From Bruges with Love

by Pieter Aspe

  “Pieter will be happy to hear it,” said Hannelore with a smile. She shook Beekman’s hand and hurried outside. It was time to get down to business.

  Were the federal boys putting on a show or hinting that it was high time they renewed their fleet? That was the question Van In asked himself when a prewar armored truck drove through the gate into the Bruges police station’s inner courtyard. William Aerts was accompanied into the station by two burly gendarmes in battle gear.

  They only removed Aerts’s cuffs after the necessary documents had been signed. Van In thanked his federal colleagues and steered Aerts to an interrogation room on the third floor. Rooms used for interrogation tend not to be the coziest of places, and this was no exception. It had a metal table, three chairs, and a mechanical typewriter. The compact Sony tape recorder and the thermos full of coffee added a modern touch.

  “Take a seat, Mr. Aerts.”

  Aerts slumped onto one of the chairs, exhausted from a sleepless night on a hard police cell bed. Van In poured two cups of coffee and pressed the record button.

  “So the prodigal son has returned,” said Van In. “I hope our little conversation’s worth the effort.”

  Aerts lifted his head, rubbed the stubble on his chin, and quickly took stock of the man in front of him. “Shall I start at the beginning, Commissioner?”

  Van In nodded, rewound the tape, checked the quality of the recording, and pressed the record button again. He then leaned back and gestured that Aerts was free to begin.

  The first part of the man’s story had little relevance to the case. Aerts had purchased the Cleopatra from Vandaele and turned it into a luxury brothel. Important clients, however, were given special treatment in the Love. Everything was safe and discreet. Aerts worked on commission and only had to provide professional girls when the supply of volunteers dried up.

  “So you were aware that Vandaele used Helping Our Own to recruit his victims.”

  Aerts sipped at his coffee and asked Van In if he could spare a cigarette. “I thought you’d figure it out,” he said, grinning.

  Van In took a cigarette and pushed the pack across the table.

  “The richer the stingier, Commissioner. In the Love they fucked for free. Any young woman who had appealed to the charity for financial help was given a choice when it came to paying it back: cash or ‘in kind.’”

  “And they call that charity,” Van In sneered.

  “An inappropriate term indeed, Commissioner. Helping Our Own insisted their clients sign two documents. The first stated that they’d received a sum of money as a gift, and the second was an acknowledgement of debt for the same amount, an IOU if you like. Every transaction the charity entered into followed the same procedure. Old women, drunks, and respectable family men were expected to pay cash.”

  Van In now understood how the charity managed to balance its double-entry bookkeeping. The so-called gifts were in fact loans that were claimed back in neatly laundered cash. “And no one protested.”

  “Losers like to keep a low profile, Commissioner. Everyone who came knocking was carefully screened and vetted. Most of them were in temporary financial need and had nowhere else to go.”

  “For example?”

  Aerts smiled at the commissioner’s naïveté. Civil servants like Van In with fixed salaries had no idea what the insects living under the poverty line were willing to do to get access to the consumer society.

  “People on benefits, men crushed by the burden of prohibitive maintenance costs, families with massive debts, students without scholarships, single women …” he said, shaking his head. “The fourth world doesn’t only live in the slums, Commissioner. Hundreds of thousands of our fellow countrymen are on the edge of financial ruin, but they live apparently normal lives in ordinary houses in inconspicuous neighborhoods. They earn just enough to pay the mortgage and feed themselves. And what they have left they spend on luxuries they really can’t afford. Those are the kind of people the charity lends money to without charging interest: decent, honest, but poor citizens who mostly repay what they borrow.”

  “And the good-looking single women were given the chance to work off their debts.”

  “Correct, Commissioner.”

  “And a few of Vandaele’s business associates took advantage.”

  “Correct again.” Aerts grinned. “Vandaele’s been around.”

  Van In had the impression that Aerts was being honest. “So if I’m understanding you, the charity collected money for good causes. The money was officially donated to people in need and unofficially recuperated in the form of interest-free loans.”

  “I have a good idea what your next question is going to be.” Aerts smiled. “You want to know what happened with the laundered cash.”

  Van In knew where the money was going but feigned ignorance.

  Aerts poured himself another coffee and helped himself to another cigarette. “Lodewijk Vandaele is an idealist. The chaotic, permissive society we now live in disgusts him. His goal is a society in which everyone knows his or her place and everything runs like clockwork.”

  “The Singapore model.”

  “Exactly, Commissioner. Singapore is a shining example. He wants to transform Flanders into a model state, and to do so, there was first a need to restore discipline. FLASYC had the potential to realize his dream.”

  “Isn’t that a little hypocritical for a pedophile?”

  Aerts shook his head. “You don’t understand, Commissioner. Vandaele sees himself as a friend to children. He considers love between a child and an adult something pure and unspoiled.”

  “I’m sensing Vandaele has a couple of tiles loose,” said Van In.

  “We’re on the same wavelength, Commissioner. Why else do you think I turned myself in?”

  “I’ve been asking myself that very question.”

  “I was afraid of Jos Brouwers.”

  Aerts described the hired killer Vandaele had sent after him. “Vandaele was probably worried that I would say something about Dani’s death.”

  “The transsexual,” said Van In.

  Aerts said nothing.

  “Did you know her before?”

  “No. Dani appeared one day at the Cleopatra looking for work. She claimed she needed money for surgery—breast augmentation.”

  Aerts made an ugly face, as if he’d just bitten into a chunk of rotten fish.

  “That ugly, eh?”

  “On the contrary, Commissioner.”

  “So you gave her a job.”

  “Yes.”

  “And was she good?”

  “Was she good?” Aerts repeated the question. “You should know, Commissioner, that before a girl starts work at the Cleopatra, I …”

  His voice cracked. There wasn’t a movie director in the world who could have done a better job at portraying disgust with such depth.

  “So you went to bed with him.” Van In switched to the masculine pronoun on purpose.

  Aerts was clearly struggling.

  “And was the sex good?”

  Words can sometimes hurt more than physical violence. In this instance Van In’s words were like a branding iron on an open wound. Van In saw Aerts ball his fists, his knuckles turning white.

  “There are two police officers outside the door, Mr. Aerts. If I were you, I’d try to calm down.”

  Van In had to admit he was enjoying the game. Nothing is more satisfying than exercising power over another human being. The euphoria it creates lies at the foundation of every totalitarian regime. But as a right-minded democrat, Van In considered it his duty to explore his own boundaries. Only those who have tasted the temptation of dictatorship can resist the lure of the extreme right. “You took the bait,” said Van In, easing back a little.

  Aerts stared into space. The stress of the last forty-eight hours was beginning to tak
e its toll. An inch and a half of ash hung precariously from the end of his cigarette. Van In offered him an ashtray and refilled the cups. “I took the bait,” he said flatly.

  Van In could imagine how Aerts was feeling at that moment. “Continue, Mr. Aerts. What happened next?”

  “The following evening I had a visit from Provoost and Brys. They were both in the best of spirits, and they demanded the best girl I had on offer.”

  “And then you introduced them to Dani.”

  Aerts nodded.

  “Knowing full well …”

  “Provoost and Brys were arrogant snobs. They’d treated me like scum for years.”

  “And you saw your chance?”

  Aerts gulped at his coffee and lit another cigarette. The confrontation with the past depressed him. Provoost and Brys had dominated his entire life. As a child he was expected to do their dirty work, and when they went to high school they never missed an opportunity to humiliate him. “Light another fart, William.” “There’s a fly in my soup. A hundred francs says William’ll eat it!” Provoost and Brys bought him a beer for every trick he performed. When Aerts decided to go to college, they dropped him like a ton of bricks. Workers’ kids were supposed to earn a living with the labor of their hands, they claimed. After a disaster of a first semester, Aerts went to Amsterdam and got involved in the drug trade. Four years later he returned to Bruges a wealthy man and began spending his fortune. It was time for other people to light their farts, eat flies, and trot half-naked across Market Square. That was when he met Linda and they decided to try their luck at the Cleopatra. Vandaele put him on the payroll and didn’t spare the fanfare. Everything went pretty well until Provoost and Brys reappeared on the scene.

  Van In offered him another cigarette.

  “So you wanted revenge?”

  “What would you have done, Commissioner?”

  Van In smiled. There were bigger bastards walking around in Flanders than Aerts. “And you brought the gentlemen to the Love?”

  “Indeed, Commissioner.”

  Van In now had a reasonable picture of the rest of the story. All the pieces were beginning to fall neatly into place.

  “Less than an hour later Brys called me. He sounded nervous and stone-cold sober. He begged me to come to the Love right away. Something terrible had happened.”

  “They had killed Dani.”

  “Brys swore it was an accident. After an explosive threesome, Dani had confessed he was actually a man. Provoost went berserk, and there was a bit of a scuffle. Dani fell and hit her head on the corner of the bed. She died on the spot.”

  “I presume you know Dani’s true identity?”

  “True identity, Commissioner?”

  “Does the name Desmedt ring a bell?”

  If the surprise on his face was feigned, Aerts deserved an Oscar.

  “Dani Desmedt?”

  “Dani Desmedt from elementary school, Mr. Aerts. Remember the underpants and the clothespin?”

  “That’s impossible,” said Aerts. “I would have—”

  “Recognized him,” said Van In with more than a hint of sarcasm. A moment of silence followed.

  “Now … I … get it,” Aerts stammered. “That’s why Provoost was so angry. Dani couldn’t have wished for a better way to even the score for the suffering they had put his twin brother through.”

  Aerts cleared his throat and brushed the cigarette ash from his trousers as if it was the past. “When I arrived ten minutes later, Provoost was in a panic. He had contacted Vandaele, who had insisted that I dump the body somewhere in the Ardennes near the German border.”

  “But you didn’t, did you?”

  “What d’you think? This was my chance to give the gentlemen a taste of their own medicine.”

  “So you buried Dani on the grounds of the Love.”

  “Would you have run the risk of transporting a corpse to the Ardennes for a hundred thousand francs?”

  “You wanted more.”

  Van In fished the last cigarette from the pack. When he saw Aerts stare at it longingly, he called the incident room and had an officer dispatched to replenish supplies.

  “I admit to blackmailing Provoost and Brys,” said Aerts. “I was under financial pressure from Vandaele, and Dani was dead. Nothing could be done to change it.”

  “You needed money.” Van In nodded understandingly. “Did Vandaele know that you were blackmailing Brys and Provoost?”

  Aerts had seemed reasonably self-assured throughout the interrogation. Now his bottom lip started to tremble. “I don’t know. He sent Brouwers after me, didn’t he? I know Vandaele like the back of my hand. No one humiliates him without paying the price. And for betrayal there’s only one price.”

  “Nemo me impune lacessit,” Van In mumbled.

  “What was that, Commissioner?”

  Van In was thinking of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Cask of Amontillado.” “You ran because they discovered the corpse on the grounds of the Love and Vandaele would know you’d failed to carry out his orders.”

  Aerts nodded.

  “And by turning yourself in, you were hoping for a reduced sentence.”

  “I’m appealing to the courts, Commissioner. Mitigating circumstances …”

  A young officer knocked at the door, came in without a word, and handed Van In a pack of Marlboros and a box of matches. Van In ripped it open, lit a cigarette, and slid the rest of the pack across the table to Aerts.

  “Let me make a suggestion, Mr. Aerts. I’ll supply a pen and plenty of paper. I want you to write it all down, the whole story. Take your time. You know the chances of you leaving this building within the next twenty-four hours are relatively small. Then I’ll let the investigating magistrate decide what to do with you.”

  “I know the law, Commissioner.”

  “I hope you do, Mr. Aerts.”

  Van In got to his feet and left the room.

  Without Versavel, Room 204 felt like an icy crypt. Van In switched on the light and sat down at his desk.

  Detective work is a combination of routine and procedures, an approach that rarely delivers. The big breakthrough in a case is almost always the result of an unforeseen circumstance, a spontaneous confession, an unexpected turn of events, or just pure luck. Aerts’s confession was manna from heaven. Provoost had killed Dani, and Van In had everything he needed: a killer, a motive, and a witness. Aerts would claim “mitigating circumstances.” A skilled lawyer would keep him out of jail without having to jump through too many hoops, and Van In didn’t like it. He had the impression that Aerts was trying to save his own skin and had only revealed what would work to his advantage.

  The disappearance of Carine Neels worried him more. He was almost certain that Vandaele’s criminal network had swallowed her up. The improvised and hurried search at Care House had served only to set off underworld alarms and nothing more. And then there was Baert. In the last analysis, he was the only real murderer still alive, and police officers didn’t get to claim mitigating circumstances.

  Van In looked at his watch. It was almost twelve. Time to hear what Baert had to say.

  Dirk Baert was sitting and barely reacted when Van In entered the room.

  “So, Dirk,” said Van In, “how are we?”

  Baert looked up. Van In had never used his first name before.

  “I know we haven’t always been the best of friends, but I hope you don’t think I’m doing this for fun.”

  Baert grinned sheepishly.

  “I appreciate that, Commissioner.”

  Van In took a seat opposite Baert and heaved a deep sigh. “I know you did it, Dirk, and I understand why. Your brother once saved you from the claws of a couple of sadists, and when you read the autopsy report on Herbert last week, you knew immediately that Herbert was Dani.”

  Baert nodded. He ha
d decided an hour earlier to confess everything. He actually felt proud of himself for once. Killing Provoost was an achievement—the only real achievement he had to boast about in his entire life. “I’ve been working for Vandaele for twenty years,” he said. “I know what was going on in the Love.”

  Van In leaned back in his chair and listened. It took Baert more than three hours to tell his story.

  Liliane Neels had no objection to Hannelore taking a look in Carine’s room. The poor soul couldn’t stop sniveling.

  The bedroom was small, cozily furnished, neat, and tidy, almost the kind of thing you would expect to find in a handbook for interior designers. Hannelore opened the drawers in the hardwood lowboy one by one and rummaged carefully through the missing officer’s lingerie. Liliane wasn’t sure why there was a need to search her daughter’s belongings, but she watched Hannelore’s every move nonetheless. The fact that someone was interested in her daughter’s fate was enough for her.

  Hannelore had never searched someone’s room before, so she had to rely on intuition. Delicate lingerie, pink linens, CDs with waltzes by Strauss and Beethoven symphonies, a sunset poster, a half-burned-out candle, and a crimson red sofa suggested Carine was a romantic soul.

  “Did your daughter keep a diary?”

  Liliane was surprised by the question. “A diary?” she repeated vacantly.

  “Did you ever see her writing things down?”

  Liliane wrinkled her forehead. “I remember her writing poems when she was sixteen, but a diary …”

  “Did she use loose sheets of paper or a notebook?”

  Liliane racked her brain. She wanted to help more than anything, but … “I don’t remember,” she said sniffling. “It’s terrible, I know, but it seems like such a long time ago.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Hannelore.

  A wooden bookshelf with a small TV cum video player on top graced one of the corners of the room. On the shelf underneath there was a row of videocassettes.

  “She loved to watch movies,” said Mrs. Neels, trying to be helpful.

  Hannelore glanced at the titles: Kramer vs. Kramer, Nell, Out of Africa, The French Lieutenant’s Woman, The Sound of Music, Romeo and Juliette, and Zorba the Greek. She noticed the word Betamax on the last video in the row. No one uses Betamax these days, she thought. They took the system off the market years ago.