From Bruges with Love

by Pieter Aspe

Van In tried to defuse the situation. “Gentlemen, let’s focus. If heads have to roll, then I’ll take care of it myself.”

  Versavel nodded. He knew what Van In meant. The commissioner had exposed some major players in the past, and in a pretty unorthodox way. All the same, Versavel was determined to defend his boss.

  “Could William Aerts be behind this?” asked Versavel. The sergeant thought that Van In hadn’t given enough attention to Aerts as a line of inquiry.

  “Aerts is a pawn, Guido. He organized the orgies at the Love. I’m interested in the big fish, not the small ones.”

  “But small fish catch big fish,” Versavel insisted. “If you ask me, Aerts knows the whole story. Why would he disappear in such a hurry otherwise?”

  Van In couldn’t simply ignore the question.

  Forked lightning and crackling thunder followed in quick succession. A curtain of rain limited visibility to less than a couple of yards.

  “Guido might be onto something,” said Leo, filling his cup with coffee.

  Van In covered his face with both hands. In democracies the majority always had the last word. But whether they had the right word remained open to question. “OK, OK,” he said with barely concealed sarcasm. “I hereby declare hunting season to be open. Do whatever you think is necessary. Inform Interpol, call the federal boys, pray to Mother Teresa. I don’t give a rat’s ass what you do, but I think we need to make the best of what we have.”

  “So we should start with the clients who frequented the Love.” Versavel sighed. “That’s good news for Herbert, but what about Provoost? Who took him out? The same clients?”

  “Pretty unlikely,” said Leo. “Why would they get rid of their buddy?”

  “An outsider then?” asked Versavel, unconvinced. “But who else had access to the Love’s membership list?”

  Van In had never touched an electric eel before, but he had a fair idea what it would feel like. Provoost had been killed the day Linda spilled the names, and she had consulted with Provoost that same day.

  “Linda Aerts,” said Van In under his breath. “But why?”

  Leo scowled and gulped his coffee. “By the way … our forensic friends discovered something remarkable at Provoost’s place. The killer apparently took the time to vacuum the entire house and mop the floors.”

  “You’re kidding …” said Van In.

  Leo nodded, sure of his information. “Someone also removed the vacuum cleaner bag, and Miss Calmeyn insists that one of her mops is missing. You should check it out in the file. Killers sometimes take the time to vacuum the scene of the crime, but I’ve never read anything about mopping.”

  “A woman after all,” Van In hissed.

  “Or someone who’s well informed about the methods we use to detect evidence,” said Versavel matter-of-factly.

  Van In was on the ball. “I’ll call Hannelore,” he said. “If this isn’t enough to make the public prosecutor issue an arrest warrant on Linda Aerts …”

  Just as he was reaching for the phone, it rang.

  “Van In.”

  He could hear hysterical screaming in the background.

  “Mr. Vermast, good afternoon. How are you?”

  “I’m fine; thanks, Commissioner.”

  The screaming in the background continued unabated and didn’t incline Van In to ask after the rest of the family.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Commissioner. It’s probably nothing important,” said Vermast hesitatingly. “But …”

  “You can never tell what will be important, Mr. Vermast. And you’re not disturbing me at all.” Van In made a weary face and an obscene gesture. What did the blundering garden gnome want this time?

  “Well … it’s like this, Commissioner. Just before the police arrived, my daughter took a couple of bags from the grave. We only found out this morning.”

  Van In gestured that Versavel should listen in. Judging by his boss’s widening eyes, something serious was going on. Leo poured himself a third cup of coffee.

  “Tine hid her discovery from us all this time,” Vermast continued in an apologetic tone. “Perhaps—”

  “Would you mind coming to the point, Mr. Vermast?” said Van In, his patience thinning.

  Versavel heard the poor man gulp.

  “Tine found two small bags. My wife thinks they’re breast prostheses,” said Vermast, not entirely sure of what he was saying.

  “Jesus H. Christ.”

  “What was that, Commissioner?”

  “Breast prostheses?”

  “Isn’t that what I said, Commissioner?”

  Versavel stroked his mustache. Pure Kafka, he thought.

  “Never mind, Mr. Vermast. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  The Air Malta 737 landed at the Luqa airport at two thirty p.m. The aircraft taxied over the bumpy tarmac and parked two hundred yards from the modern terminal. Jos Brouwers waited until it emptied its load of sun-seeking tourists. An overtired flight attendant urged him to get a move on. Brouwers grunted. It wasn’t the first time he’d been on a plane. She didn’t have to lump all the passengers in the same box.

  The heat embraced him like a dry sauna, but it didn’t take long before the sweat was running down his back. The breeze was warm and did nothing to help.

  He passed through customs without a hitch. The island was clearly begging for tourists. It took less than fifteen minutes for the pack of impatient vacationers to fill the colorful buses awaiting them and disappear.

  Brouwers walked through the terminal, happy the Maltese had discovered the advantages of air-conditioning. Inside, it was bliss. When the stream of tourists had come to a standstill and tranquility had returned, Brouwers inspected the building. The Avis car-rental office was no bigger than the illuminated red-and-white company logo that announced its presence. The clerk in attendance compensated with a broad smile.

  Brouwers opted for a compact Suzuki. The friendly Avis clerk waved him off. Brouwers had read in a tourist guide that the Maltese were crazy for ready cash, but that wasn’t the main reason he had paid for the car with hard currency. Credit cards and checks left an electronic trail, and that wasn’t smart for someone traveling on a false passport.

  The trip from Luqa to Valletta, the island’s capital, took less than fifteen minutes. The divided highway was broad, and the road signs were pretty clear for the Mediterranean, but that changed when he drove into the city. Its chaotic streets and traffic reminded him of Athens.

  Brouwers had bought a map of the city before leaving Belgium. He had studied it in detail at home but lost his way within minutes. Driving on the left was the biggest hurdle. Luckily the locals reacted politely when he took a bend too wide or veered too far to the right. They appeared to be used to foreigners and their clumsy driving. And they had devised an ingeniously simple way of spotting them in the traffic. License plates of rental cars all started with an X, which made them easy to identify even from a distance.

  Van In sounded his horn when they arrived at the Love. Versavel was about to get out and open the gate, but Van In held him back.

  “This is the twentieth century, Guido.”

  He might just as well have said “open sesame.” Before Versavel had relaxed back into his seat, the ten-foot-wide gate swung open as if by magic.

  “Time was always of the essence.” Van In grinned. “When the big boys wanted a quick screw, every second counted.”

  “I’ve never really understood what a quick screw is all about,” said Versavel, his mind drawn back to endless evenings with Frank, grilled lobster, and cool almond oil.

  Van In maneuvered the Golf over the bumpy terrain. “Those guys fuck like they talk,” he said. “Too fast and without passion.”

  “How come you know so much?”

  “Because I’m a commissioner, of course. What did you think?”

 
“So you see yourself as one of the big boys?”

  “Big is relative.”

  “So this is a size thing?”

  “Let’s not go there,” said Van In. “You’re the last person I want to have that conversation with.”

  Hugo Vermast welcomed the gentlemen of the police with a nervous smile. “That was fast,” he said. “I hope I didn’t bother you for nothing. I’m sure it’s not really so urgent.”

  Van In held up his hand. “The police are here to serve, Mr. Vermast,” he said. “It’s our duty to investigate every tip.”

  His words appeared to put Vermast at ease. Versavel bit his bottom lip. Van In was clearly in one of his manic dips. Or did he have his tongue in his cheek?

  “I normally pay no attention to these things, but my wife—”

  “Your wife is a nurse,” said Van In before Vermast had the chance to remind him.

  “Nice of you to remember, Commissioner.”

  Vermast led them into the kitchen. It was tidier than the last time. The bags were lying on the table like a pair of deflated balloons. “That’s what she found,” said Vermast.

  Van In picked up one of the bags. It felt like jelly wrapped in thick cellophane. “Hard to believe that women are willing to pay a small fortune for these things,” he said.

  Versavel resisted comment. He had never understood what attracted men to breasts.

  “Joris hid them in his secret box. He’s crazy about special objects. Did I mention that Joris is on the autistism scale?”

  Van In nodded emphatically, hoping Vermast wouldn’t stray from the point.

  “The intellectual capacities of people with autism are often underestimated,” said Vermast, straying from the point. “Have you seen Rain Man?”

  Vermast was a proud father. Joris was a special boy because a clever screenwriter had elevated an exception to become the norm.

  “With Dustin Hoffman?” asked Versavel diplomatically when Van In didn’t respond.

  “That’s the one.” Vermast turned to Versavel. “Unbelievable, don’t you think? Our Joris has a long way to go, but he’ll get there.”

  “I thought it was your daughter who found the bags,” said Van In, letting the blubbery bag slip through his fingers. Vermast’s initial unease appeared to have vanished. He seemed more self-assured than ever.

  “Tine knows that her brother likes to collect unusual things. That’s why she took them from the grave and gave them to him. She wanted to do Joris a favor. No one can blame her.”

  “Of course not,” said Van In.

  Vermast beamed. “Coffee, gentlemen?”

  Versavel jumped at the chance, not catching Van In’s glare. Vermast grabbed three cups and an oversized thermos from the kitchen counter. The coffee tasted like stewed chestnuts.

  “Is there still a drop of cognac, Hugo?”

  Van In used Vermast’s first name deliberately. His host smiled conspiratorially.

  “Leen won’t be back for another hour. Let me see what I can do.”

  He disappeared into the living room. Van In poured his coffee into a planter containing a sickly looking sansevieria. Versavel followed his example without blinking.

  Jonathan Brooks, a tall, blond Brit, had served in the SAS for eleven years. He was one of the commandos who took out a couple of IRA heavyweights in Gibraltar back in the day. The entire affair created such a political commotion that the four-man SAS team was forced into early retirement. Brooks had accepted the golden handshake offered by Her Majesty’s government, but he wasn’t happy about it. Six months after the incident, he set himself up as a private investigator in Valletta. His choice was no coincidence. Malta had been part of the British Commonwealth until only recently. British culture was still part and parcel of everyday life, and the weather suited him down to the ground.

  Jos Brouwers parked his rented Suzuki in a working-class suburb of the capital, not far from the harbor. A couple of children ran past him, whooping and having fun. The narrow streets, scruffy café terraces, and loud advertising billboards reminded him of Naples. The smell at least was unmistakably Neapolitan: urine, rotting food, and heating oil.

  Jonathan Brooks lived in a spacious villa looking out over the docks. Its flaking façade—typical of southern European houses—concealed the cool opulence of whitewashed walls and efficient air-conditioning.

  “Hello, Jos. How are you? How was the flight?” he shouted from the balcony.

  Brouwers wiped the sweat from his brow, waved, then joined his hands together to form a cup.

  “Thirsty?”

  The Brit let out a full-throated laugh. He and Brouwers had first met at an SAS training camp. Brouwers was part of a delegation representing the Belgian federal police. After the wave of terrorism in the seventies, the police were in search of a way to respond to the meaningless violence threatening to destabilize society. The politicians had decided to set up a counterterrorism unit. Brouwers had been part of the elite special interventions squadron—SIE, or Speciaal Interventie Eskadron—from the outset, and no one was surprised that it followed the British model. After all, the SAS was generally considered the best anti-terror brigade in the world. And that was without exaggeration.

  “I’ve got Jupiler,” said Brooks as the two men shook hands. “Ice cold.”

  Carine Neels hadn’t ridden a bicycle in years. She had chosen the most rickety thing she could find in the warehouse where her colleagues stored stolen two-wheelers awaiting collection by their rightful owners. But owner and bike were rarely united.

  The bicycle fitted her new image to a tee. Its frame was covered in rust, and the chain squeaked like a nestful of abandoned chicks. Perfect for a woman on welfare.

  Care House was in a wooded estate outside the city, about three miles from the Hauwer Street station. The wind was cold and in her face the entire journey. It took her the best part of twenty minutes to get there. Carine was exhausted and out of breath when she cycled up the driveway to the house.

  Ilse Vanquathem watched Carine arrive from behind her office window. More and more women in need had been finding their way to Care House of late, and the boost in her annual bonus was tangible to say the least. This time providence had sent her a magnificent specimen. The girl on the bike had long shapely legs, a cute little face, and broad shoulders. Her thin jacket barely concealed an ample pair of breasts.

  “Come inside, miss,” said Ilse as she stood in the doorway. She winked hospitably and welcomed her in. “No need to lock the bike. All the people who work here are honest to the core.”

  Ilse found it hard to imagine that anyone would want to steal such a pile of scrap.

  Versavel spent the entire journey from Sint-Andries to Hauwer­ Street staring vacantly through the windscreen, only half-listening­ to the monologue being delivered by his boss.

  “All this time we were trying to identify a man,” Van In rattled on. “Herbert’s a damn transsexual. That explains the aesthetic surgery and the mouthful of porcelain teeth. Why didn’t we think of it? It’s back to square fucking one with phone calls and doctors. Jesus H. Christ. Lucky there aren’t too many quacks into that kind of business. What man would get it into his head to …”

  Van In glanced at Versavel out of the corner of his eye. The sergeant looked like a wax statue recently escaped from Madame Tussauds. “You all right, Guido?”

  Versavel didn’t move a muscle.

  “Is it Frank?”

  Van In knew it was a stupid question, but what the fuck else could he say? “D’you want me to take you home?”

  Versavel had been stroking the holster of his pistol for the best part of five minutes. Van In hadn’t been paying much attention, but suddenly the sight of it filled his mind with unwanted images.

  “I’m taking you home,” he said. “And I’m staying with you until you get back to your old self.”
/>
  11

  The atmosphere at the breakfast table was tense to say the least. Hannelore was in a mood because Van In had arrived home in the middle of the night.

  “Guido was in the pits, Hanne. Without Frank he’s as useless as a …”

  “Husband without a phone? You at least could have called,” she snorted.

  Van In took the swipe chin on. Hannelore had an appointment with the gynecologist that afternoon for an amniocentesis. He had a good idea how she was feeling. Images of what could go wrong had haunted his own thoughts for the best part of two days. Of course he should have called her, but when Versavel broke down after their visit to the Vermasts, Van In had brought his buddy home, and they had talked into the wee small hours. By the time he realized how late it was, he didn’t want to wake her.

  “Just call next time, no matter how late it is.”

  Hannelore pushed her toast to one side. Since dinner at the Heer Halewijn, there hadn’t been much movement in her belly. What if …

  “You believe me, don’t you?” Van In waved his hand in front of her eyes. “Are we good?”

  The concerned expression on his face made her smile involuntarily. When Van In showed signs of compassion, that meant he was in emotional turmoil himself. If something happened to her, he would be capable of anything, even putting a bullet through someone’s head.

  “Next time you should bring Guido back here. We can talk about his problems together.”

  Van In didn’t feel like explaining that some conversations were man to man only. “Guido would appreciate that,” he lied.

  Hannelore tolerated a kiss. Men would never understand how worried women can get.

  “By the way,” she said moments later, “Miss Neels was here last night. She wanted to report back on her visit to Care House.”

  “Shit,” said Van In.

  “You’re forgiven, Pieter. If you leave two good-looking women in the lurch for Guido, then it must have been serious.”

  “Did she say anything?”

  “What do you think?” Hannelore smiled. “The girl is convinced she’s working undercover and the only person she has to answer to is her immediate boss.”