by Pieter Aspe
Then the phone rang. If the telephone rings when you’re expecting someone, it’s usually bad news. Still, Hannelore turned down the heat and made her way over to the phone, unsuspectingly.
“Hannelore Martens.”
“Hi, honey.” Van In never said “hi.” “Sorry, I’m on duty tonight. Don’t worry about me. I’ll grab a sandwich later. See you when I get off.”
Hannelore wished him a fine evening, blew out the candle, and tossed the kidneys in the trash.
6
Yves Provoost made his way up the gravel path leading to Lodewijk Vandaele’s villa. The flat Belgian landscape to which the great Jacques Brel once pledged his heart was on the point of slipping into a misty sleep. The temperature in Flanders that afternoon had been unbearably warm, but now a September chill had risen up from the centuries-old canal in front of the house. Changeable weather was as much a part of Belgium as fries and chocolate. The crowns of the trees bowed down as if this bogus herald of an advancing fall was a danger to their foliage. Here and there a wisp of blue smoke hovered above an isolated farmhouse set off against a cotton candy sky. Provoost shivered. The short bicycle ride hadn’t done him any good. He was chilled to the bone.
Johan Brys, Vandaele’s other guest, had parked his jet-black BMW in front of the villa. Provoost noticed the license plate. Brys liked to follow fashion. He had replaced the ministry license plate with his private number, a tactic the majority of dignitaries were inclined to deploy these days. It made their excellencies a little less obvious when they were tearing along the highway at double the speed limit.
“Yves. Come inside, quickly. The evenings are getting colder, don’t you think?”
Lodewijk Vandaele welcomed his visitor with a broad smile. Provoost took off his jacket and followed his host into the living room. Four large blocks of oak crackled in the fireplace. The flames from the expensive fuel roared gently.
Brys was much more reserved and restricted himself to a formal handshake. Provoost concretized the coolness of the greeting by standing as far from Brys as he could. There was little left of their old friendship. Both men had agreed to meet out of their own self-interest, and Vandaele was well aware of the fact. He tried to lighten the atmosphere.
“So, I guess we could all use a drink.”
Before waiting for a response, the former building contractor crossed to the liquor cart and filled three glasses. Vandaele was anything but miserly with the expensive Exshaw. “Here,” he said in what sounded like a command. “This’ll perk you up. What possessed you to come by bike?”
Provoost gulped down the contents of the glass like a giraffe that had finally found water after four hours of searching. Instead of raising it to his mouth, he had leaned over and tilted the cognac to his lips at an unusual angle.
“There’s no need to worry, Yves. I have the whole business under complete control. Johan’s been on the phone to the prosecutor-general. In a couple of days the investigation will be dead in the water and we can all get on with our lives.”
Brys nodded when Vandaele turned to him but didn’t seem entirely convinced. Counselor Lodewijk lived in the past. The days when a government minister could put pressure on a prosecutor-general were dead and gone. The scandals that had shaken the judiciary in recent years had left an indelible mark. But he wasn’t about to tell Counselor Lodewijk that of course. The old man was still convinced that every crime could be covered up for the sake of discretion.
“And what about Aerts?” Provoost asked.
Vandaele rested his right elbow on the mantelpiece. The intense heat of the fire did his rheumatic bones a world of good.
“I have reason to believe that Aerts’s departure has nothing to do with the case,” he said, his tone reassuring.
Brys swirled the Exshaw in his glass. “What makes you think that, Counselor Lodewijk?”
Vandaele smiled. He liked to be called “counselor.”
“William and Linda are always at each other’s throats. He’s left her a dozen times. Give him a couple of days. He’ll be back. I’m convinced of it.”
“I wonder if the police would share your opinion,” Brys grunted. “If they connect Aerts with the Love, his departure will raise questions.”
Vandaele sighed. Aerts was indeed the weakest link, and it didn’t look as if either Provoost or Brys were about to swallow his argument that the man’s departure was backpage news. “And do you think our wonderful Bruges police will be able to make the connection?” he asked condescendingly.
Provoost emptied his glass in a single gulp. “They’ve put Van In on the case.”
“Surely you’re not afraid of a policeman, are you, Yves?” Vandaele was completely certain the prosecutor-general was going to call Van In to heel.
“Don’t underestimate Van In,” Provoost protested. “The man stops at nothing and no one. I don’t have to remind you how he took on Degroof and Creytens.”
“Degroof committed suicide, and Creytens was taken out by some crazy Mafioso,” Vandaele retorted.
“Pretty convenient if you ask me. Am I the only one to notice that the guilty rarely make it to court when Van In’s on the case?”
Brys nodded. Provoost was right. As a local, he had followed both cases closely.
“Come on, Johan. Surely you don’t believe that a second-rate commissioner like Van In would take the law into his own hands.”
Vandaele sensed he was losing his hold on Brys and Provoost. “Van In doesn’t have a leg to stand on,” he said, trying to placate them.
“So why did you ask me to pressure the prosecutor-general?”
Vandaele was speechless for an instant.
“I think we should account for the possibility that the police will track Aerts down,” Brys insisted.
Like every politician who had been around the block a couple of times, Brys had learned that the human factor was the most unreliable.
Vandaele was unable to disagree, but he wasn’t about to give up on Aerts without a fight. “The most important thing is that we all tell the same story if there’s a confrontation. The corpse was found on my property, remember. Technically, that makes me an accessory to murder.”
An oppressive silence filled the room, only to be interrupted by the sound of a block of wood collapsing in the grate in a shower of sparks.
“Everything depends on Aerts,” said Brys, hammering his point. “If he starts shooting his mouth off, we’re all in the shit.”
Provoost poured himself a second drink. The cognac was both fast and merciless. Another sip and he would be drunk.
“If it ever comes to that, I’ll see to it that Aerts disappears once and for all,” said Vandaele resolutely. No one could accuse him of not trying to save Aerts’s skin.
Brys and Provoost completely agreed with the provisional sentence. They knew that the counselor was a man of his word.
“Then I can finally stop paying the bastard.” Provoost sighed after his slip of the tongue, for which the Exshaw was clearly responsible.
Vandaele frowned. Brys studied the bottom of his glass.
“Would you mind repeating that, Yves?” Vandaele asked.
Provoost glanced knowingly at Brys, but his former friend had nothing to say.
“Aerts has been blackmailing us for years. The bastard claims to have videotapes of the incident.”
Vandaele abandoned the comfort of the fireplace, lit a cigar, and started pacing. He didn’t like it when people kept him out of the loop.
“Tell me now,” said Vandaele.
“We didn’t want to cause you any embarrassment,” Provoost whispered. “I was convinced he was blackmailing you too. Didn’t Johan tell you?”
Brys glared at Provoost. That was a step too far.
Vandaele hawked like an old mineworker, and the cigar wasn’t to blame. His nerves had gotten the better of him
. He was willing to forgive the fact that Aerts had buried the body on his property, but blackmail was a different matter altogether.
“I’ll take care of it right away,” he said in a toneless voice. “Our William has been a little too greedy.”
Vandaele now understood why Aerts had disappeared in such a hurry. He had known damn well that the boss would punish him.
Van In needed two buckets of water to wake Linda Aerts. The result wasn’t a pretty sight. Linda looked like a wet kangaroo, and she started to race around her cell like a madwoman, cursing and swearing at the top of her lungs.
Van In was safely ensconced behind the door. He smoked one cigarette after the other. It was only a matter of time before she reached the point of no return.
Every half hour he opened the hatch and peered into the cell. Around midnight, the frequency of her temper tantrums diminished. The quieter it became, the more often he opened the hatch to take a look. Linda was hunched up on her wooden bed, her teeth chattering, a coarse stinking blanket draped over her shoulders. Earlier that evening, Van In had asked the assistance of a female officer who had helped Linda out of her wet clothing. He didn’t want her to catch pneumonia.
Around two thirty he sent a young officer to buy cigarettes at the convenience store. There wasn’t much time. This was his only chance to force her to her knees.
Van In lit a cigarette, opened the hatch, and puffed a cloud of smoke into the cell. Their eyes met for a couple of seconds. The stimulating smell of the cigarette smoke roused her from her lethargy. She jumped like a cat with its tail on fire. “Pervert fucking shit packer!” she screamed. “Lousy baton fucker, cock sucker, pile driver, limp-dicked, sour-faced canary fucker, piss drinkin’ cum dump …”
The expletives kept on coming. Van In smiled and continued to blow smoke into her cell. The sight of his grinning face was the last straw. Linda charged at the door, a finger pointed and ready to do some damage. Van In took a step backward, sat in his chair, and listened as she thumped the door. She kept it up for a good ten minutes, then she collapsed, burst into hysterical tears, and tossed the blanket on the floor. If Van In had entered the cell at that moment, he would have risked immediate suspension. No chief commissioner would cover for him if there was evidence he had spent more than ten seconds alone in a police cell with a naked woman.
Carine Neels offered Linda back her clothes, which she had dried to the best of her ability over an electric heater. They were still damp, but Linda had no complaints. The temper tantrum had left her completely empty. She got dressed like a zombie. The shock treatment had also screwed with her sense of time. How long had she been in the cell? When would they let her go?
“She’s ready, Commissioner,” said Carine when Linda was fully dressed. “Do you want me to stay?”
She had cause for concern, and she knew her presence could spare the commissioner a headache or two.
“I’d appreciate it, Miss Neels.”
Carine nodded. She liked it when Van In addressed her formally. In spite of the rumors circulating about the commissioner, she had a soft spot for him.
Van In took a deep breath. He wasn’t one to take young officers into his confidence, but he didn’t have much of a choice. It was three forty-five, and time was of the essence.
“But then you have to promise me one thing: whatever you see or hear remains strictly confidential.”
Her heart pounded. She once smoked a joint as a student. The tingling feeling now running up her back was at least as much fun.
“Goes without saying, Commissioner.”
Van In smiled. The girl was as green as a pool table, and in this situation, that was more an advantage than a disadvantage.
“We’re pretty sure Mrs. Aerts has information that might prove indispensible for winding up the case. Do you understand, Miss Neels?”
Of course she understood. She had been following the business with the skeleton step by step.
“Please, call me Carine,” she whispered conspiratorially.
Jesus H. Christ. Here we go again, thought Van In.
Linda followed them to Room 204 without protest. A dormant desperation glazed her eyes. Her self-confidence had taken some serious blows. Forced abstinence was beginning to take its toll as the merciless demon drink cranked up its final offensive. If Van In had told her at that moment that she was going to be locked up in jail for six months, she would have believed him without condition. The thought almost drove her out of her mind; locking a person up was the worst thing you could do to them.
When Van In offered Linda a chair, she almost thanked him for it. The jargon junkies liked to call that kind of reaction the Helsinki Syndrome, a concept that emerged in the 1970s when endless hostage takings plagued the TV screens. Psychologists observed that a sort of friendship evolved during hostage situations between the victims and their captors. Twenty years ago, it took a few days for such a special relationship to evolve, but in today’s instant society, of course, a lot less time was needed.
Linda took a seat, bowed her head, and folded her hands in her lap. Carine Neels stood at attention, her back like that of a sentry. There was something Eastern European about the whole scene. All that was missing was a leather jacket and a piercing desk lamp.
“Mrs. Aerts,” said Van In in a dulcet tone. “I’m afraid I still have a couple of questions to ask.”
Linda barely reacted. She was terrified. She remembered seeing a movie in which a female guard suddenly turned into a crazed, bloodthirsty sadist.
“I want to know the names of the men your husband escorted to Mr. Vandaele’s little house in the country.”
Linda raised her eyes. William had always made her promise never to mention names.
“I kept out of it.”
“Come, come, Mrs. Aerts. Mr. Vandaele’s special guests all used to meet in the Cleopatra, where you were tending bar.”
In the old days, when men appreciated a firmer chunk of flesh, she was a welcome sight in the Love. But most men tended to prefer stuffed skeletons these days, and William had degraded her to barmaid.
“That’s possible,” she said, her self-confidence on the return. “I may have taken care of the drinks, but I never asked for IDs. They say that’s the police’s job.”
Carine snorted indignantly. What a liar, she thought.
“Of course, ma’am.” Van In consciously emphasized the word ma’am. “But don’t tell me there were no regulars, people you knew by name.”
Linda shook her head stubbornly. “You’ll have to ask my husband. If you can find the bastard.”
“Fine,” said Van In frostily.
He leaned back in his chair, opened a drawer, and produced a bottle of whiskey and a glass.
“If that’s the case, then you might as well go back to your cell.”
The gurgle of the whiskey in the neck of the bottle had the same effect on Linda as a bag of blood to a waking vampire. Her nostrils trembled. She had to fight not to drool.
Van In raised the glass to his lips and took a sip. If this isn’t an excuse for a drink during working hours, he thought.
“Care for a little nightcap, Mrs. Aerts?”
Carine raised her eyebrows. Had the commissioner lost his mind?
Linda stared longingly at the bottle of Haig. Van In fished a second glass from the drawer and filled it halfway. He lit a cigarette and placed the pack in the middle of his desk. Linda hit it like a diving duck. Carine grabbed her arm, but Van In gestured that she should let go. He was holding a lighter in his left hand.
“A light, Mrs. Aerts?”
He held out the flame. Linda cradled the useless cigarette in her quivering hand. This was too much. What the fuck, she thought, half of Bruges knew who frequented the Cleopatra. And what went on in the Love wasn’t a crime.
“Yves Provoost, once every two weeks.”
&nbs
p; “The lawyer?”
“Who else?” she snapped.
Van In pushed the whiskey closer. Linda grabbed the glass and emptied it in a couple of swigs.
“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it, Mrs. Aerts?”
Van In held out the lighter and poured a second drink. He then took out a pen and a sheet of paper. The page filled with names as the bottle emptied.
“Hah, Alexander De Jaegher. Now who would have expected De Jaegher?”
“Doctor Blowjob,” Linda sneered. “He sometimes came twice a week.”
In the space of thirty minutes, Van In had filled two sheets of a legal pad. He now realized precisely why Vandaele had installed an electric gate. Some of the Love’s “clients” were so well known they demanded the utmost discretion. Speedy entry and exit was an indispensible condition for guaranteeing their celebrity privacy.
Van In crossed the Zand in the center of Bruges. The square was bathed in an unearthly light. The open surface dotted with wrought-iron street lamps reminded him of a Paul Delvaux nude. The association wasn’t so crazy; this was where the train station used to be and a naked woman was now sleeping off her hangover in a cell around the corner. A chilly east wind made him shiver. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, bent his back, and braved the cold fall breeze. He had struggled through many a night shift in his life and had learned that those who held out till five a.m. rarely wanted to go straight home. So he made his way to the Egg Market only to find everything closed. His only option was Villa Italiana.
Mario the barman recognized Van In at a glance. “On your way home or on your way to work?” he asked in a thick Bruges accent.
He mixed two measures of Glenfiddich with half a bottle of Coke. Four listless fortysomethings were making fools of themselves on the dance floor. Their wooden movements were in complete contrast to the infectious beat of the place’s signature disco music. Fortunately there was no one to hiss at them.
“One for the road,” said Van In dryly.
