The Square of Revenge

by Pieter Aspe

  “The tracks run cold and the hunters lose heart,” said Versavel philosophically.

  A cheerless Van In stared into space.

  “Who in God’s name would want to get his own back on a man of eighty if not someone within the family?” said Hannelore. “It all seems so unlikely.”

  Van In was in the back, deep in thought. He didn’t really register what Versavel and Hannelore had said. Something had been niggling him since the previous afternoon. It was like having a spot on your nose: it might be tiny and barely visible when you look in the mirror, but it’s there and you can’t stop looking at it.

  Memory is a complex labyrinth, a living mishmash of memories, some registered, others wandering lost until they find a home. But if one such homeless memory, meaningless in itself, bumps into another and latches on to it, the encounter can sometimes spur the most original insights.

  “I don’t think Aquilin Verheye is dead,” he said out of the blue.

  Hannelore turned to look at him. She thought he had started to talk nonsense in a fit of insanity.

  “I don’t just think it, I know it.”

  Van In dug into his inside pocket and produced the photos of Verheye’s grave.

  “Pull over, Guido, and give me the flashlight.”

  Versavel asked no questions and parked the car on the shoulder.

  “Here,” said Van In. He handed Hannelore one of the photos. “Read the dates.”

  “15.10.1914,” she said.

  “And you, Guido.”

  Versavel reluctantly put on his glasses and carefully studied the photograph. It took a minute, but he also said: “15.10.1914.”

  “Jesus H. Christ. It’s time I got myself one of those,” Van In grumbled. “I should have thought of it earlier.”

  “Glasses … you need glasses? You shouldn’t be so vain,” Hannelore mocked.

  “No, for Christ sake. The dates don’t tally! Degroof told me that Verheye was two days older than him. And he was born on May 19, 1914.”

  “What the …” said Versavel. He hadn’t a clue what Van In was talking about.

  “But if Verheye isn’t dead, who’s lying in his grave?” asked Hannelore.

  “No one, or someone else. But it shouldn’t take long to find out.”

  While Van In radioed dispatching in Bruges, Hannelore and Versavel changed places.

  “If it gets exciting, I get to drive,” she beamed. She started the engine, stamped on the gas, and took off with sirens wailing.

  Fleurus is a small community to the west of Namur. At four-fifteen, thirty-five minutes after Van In had called dispatch, the tranquil village’s picturesque cemetery was hermetically sealed off from the outside world.

  Thirty hurriedly assembled policemen were nervously awaiting further instructions.

  Public Prosecutor Lootens had never made such a quick decision in his life. He had called his colleague in Namur, and the man had immediately given orders to have Verheye’s alleged corpse exhumed.

  Six men armed with shovels and pickaxes went to work without delay. They paid little attention to the damage they were causing to nearby graves.

  Van In received a message at six precisely. The exhumation was complete and there was a corpse in the casket. The police physician, who had just arrived, confirmed that the casket contained an elderly man, but it was too early for further details.

  “Fuck.”

  Van In thumped the desk with his fist. He was exhausted and his capacity to cope with setbacks was about as flexible as Versavel’s baton. They were running out of time and every clue was a dead end. The entire Degroof affair was a succession of misjudged events and half-baked conclusions. Just as he had started to believe in his job again after so many years, his illusions started to disappear like the smoke from the cigarette he was holding between his trembling fingers.

  “Surely the Records Office has to know something.” Hannelore articulated the most obvious next step a fraction of a second before it entered Van In’s mind.

  “You’re brilliant!”

  Van In took her by the arm and pulled her inelegantly toward him. The resounding kiss on the cheek echoed through the scantily furnished room, and four pairs of eyes, including those of De Kee, watched the outpouring of affection open-mouthed.

  “Records Office, here we come,” he said to a speechless De Kee. “If the corpse isn’t Verheye, then Verheye has taken on the identity of the dead man. It also wouldn’t surprise me if he lives in the neighborhood, and if we find Verheye, we find the boy. Hannelore, bring your mobile. It’s important that we keep in contact with everyone.”

  As they rushed downstairs, Van In collided face on with D’Hondt, who had hurried over from Zand Square. He had heard on the radio that there was a new evolution in the case.

  “Sorry, buddy, but there’s no room in the car,” said Hannelore. She waved at the bewildered captain and chased after Van In.

  She fastened her safety belt and before Van In had the chance to settle into his seat, she revved the Golf GTI’s intimidating engine a couple of times. De Kee, Versavel, and D’Hondt watched from the window above.

  “Those two think they’re in a Western,” De Kee observed dryly.

  “Dogs in heat,” D’Hondt sneered. “They’ll probably stop on the way for a quick one,” he added snidely.

  Versavel wanted to tell him off but resisted just in time. D’Hondt was a captain, and insulting an officer wasn’t good for your career.

  Hannelore took off American style, with screeching tires and swaying rear axle. In the meantime, Van In tried to contact Fleurus. He succeeded as they tore past the church in Sint-Michiels, in the suburbs of Bruges.

  The connection was bad, but the local police officer in charge of the investigation in Fleurus was more than willing to help. He immediately sent two men to the mayor’s house with orders to have the Records Office clerk summoned ASAP.

  “So you really think the corpse isn’t Verheye,” said Hannelore in a relaxed tone as she drove the car with wailing sirens onto the freeway.

  “I don’t just think so, I’m pretty sure.”

  “But how in God’s name did he get away with it?”

  “Ever read The Day of the Jackal?”

  She glanced at him in bewilderment for a fraction of a second.

  “Shame,” said Van In. “It’s a good read. Our friend must have used the same method. The Jackal is a hired killer who keeps changing his identity. Verheye must have done the same, Belgian style.”

  “Get to the point, Pieter, for God’s sake. You’re not trying to tell me that someone used the tricks from some novel to organize a crime.”

  “I wouldn’t want to be responsible for all the crimes that were based on the plot of a film or a book, sweetheart. But people have written about The Day of the Jackal, and what Forsyth describes in the book is perfectly doable with the right amount of time and resources.”

  The car phone started to ring.

  “Commandant Evrard here, ’allo?”

  The Walloon policeman spoke more than reasonable Dutch.

  “Hello, Van In here. Good morning, Commandant Evrard. We’re on the road, just passing Aalter. ETA around 7:30. Is the Records Office clerk on hand?”

  “Affirmative,” was the professional reply.

  “Does he have access to Aquilin Verheye’s address and family situation?”

  Commandant Evrard responded once again in the affirmative, although he had no idea why the information was so important.

  “Did he live alone?”

  It took thirty seconds before he received an answer to his question.

  “The man was unmarried. He moved to Fleurus in 1990.”

  “Shit,” Van In muttered under his breath, “another dead end!”

  Hannelore, who was determined to cover the Aalter-Namur trajectory in less than thirty minutes, revved the engine once more. A police vehicle tearing past at that speed was guaranteed to give the region’s well-behaved early commuters something to
talk about when they arrived at their boring office jobs.

  “Where did he live before that?” Van In snarled after a full minute’s silence.

  Commandant Evrard was fortunately a very patient man.

  “One moment, Commissioner.”

  Van In would have given his right hand for an ice-cold Duvel.

  “Schaarbeek,” he said after a couple of seconds.

  Van In now had no other option than to play his final trump. If he was wrong, Mr. Forsyth could expect an angry letter signed Van In.

  “Can you check if Aquilin Verheye applied for a new identity card before he died?”

  Commandant Evrard gulped.

  “Start three months before he moved to Fleurus and if that draws a blank, then we’ll have to check further back,” said Van In.

  “Do you realize what you’re asking, Commissioner?”

  Van In knew exactly what he was asking. And when he announced that he wanted the information within the hour, even Evrard started to lose his patience.

  “Call in the Ministry of the Interior if need be, or the National Records Office.”

  “Okay, Commissioner, but I hope you’re right.”

  Evrard ended the conversation and put his radio man to work.

  “If I’m to be honest, Holmes, I’m finding it hard to follow your line of reasoning,” said Hannelore. Her knuckles were white and the hair of her fringe was sticking to her forehead.

  Van In stretched his legs, insofar as that was possible in the limited space, and breathed a deep sigh.

  “I’m taking it for granted that he hatched his plan a long time ago. His obsession with getting his revenge on Degroof probably dates back to their student days. Verheye knew he needed a different identity to be sure that Degroof couldn’t track him down. He planned it that Degroof would know from the outset who was responsible for this act of revenge, but would be left powerless and forced to look on as destiny unfolded in front of him. Don’t forget, only the sower knows the burdens and vicissitudes of life. And if the sower is the one who devised the plan, then our Latin riddle suddenly becomes crystal-clear. Billen’s explanation led me astray for a while. You remember, the concierge at the basilica.”

  “Do you think someone would take so much trouble just to exact revenge?”

  Jesus Hanne, he thought to himself, surely you’re not that naïve.

  “For certain types of people, exacting revenge is a sacred task. They’re like religious fanatics. It is their only goal, and no cost is too great.”

  “The way you describe him, our friend Verheye must be totally psycho,” she said, still finding his explanation a little hard to take. “But good, I interrupted you. Continue.”

  “So he’s faced with a question: what’s the best way to ‘legally’ adopt a different identity?”

  “And Forsyth had the answer?” she sniggered.

  “I told you that Forsyth tested his ideas against reality. You can be sure that anyone with a bit of creativity would find a solid answer to such a question. And we can hardly accuse Verheye of not being creative.”

  “Fine,” she said. “I believe you.”

  Van In lit another cigarette. The excitement of the preceding hours had taken its toll on his good intentions.

  “I hope you do,” he said.

  “Go on. I’m listening.”

  Van In felt she was making a fool of him. After all, his chances of being wide of the mark yet again were pretty high.

  “Surely you don’t think I’m winding you up,” said Hannelore, half serious. “For me you’re the smartest detective on the force.”

  “If you say so. Try to picture it: Verheye befriends an old man in Schaarbeek, roughly his own age, unmarried and on his last legs. He discovers the man has no family. Major cities are awash with people like that. After a couple of months, he works his way into the man’s life, becomes his prop and stay. He goes to the store, makes meals, keeps him company. On a given day—he’s turned into a close confidant by this time—he informs the police that the old man has lost his ID card. Under normal circumstances, the person who lost the card has to take care of the formalities. But everyone knows that exceptions are made now and then for the elderly. The police provide him with a certificate and he takes the document to the Records Office. But instead of a photo of his elderly friend, he hands in a photo of himself. After a couple of weeks Verheye collects a genuine ID card in his friend’s name but with his photo. A while later he repeats the procedure, but this time the other way round. From then on Verheye takes the place of his elderly friend. Once that’s done, he persuades his ‘victim’ to come and live with him in the Ardennes. Maybe he threatened to abandon the old man, who knows, but as we said, he’s on his last legs, so he agrees to move to Fleurus. From that point on, all Verheye has to do is wait until his buddy dies. It wouldn’t even surprise me if Verheye made over all his property to the old guy in his will before the exchange of identity. That way he would inherit it all back after the man’s death.”

  “And you think you can get away with such an operation in Belgium,” she said skeptically.

  “Anything’s possible in Belgium,” Van In responded, sure of his answer.

  “But something doesn’t fit,” she said hesitatingly.

  “What doesn’t fit?”

  Hannelore bit her bottom lip. She found disappointing Van In painful.

  “Even if Verheye managed to change his identity as you suggest, there’s still a problem. I can believe he switched the photographs, but he would never have been able to change the other details held at the Records Office.”

  “Sorry, I’m not following,” said Van In on edge.

  She took a deep breath and placed her hand on his thigh.

  “If Aquilin Verheye had the identity card of an unknown man at his disposal, the old man’s details would also be on the card and vice versa,” she said with a regretful smile. “The date of birth on the grave would have to correspond with that of the real Aquilin Verheye, namely 17.05.1914.”

  “And yet it reads 15.10.1914,” Van In persisted.

  “Unless …”

  Hannelore grabbed the wheel with both hands. She beamed.

  “Say Aquilin Verheye made a mistake,” she said triumphantly. “Every criminal makes a mistake sooner or later. It’s common knowledge …”

  “Hannelore, you’re trying my patience,” Van In groaned.

  “Okay,” she said with a hint of caution, “let’s say your theory is right.”

  Van In nodded eagerly.

  “The old man who has to pass for Verheye dies. He has no family. Who takes care of the funeral?”

  “Verheye, of course.”

  “Correct. And who takes care of the grave stone?”

  “Verheye of course … Jesus H. Christ! The idiot used his victim’s date of birth!”

  “Exactly,” she laughed.

  “So I was right after all,” Van In stammered incredulously.

  “Let’s hope so,” she said softly.

  18

  DANIEL VERHAEGHE HAD BEEN STARING spellbound at the ever-expanding crowd on Zand Square for more than an hour and a half.

  The turnout had surpassed everyone’s expectations. Aerial observers estimated the number of people at fifty thousand. Bruges was indeed a city under siege.

  Daniel watched the spectacle with a glass of champagne in his hand, enjoying this ultimate triumph with every fiber of his being.

  He turned up the TV with the remote. Almost every European broadcaster would soon be transmitting the bonfire live to the world. Dozens of cameras zoomed in on the paintings, which were displayed on a long, improvised easel. Sotheby’s experts discussed the value of the canvases and, as usual, disagreed. Estimates fluctuated between sixty and a hundred million Belgian francs.

  Four hundred local and federal police had been deployed to keep order. Their presence seemed unnecessary at first sight as the crowd was exceptionally well-behaved. But the atmosphere on Zand Square was high-spi
rited. On the road encircling the square, which had been closed to traffic for the occasion, stalls selling hot dogs, French fries, and kebabs had sprung up like dandelions on a freshly watered lawn. Local shop owners were selling beer and sodas on the sidewalk. Greedy curiosity had made the crowd thirsty, and the closer it got to nine o’clock, the rowdier it became. Everyone had his own opinion on what was about to happen.

  Patrick Delahaye was waiting in a local police car, a vacant expression on his face. Charlotte had stayed home. She was watching TV and counting the minutes. Her thoughts were reserved for her son alone. She prayed the Lord’s Prayer, awkward but sincere, begging God to listen to her plea.

  Van In contacted Captain D’Hondt at eight-fifty.

  He had received word from Commandant Evrard five minutes earlier. In Schaarbeek police station, officers searched at fever pitch through piles of forms submitted to report the loss or theft of an identity card. They were forced to do it manually because the computer that stored the information was acting up.

  They had work on their hands. Everything depended on the date Verheye had reported the ID card loss; then they had to check the addresses of those who would have been eligible for the exchange.

  “Hello, Van In here. I have a message for Captain D’Hondt. And it’s urgent.”

  “I’m afraid Captain D’Hondt is unavailable right now,” said the duty sergeant on the other end of the line.

  His instructions had been crystal-clear. Captain D’Hondt was giving an interview to a BBC reporter. D’Hondt was a huge anglophile, and his heart skipped a beat when he was asked for an interview. Appearing in front of the camera for British television was the greatest honor he could imagine. Some of his colleagues would be green with envy when they saw him, and he would finally be able to demonstrate that he was the only one among them who spoke decent English.

  Van In paled around the nostrils when the arrogant subordinate brushed him off. The hand in which he was holding the receiver started to shake. Hannelore could see that he was about to explode.

  “Let me repeat my request one more time,” he snarled. “I have the minister of the interior here beside me. If D’Hondt doesn’t get to the phone in one minute, I’ll let you deal with the minister in person.”