From Bruges with Love (11 page)

He handed her his card.

Ilse glanced briefly at its elegant lettering: Professor Dr. Pieter Dupont, Psychiatrist. Versavel had fifty similar cards in his pocket. There was a machine in the local post office where you could print them for two hundred francs. In a gesture of overconfidence, he also produced his credentials.

“Thank you, Dr. Praat,” said Ilse with a hint of admiration. She had a weakness for older academics in good physical shape. “Can I perhaps offer you a cup of coffee?”

Ilse accompanied her visitors to the main building and asked one of the clients to make coffee. Versavel feigned an urgent need to use the facilities while Van In launched into an extensive tribute to Helping Our Own and its work. He was so convincing that Ilse didn't notice that Versavel was absent for more than fifteen minutes.

When they were taking their leave at the front door, Van In bumped into a tall, lanky man in overalls. The workman's icy gaze left Van In with a feeling of unease. The garden shears in his hand triggered an image of Freddy Krueger from
Nightmare on Elm Street
.

“What time is it?” asked Van In as they waited at the traffic light.

“Four thirty,” said Versavel.

“Excellent. Devos has no need to worry.”

André Devos was a colleague and a sucker for expensive cars. In spite of his modest rank in the force, he drove an impressive Alfa Romeo. Van In had borrowed it for a couple of hours to add plausibility to their visit to Care House.

Van In slowly released the clutch and hit the gas. The nervous Italian reacted accordingly, leaving the competition far behind.

“Feisty,” Van In snorted.

“You're doing eighty, Pieter, and this is a thirty zone.”

“And not a cop in sight to write a ticket.” Van In grinned.

Versavel held his tongue. His main hope was that Van In would get the car back to Devos in one piece. It would kill the man otherwise.

Van In was at the stove watching four quails simmering in a pan. The table was set with glistening glasses and washing-line fragrant table linen. But there was a hint of tension in the air that became even more tangible when Hannelore slammed the front door. The obligatory candle quivered in the neck of an empty wine bottle, its flame flickering ominously.

“Don't tell me you're angry, sweetheart.”

Hannelore tossed her handbag into a chair, breathtaking in her turquoise dress. Being pregnant made her seem younger every day.

“You're such a moron, Pieter Van In. What in God's name am I to do with you?”

She said nothing about the aroma of simmering quails that wafted through the house. The events of the last few days had shifted the diet obsession onto the back burner.

“I asked if you were angry.”

There were times when Hannelore wanted to curse the doggish look in his eyes more than anything else. But she hesitated, and Van In seized the moment. He left the quails to themselves and threw his arms around her. Hannelore's protest wasn't convincing, and when he insisted, she accepted his kiss.

“I should have had you locked up yesterday. Everyone's talking about you at the courthouse. Even the receptionist asked how you were and didn't hold the condescension. Ask anyone.”

“Don't let it bother you, Hanne. I know what I'm doing.”

She wriggled out of his embrace. “I'll have Prosecutor Beekman down my neck before you know it.”

Van In grinned. “You can handle it, Hanne. Anyway, Mrs. Aerts just wants the attention. No one is going to believe her. And Provoost? He seems to have forgotten that he was one of the horny bastards that stopped by to balance his hormones at Vandaele's farm on a regular basis. If push comes to shove, he'll back off.”

“Are you sure?”

Hannelore tipped the lid of the pan. The bouquet of golden-brown quails made her dizzy. She had missed lunch that day and was pining for a bite to eat.

Van In opened the refrigerator, grabbed a half-full bottle of Moselle, and removed the quails from the heat.

“I have a statement from Mrs. Aerts, don't I?” he said unperturbed.

“Provoost will trash it.”

Hannelore sat down at the kitchen table and asked herself why he always managed to cook her favorite dishes on days when she was totally pissed off.

Van In poured a couple of glasses of wine, spilling a drop on the tablecloth in the process.

“I don't understand why Provoost agreed to defend her. If it ever gets to court, his name is bound to be connected with his activities at the Love.”

“Provoost knows that his name is likely to crop up sooner or later. If you ask me, his using Linda Aerts is a diversionary tactic. A police commissioner molesting a naked, defenseless woman is more likely to attract public attention these days than a lawyer who likes a bit on the side,” said Hannelore.

“Wait a minute. I didn't even get close to molesting the bitch,” Van In protested.

Hannelore dried the foot of her glass with a paper napkin and took a sip.

“And I'm supposed to believe you?” she mocked.

Anxiety suddenly took hold of him. When people questioned his good intentions, he could explode like a batch of illegal fireworks.

“I didn't lay a finger on her.” He slammed the table with his fist to underline his claim. The thud knocked over his glass, and he watched it roll across the table and smash to pieces on the kitchen floor.

“What's the matter with you?” Hannelore screamed.

She was usually ready for his angry outbursts, but that evening she was tired and irritable. She jumped to her feet. The splashing wine had stained her dress. She crossed to the sink and held a towel under the faucet.

Van In sat motionless for a couple of seconds. To his great surprise he felt his rage ebb away. Was it true after all that three months of sobriety had had a positive effect on his explosive temperament?

“Is it bad?” he asked, crestfallen, crossing to the sink in his socks.

“Be careful!” she shouted, more concerned than angry. “There's glass all over the place.”

“Sorry, sweetie.”

Hannelore dabbed her dress with the corner of the wet towel.

“I'm thankful it wasn't red,” she said in a conciliatory tone.

Van In slid submissively into his slippers, grabbed a brush, and swept the pieces of broken glass together, leaving a sticky trail of wine on the polished tiles.

“Shall I pop your dress in the washing machine?” he suggested, trying to be helpful.

“You wish.”

Hannelore spotted the wronged look in his face and burst out laughing.

“So you believe me?” asked Van In.

“Of course I do. But the questions is: Will the judge believe you?”

“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it,” said Van In. “It'll be my word against the word of a hooker. And speaking of hookers, it wouldn't surprise me if Helping Our Own turned out to be a cover for a prostitution network.”

Van In told her all about his visit to Care House.

“So while I was drinking coffee with the manager, Versavel took a look at their computer.”

Hannelore had told him time and again that evidence procured illegally would be rejected by the courts, but she was too tired to repeat it.

“And guess what he found.”

Van In didn't wait for her to answer. This was the moment he had been waiting for all evening. He fished a sheet of printer paper from his trouser pocket. “What do you think?”

Hannelore examined the sheet of paper. Twenty names, give or take.

“Look at the header.”

“Available,” she read innocently.

“Check the dates of birth.”

After each first name on the list there was a six-figure number. She didn't get it.

“None of the women are a day over thirty-five,” said Van In.

“You're not serious,” Hannelore blurted out.

“They have to get their girls somewhere,” said Van In cynically.

“But you said Vandaele closed the Love in 1986.”

“True. And a couple of months later, our charity takes over Care House. Coincidence?”

“After Herbert was killed.”

“Exactly.”

Hannelore gulped down some wine from her glass.

“Aren't you exaggerating a little? A list of names doesn't prove anything. You wouldn't even be able to check their identities. Maybe it's a list of staff the charity has been paying under the table.”

“Guess what. I've got just such a list,” said Van In. “And guess who's on it. John Catrysse, the man with the motorcycle who drove into Vandaele's Mercedes. He seems to be a bit of a gardener, and I can assure you, the accident didn't do him any good at all. The man looks like Quasimodo's younger brother.”

“Come on, Pieter Van In. Nobody's responsible for the way they look.”

“OK, but he still deserves a place of honor in Cesare Lombroso's cabinet of curiosities,” Van In teased.

“Lombroso's theories were debunked half a century ago,” she snorted. “There's no connection between people's physiognomy and their potential criminal inclinations.”

“Did I say Catrysse was a criminal?”

“No, but you insinuated it.”

“But some American scientists still claim—”

“Some American scientists still claim that Elvis is alive and kicking.”

Van In shrugged off her response. He wasn't in the mood to needle her any further. A strained silence filled the room.

“But I still think we need to take a closer look at the charity's activities,” Van In insisted as he yawned a few minutes later.

Listlessness took him unawares, as if someone had tapped him on the head with a rubber hammer. His thoughts blurred like watercolor paint on a sheet of coarse-grained paper.

“I think it's time for dinner,” he said.

Hannelore didn't press the point. They'd both had a trying day. She had an appointment with her gynecologist the following morning, but she didn't see the point in reminding him about it.

“They're showing
Metropolis
on Arte in ten minutes. Care for a TV movie?” she asked.

Hannelore knew he was partial to the classics and wasn't surprised at his enthusiastic response. He jumped to his feet and headed for the kitchen.

“In that case, it's supper in the salon, madam.”

The shortened and digitally colored version of Fritz Lang's masterpiece didn't impress.

“Proof if proof be needed,” said Hannelore. “When Hollywood screws with art, there's not much left worth looking at.”

She gnawed at the bones of her second quail.

“They're broadcasting
The Birds
tomorrow,” said Van In. “Hitchcock's never a disappointment.”

Van In zapped to the BBC as Hannelore snuggled up against his shoulder. They landed in the middle of a documentary, with David Attenborough commenting expertly on a couple of paring anteaters.

“It's enough to put you in the mood if you close your eyes and just listen,” said Hannelore contentedly.

Van In pushed his plate to one side and switched off the television.

“That can be arranged,” he said eagerly.

Jos Brouwers had earned a small fortune in a relatively short period of time. After leaving the federal police six years ago, he went into business for himself and added a zero to his annual income. His private detective agency had a sound reputation among those with more right-wing inclinations, and Lodewijk Vandaele was one of his most faithful clients. Brouwers knew the former building contractor as a man who always got what he wanted, by whatever means necessary.

He parked his rusty Renault on a side street adjacent to the Damme Canal and continued on foot for the remaining three hundred yards. Vandaele could be generous, but in exchange he demanded absolute discretion.

Brouwers pressed the doorbell at nine o'clock sharp. Virginie, Vandaele's elderly housekeeper, obviously beyond her pension age, opened the door before the bell stopped ringing. Not bad for an old lady doubled over from rheumatism. She greeted the late visitor with a toothless smile and informed him that Mr. Vandaele was expecting him in the conservatory.

Vandaele welcomed Brouwers with exaggerated gestures, testifying more to his sense of authority than his hospitality.

“Take a seat, Jos. Thanks for coming. Cigar?”

Brouwers didn't say no. Vandaele only smoked Davidoffs, a prohibitive luxury even for a prosperous ex-cop.

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

Brouwers took a cigar, helped himself to a strip of cedar wood, lit it with a match, and rolled the tip of the cigar above the yellow odorless flame.

“How's Greta?”

“She's traveling,” said Brouwers dryly. “Martinique … as if Belgium isn't good enough.”

“Women.” Vandaele sighed tellingly.

The men chatted until Virginie had served the coffee. Brouwers loved the aroma of freshly ground Colombian beans. Virginie shuffled back to the kitchen and returned with a tray of petit fours, a delicacy Brouwers particularly enjoyed. He attacked them uninvited.

“From Nicolas?”

“Of course,” said Vandaele affably.

Nicolas was renowned for his refined patisserie.

“Thanks, Virginie.”

On Vandaele's lips, even a word of gratitude sounded like an order. The elderly housekeeper disappeared without a sound.

“I'm looking for someone,” said Vandaele when Virginie closed the conservatory doors. Brouwers nodded, swallowed half a cookie, and fished a notebook from his jacket pocket.

“No notes, Jos. There's some unpleasantness involved.”

The ex-cop returned his notebook to his pocket and helped himself to a second cookie.
Unpleasantness
was one of Van­daele's euphemisms for taking someone out.

“For the usual fee?”

Vandaele poured the coffee and added a dash of whipped cream. Brouwers passed on the cream. He was forty-six, had the body and condition of a thirty-year-old, and wanted to keep it that way. Only cookies from Nicolas and a good glass of beer were worth the occasional sin.