narrow-minded institution that had lost almost all of its credit.
Father Debrabandere had kept his promise of celibacy throughout his priestly life. But the whirlwind of renewal that had raged through the Church in recent years had ultimately driven him to the bottle. When the bishop concluded that he was no longer in control of his drinking, he banished him to the convent.
“I remember the incident well,” said Debrabandere with a twinkle in his eye when Van In cautiously inquired about Aurelie Degroof’s child. “Mr. Ludovic consulted me personally.”
“And the child was probably placed with a family immediately after the birth? A Loppem family, I would imagine?”
Van In raised his voice. Mother superior had told him that the priest was hard of hearing.
“Absolutely,” said Debrabandere. “I took care of it myself.”
“And do you remember their name, Father?”
The elderly priest closed his eyes. Deep wrinkles appeared in the parchment skin of his forehead.
“Their name, Father,” Van In insisted when the man remained silent.
Debrabandere’s fleshy chin sagged to his chest.
“Don’t fall asleep, Father. These people have come especially from Bruges. A boy has been kidnapped,” said mother superior, shaking his shoulder. Debrabandere raised a single eyelid.
“Forgive me, sister,” he mumbled. “My memory isn’t what it was. But a good glass of Burgundy might help. I know that from experience.”
Van In and Hannelore were perplexed and turned to mother superior. The sturdy sister was also at a loss.
“But Father,” she protested. If Van In and Hannelore hadn’t been there, she would have given him a good telling off, reminding him that the bishop’s orders had been clear and unequivocal: no alcohol, not even on feast days.
“If a glass of wine can help, sister,” said Hannelore impatiently.
“We urgently need this information,” said Van In, piling up the pressure.
The sister was of two minds. The bishop’s orders had indeed been clear, but he had also asked her to help the police in whatever way she could.
“All right, then,” she sighed. “His grace will forgive me this once.”
When she was gone, Debrabandere signaled that Van In and Hannelore should come closer.
“The family’s name was Verhaeghe, Jan and Bea Verhaeghe. The lived on Station Street in Loppem back then. Jan was a teacher
at the village school and Bea raised money for the missions. They were childless, but the Degroof child brought them enormous happiness,” the elderly priest grinned.
“Are you sure?” asked Van In.
“Of course I’m sure. They left Loppem in 1966. The boy had health problems and they decided to move to the coast, De Panne if I’m not mistaken.”
“De Panne?”
Debrabandere straightened his back, almost got to his feet, and raised a bony finger to Van In.
“Listen, young man. There’s nothing wrong with my memory.”
And your hearing’s fine too, Hannelore thought to herself.
“The Verhaeghes live in De Panne,” he snapped.
He collapsed back into his chair with a gasp. Van In was worried they might have pushed the old man too far. He wasn’t to know that Debrabandere was worried too, that his harshness toward the police officer might have endangered his liquid reward.
“But do me a favor,” the priest groaned endearingly. “Wait till she comes back with the wine.”
Van In gave him the opportunity to empty two glasses, which the elderly priest managed in no time at all. Mother superior followed the drinking session with her eyes on stalks.
They thanked Debrabandere and mother superior accompanied them to the gate, her skirts in a flurry.
“I’m certain his grace would appreciate it if Father Debrabandere were to receive an appropriate reward for his assistance. Don’t you think, Deputy Martens?” said Versavel.
“Absolutely,” Hannelore concurred with a wink. “I think he earned every bit of his bottle of Burgundy. It stimulates the memory, my grandfather used to say. If I were you, I’d treat him to a couple of glasses every day.”
“Is that true, ma’am?” mother superior asked, a little awe-struck.
“Of course. Who knows … that bottle of Burgundy may have saved an innocent child’s life,” said Van In.
They all burst out laughing in the car.
“To De Panne?” she asked rhetorically.
“There’s a telephone box next to the church. Call Bruges and ask them to contact the local police.”
“Can’t we just look up their address in the telephone directory?”
“But what if there’s more than one Verhaeghe in De Panne? It’s a fairly common name. Let’s not take any chances. And let’s swing by the station in Hauwer Street first. I think it’s time to switch to a police car.”
“As long as I get to drive,” said Hannelore. “And switch on the sirens,” she added.
No one could accuse the De Panne police of not being fast and efficient.
“The Verhaeghes are on vacation,” Versavel shouted as they stepped out of the car in the station’s inner courtyard.
“One of the duty officers happened to know the family. They’re driving around the south of France in a camper van for three weeks.”
“Shit,” Van In cursed. “That’s all we needed.”
Hannelore was bewildered.
“And the children? Do they know where they live?”
“They don’t have their own children! Why else did they adopt Aurelie’s child?”
“That’s what I meant,” said Van In, irked.
“We’re working on it,” said Versavel.
“Okay, let’s go inside and have a coffee. Sorry, sweetheart, but I promise you can switch on the lights and siren next time.”
“Is that a promise, Pieter?” she pouted.
Versavel pretended not to have heard. Jesus … what are they like? he thought. A couple of schoolgirls …
Van In grabbed the phone from a colleague.
“If they find the adopted son’s address, they have to search the place right away. I presume you can convince them that they’ll be covered by a warrant,” he said to Hannelore.
“Hello, Van In here.”
Inspector Simpelaere of the De Panne police greeted his Bruges colleague warmly. He was honored to have his men working on the Degroof case. At that moment, someone handed him a scrap of paper with Daniel Verhaeghe’s address.
“I’ll send round a couple of men on the double,” said Simpelaere enthusiastically. Van In shrugged his shoulders. The chances that Daniel Verhaeghe would be at home were more or less zero.
“Do that,” he said. “And make sure …”
“Nathalie lives in De Panne,” Hannelore hissed while Van In was passing on his instructions. “Jesus, why didn’t I make the connection?”
She tapped Van In on the shoulder and scribbled Nathalie also lives in De Panne on the white edge of a newspaper. Van In spun round with such force that he almost knocked the phone from the desk.
“Jesus H. Christ,” he groaned.
“What was that?” said Inspector Simpelaere.
“You have to pick up Nathalie Degroof. Find her address and send your men round immediately. Arrest her and lock her up,” he snarled. “We’re on our way.”
Inspector Simpelaere pulled a face when the connection was abruptly broken. To add to his troubles, the commissioner marched into his office with the mayor in his wake. There they are, he growled under his breath. All ready to take a pat on the back.
“Let’s get a move on,” said Van In to Hannelore and Versavel. “De Panne, top speed.”
“Do we take the GTI?” asked Versavel.
“Whatever, as long as it’s fast.”
The sergeant grabbed the keys from the wall cupboard and ran ahead of them
“Sorry, Guido. I promised Hannelore she could drive.”
“With lights and sirens,” Versavel jeered.
He changed his tune when they were ripping down the freeway at one hundred twenty kilometers per hour. Versavel plainly had to admit that Deputy Martens could handle the GTI with some panache. He resigned himself to the nightmare journey, which took all of thirty-six minutes. The roar of the engine and the blaring sirens made it impossible to carry on a normal conversation. Versavel wasn’t able to point out that no one had considered the possibility that Nathalie might not be at home.
But for once they were in luck.
When they stormed into the police station in De Panne, there was Nathalie parked red-eyed between two burly officers in the interrogation room.
“I’ll get straight to the point, friend,” said Van In. “We know that Daniel Verhaeghe is an accessory to the abduction of Bertrand Delahaye. And we also know that you’re part of his little scheme,” he gambled.
Nathalie’s eyes were swollen. When they arrested her, she had started to cry from rage and frustration. She was going to miss a meet with her dealer. Her eyes shot flames at Hannelore.
“I’ve nothing to do with it. I don’t even know Daniel Verhaeghe.”
“We’re talking abduction, sweetheart,” said Van In softly. “The penalty for complicity is pretty scary.”
“If you plan to accuse me of something, get on with it. Then I can call my lawyer.”
In spite of the fact that her life was going down the drain, with some serious drug withdrawal to boot, Nathalie was still a Degroof: proud and arrogant.
“It’s up to you. Keep up the denial and say farewell to your stuff for a while.”
Hannelore drew herself up to her full height and stood in front of Nathalie, her legs wide apart.
“Never heard of the law of May 14, 1994?”
The question clearly threw her.
“In serious criminal cases such as murder and kidnapping, the public prosecutor is at liberty to have suspects held on remand indefinitely.”
She gave Nathalie a moment to let her words sink in.
“A junkie like you wouldn’t survive, would you? You’d either go crazy or you’d beg for permission to confess,” she added, twisting the knife.
“Fucking bitch!”
Nathalie started to shake at the thought of being held for even more than twenty-four hours. Even Van In was shifting nervously in his chair. He’d never heard of the law of May 14, 1994. No one had heard of it.
“Come,
come, ma’am, surely we can rule out indefinite detention. If Miss Degroof can tell us where we can find Daniel Verhaeghe, she’ll be home in half an hour.”
The oldest police trick in the book, good cop/bad cop, and it still worked like a dream in plenty of cases. But Nathalie had apparently read too many thrillers and watched too many detective series on TV.
“Give me some credit,” she snarled. “And by the way, this interrogation is illegal. Deputy public prosecutors aren’t allowed to be present during police questioning. You’re not welcome, Deputy asshole.”
Hannelore gulped, not because of Nathalie’s insults but because she was right. It was extremely unusual for magistrates working for the public prosecutor’s office to take part in a police interrogation. It may even have been against the law, as Nathalie had suggested.
They continued to question her in turns until four in the morning. The interrogation room was blue with smoke. Nathalie had cursed them, snapped at them, and provoked them. She had tried to escape a couple of time in a rage, but she continued to insist that she had nothing to do with the abduction of her nephew.
“Do you think she’s lying?” asked Hannelore while Nathalie was cooling off in a police cell.
“No idea,” said Van In. “But there’s no point in continuing the interrogation. The bitch knows good and well that we’re running out of time.”
“What do you suggest?”
Van In mooched a cigarette from the duty sergeant and searched nervously in his pockets for his lighter.
“Back to square one …” he sighed, “and just in time to witness the spectacle. Mind you, I could do with a couple of hours sleep first.”
The TV people had set up their equipment long before the crack of dawn. Swarms of technicians had worked through the night to get ready for the big moment. They had built towers and laid out miles of cable. Everything was ready for a live nine o’clock broadcast, and the world was about to hear about one of the weirdest kidnapping in history. The diehard curious who didn’t want to miss any part of the spectacle had started to trickle into the city in search of the best vantage points.
With Versavel at the wheel, the drive from De Panne to Bruges was a lot calmer than the outward trip. The atmosphere in the car was one of defeat.
