From Bruges with Love

by Pieter Aspe

  Buffel took a deep breath.

  “It was horrific, miss. They had stripped Dirk naked, tied him up, and stuffed his underpants in his mouth.”

  “They?”

  “Provoost, Brys, and Aerts.”

  Buffel clearly and deliberately enunciated each name. Then he fell silent. Van In grinned knowingly at Hannelore. This time it wasn’t his fault that the elderly teacher had lost his place.

  “Please continue, Mr. Buffel.”

  The old man gulped and rested his pipe in the ashtray. “Provoost had fastened a clothespin to Dirk’s nose, and every time the boy came close to suffocation, he would take it away. Then they started over again, until Dirk … my God … I’ve relived that nightmare time and again. If I’d only been completely sober that afternoon …”

  Buffel sobbed bitterly. Hannelore fished a packet of Kleenex from her handbag, stood, and put a comforting arm around the poor man’s shoulders. The elderly teacher surrendered to her embrace like a child being cuddled.

  Van In lit another cigarette. The picture in front of him made him feel awkward, so he looked away. How was it possible that such a complicated case could be solved in such a predictable way? Provoost’s killer had betrayed himself by repeating the ritual he had undergone as a child. Buffel’s testimony was legitimate. None of the papers had reported on the circumstances of Provoost’s killing. All they had to do now was find Dirk or Dani Desmedt and they had their killer.

  Hannelore insisted on waiting until Buffel had recovered from the emotion. She made tea and only agreed to go when the elderly teacher had insisted three times that he was OK.

  “So congratulate me,” Hannelore jeered as they waited at the traffic light on Ezel Street. “And don’t say the prosecutor’s office never wrapped up an investigation.”

  “Thanks to my pioneering detective work,” Van In quipped. “If I’d had the chance to detain Linda Aerts for another twenty-four hours, I’d have finished the job myself.”

  “You and a couple of buckets of water, eh?”

  “A couple of buckets?” Van In grinned. “You interrogated the woman under the shower.”

  The green light saved Van In from an elbow in the ribs. Hannelore hit the gas, and the Twingo took off like a startled mustang. “And now it’s Herbert’s turn,” she said as she parked the Twingo illegally on Moer Street.

  “Let me take care of that, young lady. One feather in your cap is enough for today.”

  Hannelore ignored his remark. She thought she’d done an excellent job. “I’m starving, Pieter.”

  “Again?”

  “I’m eating for two, remember,” she snorted.

  “They exploded that theory twenty years ago, Hanne. Anyway, it’s your turn to make dinner.”

  “Did you go to the store?” she asked.

  Van In slammed the passenger door and looked up at the no parking sign. He was witnessing a crime, but he shrugged his shoulders nonetheless. “There’s some cheese spread in the pantry. What about some fries?”

  Hannelore turned up her nose. She rarely did, but Van In always enjoyed it when she made a face. She looked like a schoolgirl sentenced to two hours of detention. “The Wittenkop has swordfish on the menu,” she said with a hint of a question in her voice.

  “No one’s stopping you from taking me out,” he said. “You can have the swordfish. I’m happy with steak Dijonnaise.”

  “Agreed, but the drinks are on you.”

  “No problem,” Van In chirped.

  He put his arm around her shoulder, and they walked hip to hip along Saint Jacob Street like a couple in love on their first visit to Bruges.

  14

  The steak Dijonnaise from the night before had been a pleasure. But as far as the booze was concerned—two bottles of white and three Duvels—it was payback time. The buzz of the alarm clock had activated a team of construction workers who were now working the inside if Van In’s skull with sledgehammers. Hannelore pushed him out of bed and rolled over onto her other side.

  In a fit of romance, Van In had promised her breakfast in bed, and she hadn’t forgotten.

  Van In staggered down the stairs like a lame dog. He popped a couple of soluble painkillers in a glass of water and two slices of bread in the toaster.

  He took his meds in front of the mirror, looking like a joke in his pajama jacket with no trousers. The pounds flourished on both hips like mushrooms after a sultry downpour. It bothered him intensely, even with a hangover from hell and a head that was begging to be removed.

  The toaster, like Van In himself, was a slow starter. It took an age for the toast to pop out of the thing. Van In checked the answering machine, more out of boredom than interest. The message light was flickering. Someone must have called when they were at dinner. “Hello, Commissioner Van In. Mrs. Neels speaking. Carine has disappeared, and I’m worried about her. Call me please. My number is 337173.”

  Click.

  It took the best part of five seconds before Van In could weigh up the implications of the message. The toaster hadn’t popped, and the smell of burned toast was beginning to fill the house.

  Van In rewound the tape and listened a second time. He ran upstairs, shouting for help. Hannelore reacted immediately, not because of Van In but because she thought the house was on fire.

  “Come quickly,” Van In roared.

  Hannelore fiddled the charred slices of bread from the toaster as Van In replayed the tape.

  “Get dressed,” she said. “I think we’re in serious shit.”

  Five minutes later, Hannelore and Van In were in the Twingo, driving through the abandoned streets of Bruges in the direction of Daverlo Street.

  “I ordered her not to go any further,” said Van In sullenly.

  “Operations like this shouldn’t be improvised, Pieter Van In. I hope for your sake that nothing has happened to her.”

  “If she followed my instructions, she’ll be fine,” said Van In, sticking to his guns. “Maybe she hit the town with her boyfriend.”

  Hannelore glared at him. “You know as much about women as a vegan knows about hamburgers.”

  She took a sharp right at Gentpoort Bridge.

  “House number one seventeen,” said Van In.

  William Aerts mingled with the people waiting in the airport departure hall. The chances of seeing a familiar face in such a swarm were pretty small, so he was all the more surprised to see Brouwers in the middle of an animated discussion with a buxom flight attendant at the Air Malta check-in desk. Something had to have gone wrong at Amand’s place that made the old fox suspicious.

  Aerts didn’t panic, but he had to come up with a solution on the spot. He bought a newspaper and squatted on the floor next to a couple of backpackers, allowing him to keep a close eye on Brouwers without being seen. The girl at the check-in typed the information Brouwers had given her into the computer. Aerts saw her nod. His name had probably appeared on the screen at that moment.

  The girl handed Brouwers a ticket five minutes later, confirming Aerts’s suspicions. They were both booked onto the same flight. It made no sense to try to reschedule. Brouwers wouldn’t leave until he was sure that his prey was already onboard. If he tried an alternative escape route, the chances were greater that the ex-cop would isolate him and take him out. Aerts figured he would be relatively safe on the plane and decided he would immediately hand himself over to the airport police after landing in Zaventem, something Brouwers probably wouldn’t expect. He checked one of the clocks. Another thirty minutes before boarding and plenty of time for a practical joke.

  Aerts got to his feet and calmly made his way to the nearest telephone kiosk. He called international information and asked for the number of the federal police at Zaventem Airport, near Brussels. He punched in the number, and after ten seconds, he was connected to Duty Officer Dupain. Aerts told the man that a fell
ow Belgian had approached him in Luqa Airport and asked him if he would be willing, for a fee, to take a package back to Belgium. The man had said that he had urgent business to attend to on the island and that he couldn’t leave. Aerts had refused, of course, but he had found it strange that the same businessman had later bought a ticket after all. He provided Dupain with the flight number and a description of Brouwers.

  Liliane Neels was waiting in the living room, her eyes red from crying. She reported between sobs what had happened.

  “Carine said yesterday that she had something to do for her work and that she would probably be late. I asked her how late. Around midnight, she said. And when I asked her where she was going she said she was working under the covers.”

  Liliane started to sob uncontrollably. “She wouldn’t even tell me what ‘under the covers’ meant.”

  Van In looked away.

  “Undercover means that she had a special assignment,” he heard Hannelore explain in a deadly serious tone. “Maybe she lost track of the time,” she added. “Carine’s a level-headed young woman. She can take care of herself.”

  “You’re right.” Liliane smiled through the tears. “She gets that from her father, God rest him.”

  Van In cursed the way he had tackled the case. Remorse nibbled at his soul. It was beginning to look as if he’d be responsible for the ruin of a young colleague, a girl. He was even sorry he’d put the fear of God into Linda Aerts. The woman had lived a miserable life, and he had only made it worse.

  “Try not to worry, Mrs. Neels. Rest assured we’ll do everything we can to find Carine. You have my word on it,” said Van In.

  “Thank you, Commissioner,” said Liliane. “I hope you find her soon. Carine is all I have left.”

  Hannelore swallowed the lump in her throat.

  A column of three police MPVs and three patrol cars headed along the main road to Gistel at a leisurely pace. Following Van In’s orders, there were no sirens or rotating lights. The Twingo followed at the rear. In less than an hour, Hannelore had managed to convince the prosecutor and the examining magistrate to issue a warrant to search the buildings at Care House.

  Onlookers watched in amazement as the silent caravan passed by. There was something unearthly about it without the usual sirens and swirling blue lights.

  Carine slowly came around from the anesthetic. Her mouth was bone-dry. She tried to stand, but when that didn’t work she leaned forward. Her arms were held back by a jangling chain. Panic is an irrational monster, and it always catches its victims unawares. Carine tugged hard at her fetters and tried in desperation to free herself.

  The more the effects of the anesthetic subsided, the more conscious she became of what had happened the day before. After the test photo shoot, she had cycled home. Ilse had shown her the photos before she left, and they looked pretty good. Ilse had also told her she had contact with people in the magazine world and they paid good money for their models. “Under the table, of course,” she said with a chuckle. “But you don’t care about that, do you? With your financial problems, eh? You’ll earn twenty thousand francs tonight. You can use it to pay off part of your debt, and even give yourself a bit of a treat,” she added with a wink. “The charity does its best to help people in need. A young girl like you doesn’t have to earn her money cleaning floors and toilets. Here at Care House, we’re convinced that the easiest way to achieve your goal is the best way.”

  Carine had first planned to report back to Van In and tell him that there was nothing untoward going on at Care House. As far as she could tell, the charity was legitimate. But she was scared Van In would be angry when he heard she’d disobeyed orders. So she decided to cycle back to Care House. The twenty thousand francs she’d been promised would come in handy. Carine had already regretted this decision a thousand times over.

  The photographer who had kept a discreet distance the day before had grabbed her, chained her, and blindfolded her. Then the others arrived. Carine had screamed the first time, but it got easier, and after a while she felt nothing at all. All she remembered was the panting of pumping bodies and a squishing sound, like footsteps plodding through marshy soil. The men took her in silence. She stopped counting after the fourth. It seemed to take longer and longer for them to finish. Then they stopped all of a sudden, and she heard a door slam. Laughter outside the room got louder and louder until it sounded like an enraged hornets’ nest. Her entire body shivered from the cold. It felt as if someone had rammed a block of ice between her legs. The cold dripped down her thighs. She trembled.

  The door flew open again half an hour later. For Carine it seemed like an eternity had passed. When she recognized the smell of toilet cleaner, she started to sob. The man removed her fetters and forced her onto her hands and knees. The rapists lined up for seconds, and the nightmare started anew. Carine felt guilty for ignoring Commissioner Van In’s advice. The man who smelled of toilet cleaner had also discovered her police ID and knew exactly who she was.

  Ilse Vanquathem wasn’t surprised when Van In rang the bell.

  “Good day, Doctor,” she said. “Come inside.”

  They searched Care House until late in the afternoon. Eighteen police officers turned the place upside down from the basement to the attic. A computer expert from forensics explored the charity’s bookkeeping.

  Ilse watched it all happen from a distance. When Van In questioned her, she refused to make a statement. When she was asked if she knew Neels, she said no.

  The caravan of police vehicles departed like thieves in the night, the entire team seriously disheartened.

  “Thank God we didn’t use the sirens and the lights,” said Hannelore. “If this escapade gets into the papers, we’ll be the laughingstock of the whole country.”

  Van In dipped into his reserve pack of cigarettes. His throat was raw from smoking. “Someone must have informed them,” he growled. “That bitch knew we were coming.”

  “Maybe the computer disks will come up with something.”

  Hannelore did her best to be positive. Van In couldn’t be blamed for putting pressure on Muys, the dodgy tax auditor, but it had clearly been a mistake, and they were now paying the price.

  Van In didn’t react. He was aware of his blunder.

  “I think we should tell Mrs. Neels,” said Hannelore. “We don’t want things to get any worse.”

  “Can I leave that up to you?” Van in asked, almost begging.

  Hannelore hit the gas, and her tiny Twingo passed the caravan of police vehicles.

  “Because you asked so nicely,” she said with a sigh.

  The federal police at the Zaventem airport did good business that evening. They intercepted an alleged drug dealer and arrested a man who was wanted by the Bruges police. Coinci­dence had put both men on the same flight. The potential dealer, Jos Brouwers, was released after an hour and a half for lack of evidence. William Aerts, on the other hand, was placed at the disposal of the prosecutor’s office while they waited for the prosecutor to make a decision.

  While Hannelore did her best to comfort Liliane Neels, Van In called the station. Carine’s disappearance had put the Herbert investigation on the back burner. Van In had almost forgotten that he had ordered Baert that morning to track down the Desmedt brothers.

  “Baert.”

  “Commissioner.”

  Baert scribbled geometric figures on the back of an expired duty roster. “Disappointing news, I’m afraid, Commissioner. The records office can find no trace of twins by the name of Desmedt.”

  “Listen here, Baert. I’m not in the mood for games. Buffel was unequivocal. The twins went to school in Bruges. Their parents moved here in the sixties. They have to have lived somewhere.”

  Baert’s ballpoint hovered over the paper. “I contacted all the adjoining municipalities,” he said, sure of himself. “Not one of the families named Desmedt, Desmed, or Desmet
had twins who went to Buffel’s school.”

  Lodewijk Vandaele pressed the red button on his remote. The newsreader’s voice was abruptly cut off. A star-shaped flash shriveled into an invisible point on the TV screen. Silence filled the room. Vandaele was slumped in an armchair, his tired legs resting on a pouf made of red Moroccan leather. He was fed up hiding his condition from the outside world. Every sound that interrupted the rustle of the trees outside made him jump. Every fifteen seconds, he peered around the room, his eyes like a revolving lighthouse beam. A half bottle of VSOP hadn’t succeeded in tempering his anxiety. He lit a Davidoff with an ordinary disposable lighter. He felt the energy drain from his bones. His rotten lungs rasped like weathered billows deep inside his chest.

  “Why, for God’s sake?” he asked himself under his breath.

  The dying businessman thought about Provoost. His pupil was dead, and there was nothing he could do to change it. When the ulcer finally bursts, Brys will be lynched by public opinion. He himself had condemned Aerts to death.

  Vandaele comforted himself with the memory of their young bodies, an image that had seen him through many a dark and difficult moment in the last thirty years.

  The sound of the telephone ringing almost gave him a heart attack. The only thing he felt was pain. A good and peaceful death was set aside for the righteous alone. He longed for just such a death, but he knew it would not be granted to him.

  Vandaele heaved himself with difficulty from his armchair. The Davidoff smoldered innocently in an overfull ashtray. The elderly man stumbled and banged his knee against the black grand piano, an unplayed instrument that took up most of the living room. The outsized piano was part of the facade behind which Vandaele had hidden himself for years on end. But there was no time left for music. It was much too late for that. There was nothing to be earned from art and culture, his father had always insisted. He wanted his son to succeed him as head of the family business. As a young idealist, Lodewijk Vandaele had defied his father and opted for a career in teaching. He wanted to break free and erase the blueprint others had drafted for him. Money was a seven-headed dragon that had to be opposed with might and main. Lodewijk saw himself as a modern Parsifal. He planned to devote himself to the education of the young, to helping them see that there was more to life than profit and a well-paid job. Young people needed room to develop, they needed cultural substance, and they needed a devoted teacher. But the outside world had never understood him. You weren’t allowed to touch children, to hug and kiss them. It wasn’t good for them, they said. But none of his students had ever been traumatized by such affection. Johan Brys had even made it into the government as a minister. Misunderstanding had turned Vandaele into the caricature he had now become. The idealist of the past had evolved into a bloodthirsty predator that had devoured his soul.