From Bruges with Love

by Pieter Aspe

  Versavel finished his second Duvel in almost a single gulp. The effects of such an overdose were immediately apparent. “I have to tell Europol right away,” he slurred. “I’m pretty sure they don’t have that particular method of inquiry in their database.”

  Carine Neels had to ask directions a couple of times before she finally arrived at the Vette Vispoort. The man she spoke to on Saint Jacob Street offered her five thousand francs for an hour at his place. Her metamorphosis had clearly worked. Carine caught sight of her reflection in a shop window. Pretty sexy, she thought.

  10

  Melchior Muys was a corpulent man, his ice-cold cobra eyes bulging behind the convex lenses of his expensive designer glasses. His receding hairline was typical of a genuine bureaucrat. Such premature baldness was once considered a sign of wisdom. Now people knew better. Men were bald because their maternal grandfathers were bald.

  Van In knew that Muys was forty-four. Without that information he would have said the senior auditor was at least ten years older.

  “Good morning, Commissioner.”

  Muys offered him a chair. A tray with a thermos and two cups was evidence that the man had been expecting him. In spite of the obligatory no smoking sign, Van In lit a cigarette with the intention of showing Muys who was boss before they got started. Muys was quick to react. He pressed the button on his intercom and asked his secretary to bring an ashtray.

  “I’m here about the Yves Provoost murder,” said Van In coolly.

  Coming straight to the point had its advantages. The initial reaction of the person being interrogated was often invaluable, certainly if he was pouring coffee at the time. The timing was perfect. Muys spilled coffee in the saucer.

  “An unfortunate affair,” Muys conceded.

  The senior auditor tried to keep his trembling hand under control.

  “You knew him well, I presume.”

  Muys returned the thermos to the tray and sat down at his desk, where he felt a great deal safer. “Professionally, yes,” he said with obvious caution. “Yves was a valued colleague. His death has touched me deeply. Such a brutal killing—”

  “Provoost was liquidated,” Van In interrupted. “According to the present state of the investigation, we’re assuming it had to do with his regular visits to the Love.”

  Muys folded his arms under his chin, a bearing intended to absorb the shock caused by Van In’s reference to the Love.

  “If I’m not mistaken, you visited the place yourself, Mr. Muys?” Van In inquired, sipping his coffee and pretending to look out the window while keeping Muys in view from the corner of his left eye.

  “Excuse me, Commissioner, but I’m afraid I don’t follow you,” said Muys, his voice composed. The shock effect had clearly worn off.

  “You were never there?”

  “Never,” said Muys.

  The senior auditor had recovered his balance. Like so many middle management civil servants, he had learned by trial and error that truth was a relative concept. Denial was always better than admission. “Another coffee, Commissioner? Or a cognac perhaps?”

  He was about to get up when Van In gestured that he was happy with another coffee, but Muys wasn’t taking no for an answer. The filing cabinet was where the majority of civil servants kept their stash of booze.

  “Yet there are witnesses who swear you were a regular,” said Van In. “Which isn’t a crime, of course,” he added immediately.

  Muys selected an unopened bottle of Otard from an extensive assortment. “I wonder who such witnesses might be, Commissioner,” he said.

  He poured Van In an immense glass of Otard, a tried and tested technique that almost always worked. Food and drink was the cheapest form of corruption in Flanders.

  Van In recognized the maneuver. His thoughts turned to Linda Aerts. He understood why she’d lost her bearings. A night in a police cell could be a grisly experience, especially after learning that your partner has taken off with your savings. Van In didn’t consider himself an alcoholic, but the amber liquid had a strange attraction. One glass wouldn’t do any harm, he thought. “I’m afraid I can’t say, Mr. Muys, but we have evidence to suggest that …” Muys gave him the glass of cognac.

  “Cheers, Commissioner.”

  Van In took a sip. Only a week ago, this sin would have filled him with remorse. But today the flavor of wood and fire was sheer pleasure, pure and simple.

  “This is an informal interview, Commissioner,” said Muys. “Off the record, if I understand you correctly?”

  Van In nodded. He felt like a coachman losing control of the reins, his horses on the verge of bolting.

  “I’m pleased to hear it.” Muys smiled. “Otherwise I would be obliged to consult my lawyer.”

  He sipped victoriously at his glass. The man’s malicious reptilian gaze brought Van In back to his senses.

  “I wonder what your lawyer would advise if I were to let him see the videos, Mr. Muys. Unless your wife doesn’t mind her husband messing around behind closed doors.”

  Van In realized that this was a major gamble, but the way Muys’s fingers tensed around his glass spoke volumes. His knuckles turned white, and in the business, that was called a bull’s-eye.

  “Videos, Commissioner?”

  “Every married man drops his pants now and then, Muys. I don’t expect the taxman’s slaves to be any exception.”

  Muys focused on the Otard and gulped greedily at the bait he’d set out for Van In. “It’s all so long ago, Commissioner,” said Muys after a few moments of silence. “I was there twice, max.”

  “Twice?”

  People always lie by degrees, thinking they’ll get off cheaper if they minimize the frequency of their misdeeds.

  “You mean twice a month,” said Van In sternly.

  The senior auditor took another gulp of the first-rate Otard, which he drank like lemonade. Muys searched in desperation for the best way to limit the damage.

  “But that’s not why I’m here, Muys. I’m more interested in Provoost and Brys.”

  Muys was visibly distressed. His reptilian eyes narrowed into thin bloodless slits. He knew there had been problems in the eighties. Vandaele had shut down the Love without warning, and there were rumors going around that something bad had happened in the place. Provoost and Brys had also been mentioned, and it had taken a full year before activities could restart in another location. “Civil servants aren’t saints, Commissioner. Sometimes we have to be pragmatic, if you get my drift.”

  Van In swirled the cognac in his glass and inhaled its aromas as a connoisseur would. “You mean the taxman’s always open to suggestions.”

  Muys tried to defend himself as best he could. The lie had burst open like a festering ulcer. “Sometimes there are other factors we have to account for,” he said with caution.

  “Such as?”

  Van In permitted himself the air of an inquisitor. His illustrious predecessors had demonstrated that the very sight of instruments of torture could have the same effect as actually using them.

  “Jobs, Commissioner. If we were to tax every company to the limit, then …”

  “Then what?”

  Muys poured himself another drink.

  Van In enjoyed watching the senior auditor walk into his own trap.

  “Everyone knows that taxes in this country are inhumanly high. That’s why we’re instructed not to be too strict with the minor evaders. At least that’s what it used to be like,” said Muys.

  “And in exchange for your silence, you get some free ass on a regular basis at the Love?”

  Van In grabbed the Otard and made a show of pouring himself a second glass. Victory had to be celebrated. Muys reminded him of a character in a Fellini movie. The senior auditor was nothing more than a quivering pile of fat in a tailor-made suit.

  “It wasn’t uncommon back th
en,” Muys whimpered. “That sort of thing was tolerated in the eighties.”

  “And you’ve changed your ways,” Van In observed sarcastically.

  Muys looked at him imploringly, like a pig face-to-face with its slaughterer.

  “So you have no information on Brys and Provoost?”

  Muys shook his head vehemently. One word about Brys and he could kiss his career in the ministry good-bye.

  “Vervoort perhaps?”

  A vacant expression took hold of Muys’s face. Vervoort was dynamite. He had warned Vandaele about him years ago.

  “You know Vervoort, don’t you? He’s on the board of Helping Our Own if I’m not mistaken, and according to the information I have at my disposal, you are too.”

  Van In had been saving this observation for last. The talk about Provoost’s murder was designed to bring Muys to his knees.

  “That’s correct, Commissioner.”

  Muys pressed his lips together, which made him look like a cobra. “The charity was Mr. Vandaele’s initiative. The organization’s goal is to support people in need.”

  “Our own people?”

  “Flemish people in need, Commissioner. Everyone is welcome.”

  “No conditions?”

  “No conditions,” Muys confirmed. “We verify our clients’ stories, of course. We don’t want people abusing the system.”

  Muys gulped. His Adam’s apple wiggled almost invisibly. He shouldn’t have used the word abuse.

  “Remarkable,” said Van In. “I’ve been told that people who want the charity’s help have to be card-carrying FLASYC members.”

  It was a reasoned guess. Van In had no hard evidence that the charity only offered help on the basis of ideological inclination.

  “Out of the question, Commissioner. FLASYC heads a political movement, and we work with them from time to time. Of course, I can’t deny that many of the people we assist end up joining the movement on their own initiative.”

  Van In knew exactly how to play the winning hand. “Are you a revisionist, Mr. Muys?”

  The senior auditor was manifestly shocked at the question. The vein meandering across his forehead visibly swelled. “I don’t have to answer that question,” he said stoically.

  Van In gauged the hostility in the man’s words. “So you admit it,” he said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the millions the charity spends on printing every year is intended to convince the innocent that the concentration camps were a fable and that the Jews who didn’t return died of lung infections and dysentery.”

  “You have no right …” said Muys, his pent-up rage visible in the same ugly pulsing vein on his forehead.

  Van In felt the time had come to let go. “What gives you the right to mislead people in need? Your sort makes me sick. And let me promise you one thing: I’m going to enjoy cuffing you, Mr. Muys. Soon!”

  Van In glanced at his watch. “But now it’s time for a breath of fresh air.”

  He got to his feet and left the senior auditor a blubbering mess.

  Versavel was waiting for Van In in Room 204. His visit with Canon Deflour had taken less time than he had planned.

  “The flesh is weak,” said Versavel when Van In asked him about his conversation with the priest. “I came away with the impression that the poor soul was happy to be able to confess his sins.”

  In different circumstances Versavel would have grinned at that point. But this time he delivered his report as if he was carrying the pain of the planet on his shoulders.

  “Did he have anything to say about Provoost?”

  “Negative.”

  “Brys?”

  “Not a word,” said Versavel. “Deflour seems like an honest man.”

  “FLASYC?”

  “Deflour swears by all the saints in heaven that he has no access to the charity’s accounts.”

  “That’s crap. There are more Catholic priests with extreme right leanings in this little country of ours than you’d think.”

  “What if we’re on the wrong track?” Versavel asked.

  Van In had also asked himself that question. The connection between Herbert, Provoost and FLASYC was extremely fragile. If Provoost hadn’t been murdered, he’d have abandoned the hypothesis long ago. “If the phone tap brings in nothing, then it’s time we started looking elsewhere,” said Van In resignedly.

  Versavel’s eyes widened.

  Van In freed a last cigarette from his crumpled pack. “I wasn’t planning to mention it, Guido, but …” Van In filled his lungs with smoke. “I know a guy … who happens to owe me big-time.”

  Versavel raised his hand to his forehead. “You’re playing with fire, Pieter. Does Hannelore know about this?”

  “She’s determined to go to Portugal.” Van In sighed. “If I go the legal way, it’ll take at least two months to get permission to tap their lines.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Versavel pointedly. He and Frank had been planning a trip to Turkey. The very thought of it pained his heart. “Why not put a wire on Vandaele and Brys?”

  Before Van In could answer, the telephone rang.

  “Hello.”

  Van In grabbed a pen, scribbled a couple of sentences, and asked a couple of questions Versavel didn’t understand. The conversation lasted three minutes. Van In appeared exceptionally upbeat.

  “Well?” asked Versavel.

  “Vandaele and Brys both have scramblers on their phones,” said Van In, confused.

  “That’s not what I meant, Pieter.”

  “Wasn’t that what you asked?”

  “Yes, that’s what I asked, but now I want to know who you were just talking to.”

  Van In pretended he didn’t notice Versavel’s curt tone. The sergeant was on edge. The positive effects of the visit to Blankenberge hadn’t lasted long. Frank’s departure had aged him five years in the space of a couple of days. “Muys called Vervoort less than five minutes after I left. He asked about the charity’s accounts, whether they were up to a serious audit. If Vervoort’s reaction is anything to go by, Muys can relax. There isn’t an examining magistrate in the country who would dare to issue a warrant on Helping Our Own.”

  “He might be right, Pieter.”

  Van In shrugged his shoulders.

  Leo Vanmaele was renowned for his perfect sense of timing, invariably appearing when no one expected him.

  “Am I interrupting?” The diminutive photographer grinned.

  “You? Interrupting? Impossible, Leo. Grab a chair. Any coffee left, Guido?”

  Versavel grunted, got to his feet, and fetched him some coffee.

  Leo snuggled into one of the new office chairs. He liked the fact that he could adjust the height when he was already sitting down. It was a bit like a Big Dipper ride. But even at its lowest setting, his feet still didn’t touch the ground. “Provoost’s last hours were pretty ugly,” he said, making a long face.

  Van In nodded. The idea of choking to death with a clothespin on your nose didn’t seem like a pleasant way to shuffle off this mortal coil.

  “It looks as if the killer tickled him first for a while.”

  Versavel turned in surprise.

  “Explain yourself,” said Van In.

  “There was a floor lamp in Provoost’s study, one of those expensive Italian jobs. You know what they’re like. Cost a bloody—”

  “Get to the point, Leo, to the point!”

  “OK, OK. The cable had been cut close to the base and the bare wires deliberately tucked back under. The technical crew found a fragment of insulation in the siphon under the sink and tiny splinters of copper in Provoost’s pubic hair.”

  “Welcome to Latin America.” Van In whistled.

  He now understood what Leo’s reference to tickling meant. He had recently seen a movie on TV in which a prisoner was tied to
a metal bedspring. A man in a doctor’s coat poured water over the poor bastard and laid into him with electrodes. Music by Schubert could be heard in the background. Van In thought instinctively of Linda Aerts. Perhaps she had also seen the film and her night in the cell had left her terror-stricken.

  “Isn’t that a bit far-fetched for your average S-and-M fan?” asked Versavel.

  “Of course,” said Leo. “Most S-and-M aficionados have a code. If the pain is too much to bear, they stop … love-play over. Sadists on the other hand …”

  “Have no limits,” Versavel finished his sentence.

  Van In thought about Linda again. He felt a little guilty, and he also had to admit that he had enjoyed the moment when she succumbed to the full effects of his method. “Unless Provoost’s killer was looking for information. That’s what torture’s­ for, isn’t it?”

  “Every sadist has the same excuse,” said Versavel dryly.

  “Torture is one of the classic methods for extracting information,” said Leo matter-of-factly.

  “Or a confession?” said Versavel. For a brief moment he forgot the harrowing pain that was threatening to tear open his chest. He was happy that the discussion had been able to distract him.

  “Do you think Provoost killed Herbert?”

  Leo and Versavel turned to Van In in surprise. Why hadn’t they thought of that?

  A pale bolt of lightning illuminated the purple sky. A few seconds later, a clap of thunder rolled over the rooftops. Day suddenly turned into night as a legion of clouds covered the city in darkness. Versavel rushed to the window and slammed it shut. Van In rolled his chair closer to his desk, as if he was safer there.

  “In that case, Pieter …”

  “I know, Leo. If Provoost killed Herbert, the shit will hit the fan. The other clients at the Love will sense the threat and close ranks.”

  Leo belonged to the judicial police, which fell under the public prosecutor’s office. His reaction was understandable. There had been so many scandals of late and yet another would be likely to shut down his department for good. The public prosecutor’s office was under serious fire these days.