From Bruges with Love (13 page)

“What did the man die of, Doctor?” Van In insisted. It was a stupid question. A child could see that Provoost had choked to death, but it had to be officially confirmed by the police physician.

“Suffocation, Commissioner.”

Van In noted the cause of death next to the time of the murder. He would read the rest later in the autopsy report. He suddenly felt an ice-cold hand on his arm.

“Can you wangle a glass of water, Pieter?”

Hannelore looked far from her best, and her voice sounded like a death rattle.

Van In jumped and threw his arm around her.

“What's the matter? You look so pale. Shall I … ?”

He pointed toward De Jaegher. Hannelore vigorously shook her head. Van In was pleased. The very idea of that quack laying a finger on her …

“A glass of water and a breath of fresh air and I'll be fine,” she whispered hoarsely.

Van In helped her to the door. The air in the corridor was already enough to perk her up. She smiled and squeezed his arm.

“Thanks, Pieter. Don't worry, I'm fine, really.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure.”

Hardly three seconds later, Miss Calmeyn appeared from an adjacent room. She had been keeping a patient look out while the doctor and his team went about their business.

“Do you have a glass of water, Miss? Deputy Martens isn't feeling too well.”

Miss Calmeyn didn't ask unnecessary questions and hurried to the kitchen.
What in God's name made them saddle such a young creature like that with a murder inquiry,
she thought bitterly.
They've no respect these days
.

Hannelore emptied the glass as the color returned to her cheeks. Van In held her hand firmly in his.

“I skipped breakfast this morning,” Hannelore confessed.

Eudoxia Calmeyn shook her head disapprovingly.

“Come, child,” she said, her tone suddenly familiar. “I made some cheese sandwiches in the kitchen. You could use a few calories by the look of you.”

Van In raised his eyebrows in surprise when Hannelore thanked Miss Calmeyn and followed her to the kitchen. Corpses made little impression on him these days, but he was sure of one thing: they didn't give him an appetite.

Eudoxia Calmeyn made a fresh pot of coffee as Hannelore dug in to the sandwiches. Van In would have bet a month's wages that she was munching on the late Yves Provoost's breakfast. Eudoxia turned to look at her every now and then. A sublimated form of the maternal instinct she had consciously suppressed for the last forty years glowed in her eyes.
Had she known that the frail creature beside her was a self-assured woman who had treated many a lawyer to a sleepless night she might have looked at her differently,
Van In thought with a hint of perverse delight.

“Just what the doctor ordered, eh?” asked Van In.

“Delicious,” Hannelore replied, clearly enjoying every morsel. “You don't happen to have a jar of gherkins by any chance?” she asked the elderly secretary.

Eudoxia looked her up and down. Van In figured Miss Calmeyn was checking for signs of pregnancy, but she would have to be patient. Hannelore's belly was still relatively flat.

“Did Mr. Provoost live here alone?” he asked when Eudoxia placed a plate of mini gherkins on the table.

“Mr. Yves lives in Knokke,” she responded in the present tense. “In his parents' villa.”

She poured the coffee and joined them at the table.

“He only stays here when it's busy at the courthouse,” she said, nimbly anticipating Van In's next question. No one had to know that Mr. Yves only went to Knokke on the weekend. He did it for the children, nothing more.

Van In dropped two lumps of sugar into his coffee and stirred it carefully with the silver teaspoon Eudoxia had set beside him.

“Do you have a key to the house, Miss Calmeyn?”

Eudoxia was an experienced secretary, so she wasn't about to let such a question throw her off balance.

“Of course I do,” she said, her head held high. “Both Mr. Gaetan and Mr. Yves trusted me completely.”

“Gaetan Provoost was Yves's father,” Hannelore explained between bites. “The man was an institution. There's still a photo of him in the courthouse.”

Eudoxia smiled approvingly. She was warming to the girl, little by little.

“So it was evident that you would be the one to find Mr. Yves,” said Van In.

Eudoxia sipped nervously at her coffee and then blew her nose. The horrific picture was engraved forever in her memory. “I'm supposed to start at nine, officially,” she said with a lump in her throat. “But most of the time I'm here by eight.”

“To make breakfast for Mr. Yves,” said Van In with an affable smile.

“Yes, of course,” she replied. “I mean, not every day. Only when Mr. Yves spends the night.”

Miss Eudoxia had walked right into his trap, and she spotted it immediately. Hannelore looked away. Fortunately, Van In didn't push the issue. He knew what he wanted to know, and that was enough.

“Mr. Yves likes to get an early start,” said Miss Calmeyn in a worthy effort to save the situation. “When I'd heard nothing by eight thirty, I went to his study and knocked. And when he didn't answer, I …”

Her voice faltered. She picked up her damask napkin and dabbed her eyes. Her sadness was genuine. Hannelore stopped guzzling. The elderly lady did her best to control her emotions, but she didn't protest when Hannelore put her arm around her shoulder.

“What a terrible shock that must have been, Miss Calmeyn­,” she said comfortingly. “I can't imagine how I would feel in your shoes.”

“Heaven forbid, child. I still don't understand it. The times we're living in …” She started to sob out loud and hid her face behind a lattice of bony fingers. It had finally hit Miss Calmeyn that Yves Provoost was truly dead.

Van In thought it best to leave the two women alone for a while.

Dr. De Jaegher had finished his work in the study. The two forensics experts were busy searching for clues, an activity Van In hated with a vengeance. For him the atmosphere at the scene of the crime and the reactions of those involved were more important than all that messing around with fingerprint spray and handheld vacuum cleaners. Material evidence was only necessary when perpetrators refused to confess. But the perpetrators had to be tracked down first, and that for him was what made crime prevention so interesting.

De Jaegher was gathering his things. Van In felt it would be hypocritical to shake the man's hand and quietly left the room. It was time he explored the rest of the house. A steep flight of stairs in the corridor led to the first floor. His curiosity got the better of him, and he made his way up. The walls were covered with miniature paintings in pretentious gilded frames, all of them still lifes by unknown nineteenth-century masters. Such work fetched astronomical prices at the antique fairs. A sketch of a pile of overripe fruit in a porcelain bowl could set you back the best part of a hundred thousand francs. On the landing, which was twice the size of his own bedroom, there was an excessively adorned Dutch mirrored cabinet, a piece of furniture that actually belonged in a museum. The first floor had two spacious bedrooms and an English-style bathroom with an abundance of mahogany and ornate but impractical facilities. The room on the street side functioned as a guest room. The air was musty, and the white sheets on the bed seemed a little yellowed. The walls were so chock-full of artwork it was barely possible to see the floral wallpaper behind them. Van In counted twenty-three paintings, watercolors, etchings, and drawings. Gaetan Provoost had been an “art” collector all his life.

The second bedroom was less tidy and clearly something of a bachelor pad. Books and magazines were scattered everywhere. A glass and an open bottle of Glenfiddich graced the nightstand next to a box of anxiety pills.

The bedside lamp, a bronze monstrosity from the previous century, shed its insipid glow over the turned-down quilt. A wide-screen mastodon of a TV on an elegant console served as a sort of dividing wall between the bed and the rest of the room. Two piles of videocassettes towered on each side. The titles spoke for themselves, evidence that Provoost was inclined to swing both ways. On the basis of what he saw, Van In tried to form a picture of the man lying downstairs on the sofa. Yves Provoost was a respected attorney with clients he had inherited for the most part from his forefathers. He had, in fact, been born into a family of eminent lawyers and had more or less been brought up in the business. Together with the name, he had also inherited a significant family fortune. Even without his legal qualifications he would have had no problem maintaining a flamboyant lifestyle.

Van In explored the room. The wardrobe contained a variety of suits, all of impeccable quality. He then inspected the sideboard. Its drawers were stuffed with an extensive assortment of expensive underwear and cotton pajamas.

“Commissioner.”

A flash of lightning once succeeded in knocking Saint Paul from his horse, making him see the error of his ways. Miss Calmeyn's voice mimicked the same special effect. Van In shuddered, turned, and tried to smile innocently. The secretary of the late Yves Provoost wasn't about to be mollified by a fake smile. She glared at him, her eyes filled with the fury of a tropical storm. Hannelore kept her distance and did her best to keep a straight face. She thought Eudoxia was the ideal mother-in-law, the type men are scared of.

“Excuse me, Miss Calmeyn. I was thinking … in the interest of the investigation …”

“No one is allowed into Mr. Yves's room without my permission,” said Calmeyn. “I know the law. Without a warrant this is forbidden territory.”

Miss Calmeyn knew well enough that Provoost guzzled whiskey on the quiet and watched porn. She may not have approved, but that didn't mean just anybody had the right to come poking their nose into his business.

“I understand, miss, but—”

“No buts, Commissioner. If you do not leave the room this instant, I shall call the federal police.”

Van In sighed. He'd heard that argument before somewhere.

“As you wish, Miss Calmeyn. We're on our way. But don't come complaining in a month that the police haven't done their job.”

Hannelore bit her lip as she watched Van In beat his retreat like a chastened dog.

Jos Brouwers was in luck. Thanks to detailed information he had received secretly from Vandaele, he had rushed to knock on the door of Dominique Verhelst. As the slippery assistant manager of Bruges' commercial bank, Verhelst promised to do whatever was necessary, and right away. Brouwers had saved Verhelst from an expensive divorce after his wife brought in the police in an attempt to catch him in flagrante delicto with another woman. Brouwers had informed Verhelst in advance, and he had canceled the party.

Verhelst called him less than two hours later. “Hello, Jos. Good news I think.”

Brouwers grabbed his notebook and pen. This was promising to be easier than he had expected.

“William Aerts withdrew half a million in cash at the beginning of the week and then transferred the rest to an account at the Banco Condottiere in Rome.”

“The rest?”

“Sixteen million.”

Brouwers underlined the amount. Our friend wasn't planning to come back anytime soon. “Excellent. Can you check if he withdrew the money in Rome?”

“Is that important?” Verhelst inquired cautiously.

Passing on confidential client information to a third party was pretty reprehensible. As assistant manager, he had a degree of leeway and within the bank he was more or less immune, but international transactions were a different matter altogether, and the risks couldn't be underestimated. In reality, there was relatively little chance that the bank in Rome would respond to his request for information.

“Would I ask if it wasn't important?” The sudden silence between them only served to emphasize Verhelst's frustration. “If it hadn't been for me, you would have been forced to sell that villa of yours in Montpellier, Dominique.”

That was enough to settle it.

“I'll see what I can do,” said Verhelst. “But I can't promise anything.”

“That's fine, Dominique. I'll call you tomorrow at two p.m.”

9

S
o what do you think?” asked Hannelore.

The waiter at the Mozarthuys served two cappuccinos. An early group of tourists paraded across Huidenvetters Square under a cotton wool sky.

“Let's wait for the forensics report,” said Van In sullenly. In the preceding week, he had been kicked out twice by women, and it still bothered him, as did the fact that the case had more or less ground to a standstill. He needed an Arthur to pull Excalibur from the rock. Van In had ordered a door-to-door inquiry in the neighborhood, but he wasn't expecting much to come of it. Provoost had been murdered in the middle of the night. The chance that a witness had seen the killer enter or leave Provoost's house was exceptionally slim.

“Don't tell me you haven't formed an opinion. I know you better than that, Pieter Van In, and I can read your face like a book. I can see all the cogs turning feverishly in that handsome head of yours.”

Van In dipped his nose into the cappuccino's creamy froth. “Is there a reason why I have to drink coffee, by the way? It's eleven fifteen, for Christ's sake. I bet a Duvel has fewer calories.”

“I thought we'd come to an agreement,” she said, her tone rigid.

Van In lit a cigarette and blew the smoke defiantly in her direction.

“It's your funeral,” she said with a nasty grin. The smoke reminded Hannelore of her own weakness. She had also given in to temptation.
One Duvel wouldn't do him any harm,
she thought. “Unless we break the rules for once.”

Van In pushed the sweet cappuccino to one side and signaled the waiter. The man had been following the conversation.

“A Duvel, sir?” he asked with a smile.

Hannelore profited from the situation and stole a cigarette. “Quid pro quo,” she teased.

Van In didn't react. He figured a Duvel for a cigarette was fair exchange. “If De Jaegher's to be believed, Provoost was killed between three and four a.m., but if you ask me, the killer must have arrived a lot earlier.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“No signs of a break-in, so we have to presume that Provoost let his killer in. I'm guessing it's unlikely Provoost would have visitors after midnight.”

Hannelore raised her eyebrows in surprise. “Aren't you jumping the gun a little? Maybe Provoost got up because he heard a suspicious noise.”

“Also unlikely,” said Van In. “If I hear a suspicious noise in the middle of the night, I don't put on my dressing gown first.”

“Of course you don't.” She grinned. “You don't have one.”

“OK. Provoost was the aristocratic type. He hears a strange noise and puts on his dressing gown.”

“Sounds logical to me,” said Hannelore.

“And a scarf?”

The waiter arrived with a frothy Duvel. Van In grabbed the glass and gulped greedily.

“I hadn't thought of the scarf,” Hannelore admitted. “But how do you know that Provoost was wearing a scarf at the time of the murder? The killer could have taken one from the dresser.”

“Then he must have done it in Provoost's bedroom. I checked the drawers in the dresser and found piles of them, all neatly folded. Someone looking for a gag isn't likely to head for the bedroom and carefully remove a silk scarf from a pile in a drawer without making a mess. I'm not convinced. If you ask me, Provoost was expecting someone. His bedside lamp was still on for one, and I'm pretty certain the silk pajamas and matching scarf weren't just a coincidence.”

Hannelore shook her head.

“He only had one pair of silk pajamas, Hanne. Men tend to buy these things for a reason.”

“They do?” she asked.

“I mean certain men. Women apparently find silk to be a turn on.”

“Why don't you have a pair?”

“Because silk pajamas cost at least fifteen thousand francs, and I can't afford such excesses.”

Van In emptied his Duvel in a single gulp and immediately ordered another. Hannelore didn't insist on a second cigarette.

“I'm afraid you've lost me, Pieter, unless you're trying to suggest the killer was a woman.”

“Everything is pointing in that direction,” said Van In with a scowl.

Hannelore admired him in spite of her confusion. The way he picked up on things even made her a little jealous. Van In wasn't burdened by the academic limitations that weighed down the majority of intellectuals. He reasoned on instinct.

“OK, let me run through it again,” she said resolutely. “Provoost is expecting a female visitor in the course of the evening. He spruces himself up, puts on his fanciest pajamas, and waits in the bedroom until his guest rings the bell. He lets her in. The woman overpowers him, slaps on the cuffs, and kills him a couple of hours later.”

Van In nods. Her analysis was spot on. “Half of Provoost's porn collection is hardcore S and M, so I'm not surprised he was found in cuffs. But the killer needed time, and that bothers me.”

“Why should it? Those S-and-M games can go on for hours, or so I'm told,” said Hannelore, unable to understand why the time element troubled him.

“Because I think there's a link between the death of Provoost and our Herbert. If Provoost succumbed to a sex game that got out of hand, then his death was an accident, and I find that hard to believe. I'm convinced Provoost was murdered in cold blood, and if I'm right, the killer didn't have to stretch the execution for several hours.”

“A remarkable hypothesis,” said Hannelore. “Do you think we'll ever find the truth?”

“If we want the truth, then we have to take a close look at the charity,” said Van In resolutely. “A search warrant would give Versavel the chance to hack into their computer files. Can you arrange one?”

“You know it's not as simple as that,” she retorted. “There isn't an examining magistrate in the country who would write out a warrant on the basis of a couple of vague suspicions. And God knows what would happen if Versavel's extrajudicial computer antics got out.”

When Hannelore used words like
extrajudicial
, Van In knew it was better not to push the point.

“Then our only option is to infiltrate the charity,” said Van In flatly. He had devised a plan that same evening to put an undercover officer into the charity.

“Can't you think of anything legal?” Hannelore asked, raising her voice.

“I'm open to suggestions,” he said submissively. He knew there was no alternative, and so did Hannelore. The list of names Van In had dragged out of Linda Aerts was worthless. The men who figured in it hadn't broken the law. William Aerts, who probably had useful information to offer on the Love and what went on there, had disappeared without a trace, and the connection between the murders and Helping Our Own was based on little more than conjecture. It was common knowledge that Lodewijk Vandaele's empire was founded on crooked practices, but no one had been able thus far to bring charges against the man and make them stick.

“Did you have someone particular in mind?” she inquired with caution.

“It has to be a woman, of course,” said Van In. “And preferably good-looking.”

Hannelore smiled. He wasn't exactly subtle, but what did it matter? A compliment was a compliment. “OK, Pieter. But before you get started, let me run it past the prosecutor. If he gives his blessing, then I'll give it a try.”

Van In realized he had made an unforgivable blunder. “I had a different sort of good-looking in mind.” He grinned sheepishly.

“You mean another woman.”

“Don't get me wrong, Hanne. You're pregnant, and besides, this is police business.”

“Is she under thirty-five?”

There was no point in messing with her any longer. “Carine Neels is twenty-three and specially trained for this sort of job,” Van In lied. Her age was the only thing that tallied. Carine Neels had just completed two years at the police academy. The kind of criminals she'd had to deal with so far were illegal parkers and pensioners who hadn't paid their dog licenses.

“And you're sure this Carine person isn't pregnant?” Hannelore asked innocently.

“Carine is a lesbian,” Van In lied a second time.

“Aren't lesbians allowed to get pregnant?” Hannelore glared at him ready for a fight.
Sweet talking SOB,
she thought to herself.
Next thing she'll have a beard and a mustache
.

Van In hadn't missed the sarcasm in Hannelore's question. “Carine Neels also suffers from vaginism,” he whispered. “I found out for myself the day before yesterday.”

Hannelore said nothing. She didn't want to get his hackles up.

Jos Brouwers unfolded a map of southern Europe. Dominique Verhelst had just called him back. The sixteen million was still in the bank in Rome. Brouwers tried to put himself in the shoes of his prey. According to Vandaele, Aerts was a cunning bastard. So there had to be a connection between the city of Rome and the fugitive's hiding place. The ex-cop carefully removed the cellophane from a packet of peppermint gum, tore open the foil, and popped a stick into his mouth.

Most investigators invariably make the same mistake. They think that the solution to a problem has to be in proportion to its complexity. But nothing could be further from the truth. Complexity is nothing more than a collection of simple elements. Jos Brouwers knew that a correct analysis of a problem constituted half the solution. He had inherited a talent for numbers from his father. Brouwers senior had spent most of his working life as a junior bank clerk. No one had ever seen him using a calculator. His ultimate dream was that his son would become a civil engineer. He worked himself to the bone day and night to make his dream a reality. But fate can be capricious, and plans are always human creations.

Brouwers finished his first year at college magna cum laude, and his father died the same day from a heart attack. Welfare provisions weren't enough in those days to pay for college, so Jos Brouwers was forced to interrupt his studies. He applied for a job with the federal police, completed their rigorous training program, and submitted himself to the humiliations and arbitrariness of his superiors. For more than ten years he handed over his wages to his mother. His brothers and sisters went to college in his stead, and when they graduated they turned their backs on him, ashamed that their older brother was “only” a cop. But every tragedy has its turning point, its catharsis, as the Greeks call it. Six years earlier he had decided to retake control of his life. He resigned from his job and swore revenge on his stuck-up family. The only way to achieve his goal was to become richer than his brother Jacob, the ophthalmologist; acquire more prestige than Bert, the soap actor; more freedom than Christa, the sculptress; and more influence than Kathy, the local government representative. When it came to wealth and freedom, he had succeeded summa cum laude. He enjoyed prestige and influence in certain circles, and that was enough for him.

Brouwers took a pair of compasses, checked the scale of the map, and drew a three-hundred-mile circle around Rome.

Versavel looked nervously at his watch and rubbed his mustache. Van In had left his beeper in the office as usual. Intentionally unavailable, yet again. Chief Commissioner De Kee called every half hour, insisting that Van In report to him the minute he got in. Versavel did his best and called around. Miss Calmeyn assured him that the commissioner and Deputy Prosecutor Martens had left more than an hour ago. Leo Vanmaele suggested he call his favorite café, l'Estaminet, and the clerk at the courthouse informed him that Deputy Martens was away from her desk.

Versavel tried the same people a second time before checking in with De Kee. The diminutive chief commissioner was furious. Versavel swallowed the abuse and promised he would contact Van In before the day was out. The chief commissioner could rest assured. Versavel had left a message on Van In's answering machine.

When Van In hadn't appeared by noon, Versavel threw in the towel. Frank was waiting with a delicious lunch.

“Hello, is this Lodewijk Vandaele?”

Vandaele recognized Brouwers's voice and attached a scrambler to the telephone. They always followed the same procedure. “Jos. What's new?”

Brouwers immediately noticed that Vandaele sounded tense.

“Is there a problem?” His direct question was met with a moment of silence.

“Provoost is dead,” said Vandaele. “Murdered, apparently.”

“Messy, sir. Do you want me to investigate?”

“Out of the question,” said Vandaele decisively. “I'd rather hear what's been going on with you.”

Brouwers sensed that the old man was hiding something but didn't push the matter. “Aerts is in Malta,” he said.

“Malta. What makes you think that?”

“Because I have evidence to support it, sir.”

Vandaele didn't ask any unnecessary questions, giving Brouwers the opportunity to develop his hypothesis.

“Aerts transferred sixteen million to an account with the Banco Condottiere in Rome. If he's as savvy as everyone claims, he knows well enough that the transaction was traceable. If he doesn't want to leave a paper trail, he'll have to withdraw the money in person. That's why he started off with half a million in cash, money he needs to survive while the situation cools down. Aerts is presuming that the judiciary will forget about him after a couple of months. I would have done the same, and I would have picked out a safe hiding place to wait out the storm.”

“Sounds plausible,” said Vandaele. “But why Malta of all places?”

Brouwers had expected Vandaele's response. He had asked himself the same question. “I presumed that Aerts would prefer familiar territory to go underground and preferably not too far from his money. If it were me, I would opt for somewhere I knew.”

“Continue, Jos.”

“Malta isn't part of the European Union, and it's been growing in popularity of late as a tax haven. The island is less than three hundred miles from the Italian mainland. Anyone with anything resembling a boat can make the crossing without being noticed. And of course, Aerts has been there on vacation a couple of times.”