From Bruges with Love (18 page)

Carine shook her head, unconvincingly.

“Those guys have got a lot of nerve.”

Hannelore emerged from the shower, knotted a white towel around her head like a turban, and wrapped herself up in a thick bathrobe.

Van In was in the adjoining bedroom. “The ball's in your court,” he said.

Hannelore sat beside him on the bed. Her bathrobe bulged a little. “I get your frustration, Pieter. But how many times have I told you that we have to stick to the rules? There isn't an examining magistrate in the country who would issue a search warrant on the basis of unlawfully obtained evidence.”

“Because a couple of their colleagues appear on the list,” Van In observed. “Double standards across the board! The letter of the law and the spirit. It all depends who you know and how much you can pay.”

Hannelore shrugged her shoulders, loosened the towel around her head, and started to dry her lustrous hair.

“According to the law, I'm first obliged to ask that poor girl to prostitute herself before I can submit a complaint.” Van In sighed.

“Out of the question. Even a mediocre lawyer would win the case for the charity. Carine is a police officer, and as such, she's not allowed to incite a crime. It wouldn't even surprise me if they turned the tables and charged her with incitement. Anyway, where would it get you? Maybe Ilse is a lesbian who takes advantage of her position to hook a girlfriend now and then.”

Van In lit a cigarette, tetchy. It was the last of his daily ration.

“It's time to revisit that criminal law course you took.” Hannelore smiled. “I'm guessing you've forgotten a bunch of stuff.”

Van In got to his feet and started pacing up and down. The investigation had ground to a standstill and had nowhere to go. He had been relying on the identification of Herbert, but there was still no new information. A couple of hospitals had promised to report back the next day, but what if their responses were negative? All they would have left would be hospitals abroad, and that would be like looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack.

At dinner, Van In made a tentative attempt to return to the subject of Linda Aerts. “If the public prosecutor's office is afraid of the powers that be, maybe we should go to work on the outcasts,” he said sarcastically.

“Communism is dead, Pieter. And even when it was still alive it followed the same principles. No one is truly equal before the law. People are egocentric creatures, and there's no system I know that can change it. Magistrates are human too. We're all walking a shaky tightrope, Pieter, and we're all doing our best to stay balanced.”

Hannelore tucked in to a slice of fried calf's liver.

“I didn't want to get into ideologies, Hanne.”

“I guess you didn't,” she said between bites. “What you want is for me to have Linda Aerts arrested.”

Hannelore popped the last morsel of liver into her mouth. Van In offered her a napkin.

“Linda Aerts is a suspect in the Provoost case. I have evidence …”

“Evidence, Pieter? I need proof.”

Van In stared longingly at the empty pack of cigarettes. He had a good mind to go to the convenience store and then get drunk somewhere. “You can't prove anything these days,” he said sullenly. “Everybody lies to save their own skin, and it takes two witnesses to refute a lie.”

“Good thing too,” said Hannelore. “And I don't have to tell you what the alternative would be. If it was up to FLASYC, we'd be arresting suspects on the spot, handing out long prison sentences, and not worrying too much about their right to defense.”

Hannelore was clearly agitated. She found it hard to believe that her husband would flirt with right-wing ideas.

“That's not what I meant, sweetheart.”

Van In tried to stay calm, although he was fighting with a demon that threatened to tear him to pieces.

“Isn't it?” she asked.

With these two words of condescension, the devil in his soul broke free of its chains. “You shouldn't have said that.” Van In felt like a champagne bottle about to pop. Why was she doing this? She knew he would explode if she kept it up. “I thought we were both on the same side,” he whispered.

“Of course, but …”

Hannelore grabbed her belly. The twinge of pain was so intense it forced her to arch her back. Van In's guardian angel pushed the champagne cork back into the bottle. The demon prudently withdrew.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“Don't worry, Pieter. I guess it's not my day today.”

Hannelore massaged the sides of her thighs. Van In could see the pain in her eyes and pulled up a chair beside her.

“It's all my fault,” he said apologetically. “I know it's no excuse, but I've had a tough day too. The investigation's going nowhere, and you know how much I want to take you to Portugal.”

Hannelore nestled her head on his shoulder. “That's sweet of you.” She ran her fingers through his hair. Van In always got goose bumps when she did that. “I'm sorry I compared you with those FLASYC sickos,” she said.

Van In was happy that his rage had receded. He had almost forgotten that she had been to the gynecologist that day. Having an amniocentesis wasn't exactly a day at the circus. He considered asking her if everything had gone OK but decided not to. If she wanted to talk about it she would, and he had to respect that.

“Maybe I should have a word with Mrs. Aerts myself,” said Hannelore after a moment.

Van In drew hearts on her back with his finger. “If I can carry the bucket of water,” he said grinning.

Carine Neels looked a picture in her floral nightgown. Her old-fashioned fountain pen scratched elegant letters in the fluffy pages of her diary. “I ignored Commissioner Van In's orders. I checked in with Ilse at ten o'clock. She was really excited and asked if I wouldn't mind doing a camera test before we got down to the real thing. She said I had a beautiful body and that I didn't need to pose naked if I didn't want to. She took me to a studio, fully equipped, and asked if I minded that a man was present. She knew nothing about cameras. I quite liked being in the spotlight. It was exciting. The cameraman didn't come near me. He just stood there in the dark and didn't say a word for the entire shoot. But one thing struck me about him: the man smelled of toilet cleaner, a mix of lemon and lavender.”

12

W
illiam Aerts had hidden himself in Amand's bedroom, where he could keep a close eye on the cars parking in front of the restaurant. Waiting was for demented pensioners. If they made it an Olympic discipline, Aerts would be first in line to hand out the medals. For him, waiting without knowing what was going to happen was torture. He counted the seconds, added them up into minutes, and cursed the hour hand of his wristwatch.

Aerts had lived in a state of euphoria for two days—two days that had seemed to last no longer than a nanosecond.

Brooks and Brouwers arrived at Amand's restaurant shortly before noon. The Englishman was in the best of humor, having spent the night with his girlfriend, Penelope. Brouwers had met her the day before in the lounge of the King George Hotel. From that moment he understood exactly why Brooks insisted on spending the night on Gozo. Penelope was a sophisticated woman in her early forties with smooth, soft breasts and wide, sad eyes. She reminded him of the closing scene of Homer's
The
Odyssey
. As in the blind Greek poet's epic, this Maltese Penelope had an irresistible charm that attracted middle-aged men. Brouwers had masturbated twice that night in his hotel room, a very rare occurrence.

Aerts recognized the former federal policeman immediately. What he didn't understand was how Vandaele's bloodhound had managed to trace him so quickly.

Amand was collected, in control. He welcomed Brooks and Brouwers with a professional smile. “A Belgian,” he said when Brouwers introduced himself. “Few and far between around here. Welcome to my restaurant, gentlemen.”

Brooks and Brouwers opted for a table on the terrace under a linen parasol. A refreshing breeze blew in from the sea. On Gozo, the sea was never far away.

“I'm told you're from West Flanders,” said Brouwers affably.

“That's right,” said Amand. “I was born in Knokke.”

He handed them each a menu. Brouwers didn't recognize any of the dishes. “I can recommend the smoked swordfish as a starter,” Amand suggested.

Brooks licked his lips. Amand had the best swordfish on Malta. He nodded enthusiastically. Brouwers went along with Amand's suggestion, and both men ordered
fenek
as his main course.

“Rabbit,” said Brooks when Brouwers asked for an explanation. “The Maltese are keen hunters. They shoot whatever moves, just about. If you spend any length of time here, you'll realize that Malta has very few birds.”

The swordfish rivaled the best of Scottish salmon. The structure was a little less refined, but the mild flavor of the meaty slices gave it a definite edge.

Aerts poured himself a nip of whiskey. Amand had promised to keep him posted. What was he up to for Christ's sake? He emptied his glass in a single gulp.
Why had Vandaele sent a hired killer after him
, he asked himself in desperation.

Provoost had probably spilled when they dug up the body. Aerts grabbed the bottle and poured himself a second glass. He was having trouble thinking straight. If Vandaele had pronounced the death sentence, then it made no sense to keep running. Brouwers would catch up with him sooner or later. They didn't call the ex-cop the pit bull for nothing.

The terrace in the meantime was beginning to get busy. A battery of waiters scuttled nervously back and forth. Amand served the steaming chunks of
fenek
personally from a casserole dish. The smell was mouthwatering.

“Will there be anything else, gentlemen?” Amand asked.

Brouwers looked at him searchingly. Amand's broad smile froze. “I'm told you know all the foreigners on the island, Monsieur Amand. I'm looking for someone … perhaps you can help me.”

Brouwers fished a recent photo of Aerts from his jacket pocket.

Amand examined it for a couple of seconds, wrinkling his brows to give the impression he was searching his memory. “Sorry,” he said.

“A client?” Brouwers inquired further.

“Not possible. I can count my Flemish customers on one hand. If the man was ever in my restaurant, I'd have recognized him immediately.”

“Sorry,” said Brooks. “Not much of a harvest, but at least the food was worth it.”

A waiter brought a tray with a pot of strong coffee, some thin slices of cake, and two snifters of cognac. The drinks were on the house, he said.

Brouwers took off his sunglasses. “Do you think so?”

Brooks swirled the cognac in his glass. “Tell me, you little devil,” he said grinning.

Brouwers shoed the flies from the cake, tried a bite, and returned it to the plate with a grimace. “Dentists must make a fortune around here. That crap is so sweet it makes my dentures twinge.”

“You get used to it,” said Brooks. “But tell me what you discovered,” he insisted. Brouwers was flattered by the SAS man's pushy curiosity.

“Isn't it obvious, Jonathan?
Primo
: Amand used the word
Belgian
when we arrived, but when I showed him the picture of Aerts, he suddenly shifted to Flemish. He also didn't ask why we were looking for Aerts, which is strange for a man who rarely gets visits from his fellow countrymen.
Secundo
: from the moment Amand knew why we were here he let a waiter take care of our table. And
tertio
: I have a nose for liars. If you ask me, Aerts isn't far from here. So I think I'll hang around for a while if you don't mind.”

Brooks didn't mind in the least. The prospect of a second night with Penelope set his heart pounding.

“I'm Deputy Martens, public prosecutor's office,” said Hannelore when Linda Aerts opened the door. “I'm here about the complaint you filed against Commissioner Van In.”

She had parked her Renault Twingo on the driveway under an overgrown briar—
sub rosa
, just like her mission.

The villa was a mix of art deco and Austrian
heimatstil
and had served until the sixties as the status symbol of a hyped-up artist. When the man took his own life one somber winter evening, his greedy family auctioned off the “property.” It's generally known that a house with blood on its walls never fetches market prices. Lodewijk Vandaele snatched it for next to nothing and turned it into a discreet whorehouse. He named the place the Cleopatra for lack of anything better.

Linda Aerts might once have rivaled the Egyptian princess in beauty, but now she looked more like a bloated mummy. “What complaint?” she croaked.

“Assault and battery,” said Hannelore. “According to your declaration, the police molested you.”

Hannelore's no-nonsense approach was enough to rouse Linda from her alcohol-induced daze. She raised her eyebrows and looked Hannelore up and down, the daze still evident in her eyes. “Do you mind if I come in, Mrs. Aerts?”

Linda ruffled her bedraggled hair, shrugged her shoulders, and stepped aside. “Why not.”

The inside of the villa smelled of musty cushions, stale cigarette smoke, and flat beer.

“I was just having breakfast,” said Linda. “Want a coffee?”

Hannelore nodded. She followed Linda through the bar into the kitchen.
Even Van In would've found the place too grimy,
she thought. Mold battled it out in the sink on piles of unwashed plates. Stuffed ashtrays soiled the air with microscopic particles. The litter box hadn't been cleaned in weeks, and the smell of piss was enough to choke an army. Hannelore focused for a moment on her prenatal gymnastics classes and tried to survive on short, shallow breaths.

“That fucker threw two buckets of water over me. It was like the Middle fucking Ages! What's wrong with that picture?”

Linda rinsed a cup under the faucet. Hannelore regretted having said yes to the coffee. She recognized the smell of boarding school coffee left too long on the burner.

“The public prosecutor's office is taking your complaint very seriously, Mrs. Aerts. Ill-treatment and sexual harassment are unforgiveable, especially when a police officer is involved.”

“Sexual harassment?” Linda cackled. “They can fill my bucket anytime, as long as they pay for the pleasure.”

“Your bucket, Mrs. Aerts?”

“Sweetheart! Men always exaggerate. They unload a teaspoon and they think they shot a bucketload.”

Hannelore slid her cup of coffee to one side.

Linda grinned, then collapsed into a chair and filled her cup with Elixir d'Anvers. “Milk?”

Hannelore shook her head.

“A drop of Elixir?”

Without waiting for an answer, Linda got to her feet, took a glass from the kitchen cabinet, and filled it with the sweet liqueur.

“Do you already have a lawyer, Mrs. Aerts?”

Hannelore nipped at the glass for appearance's sake and tried to suppress her disgust. One sip was worth it if it helped gain Linda's confidence.

“
Pff
.
”

Unbelievable how much contempt a tiny meaningless word could convey. Van In could count his lucky stars. Without a lawyer she didn't stand a chance.

“Provoost got what he deserved. I don't need the bastard. He was no better than the others.”

“The others?”

Linda laughed. “Vandaele's a pig. De Jaegher's a frustrated worm, Vervoort deserves the chair, and Deflour can jump from his choir loft for all I care.”

“And Brys?”

Linda stiffened. “Johan was a sweet boy,” she sniveled.

“Was?”

Hannelore looked the withered woman in the eye. There's nothing sadder than an emotional alcoholic. Linda grabbed the bottle and refilled her cup. Her eager gulps were evidence that she was in the final stages. “So you knew him well?”

Linda wiped a tear from her eye. She had worshiped Johan Brys. If she'd accepted his proposal back in the day, she'd now be living in a mansion with servants, spending exotic vacations abroad. That was what she dreamed about every night when she was a girl. “Johan stopped by now and then,” she said. “Before he got the ministry post, of course.”

Hannelore nodded understandingly. She pinched here eyes shut and took another sip of the sweet Elixir. It was pleasant enough in the mouth, but it left a trail of fire as it went down.

“A top up?”

Linda was beginning to like the sophisticated bitch. She filled Hannelore's glass to the brim. “I was a beauty queen once.” She got to her feet and staggered toward the ramshackle kitchen dresser.

Hannelore was shocked at the blue varicose veins and the hard perished skin that clung to her plump calves. “Do you still see each other?”

The question sounded almost trivial. Linda turned and threw open her housecoat. Her cotton nightdress barely concealed her sagging body. “What would you do if you were a man?”

Hannelore tried to hide her compassion by taking a sip of Elixir. “Fortunately I'm not a man,” she said.

Linda knotted her housecoat and concentrated on the contents of the dresser. “Where is that fucking thing?”

“There's no need, Mrs. Aerts.”

Linda crouched in front of the dresser. “I was Miss West Flanders in 1979,” she groaned. “Where is that fucking cup?”

The clatter of crockery drowned out her lamentations.

“I believe you, Linda. You haven't lost it completely.”

Linda calmed down when she heard her first name and abruptly ended her pointless quest. “D'you mean it?”

A spontaneous smile lit up her sunken cheeks as she stood and returned to the table.

“Johan has good taste, and he's intelligent too. His appointment as government minister never surprised me.” Linda had completely forgotten about the cup.

Hannelore raised her glass and winked. She hated what she was doing, so to punish herself she emptied the glass in a single gulp. She hoped the baby had inherited Pieter's alcohol genes.

“What a bunch they were,” said Linda nostalgically.

“They?”

Linda rummaged nervously for a cigarette in a crumpled pack. Hannelore pushed her glass to one side, fished a packet of John Player's from her handbag, and offered Linda a cigarette.

“Thanks. I was just out.”

“So who were
they
?”

“Johan, Provoost, and William. I chose the wrong one, of course.”

“Keep the pack,” said Hannelore.

“Join me?” Linda asked.

Hannelore didn't resist the temptation.
In the interest of the case,
she thought. Pieter used the same excuse often enough when he was up to no good. “So you had a choice,” said Hannelore.

The Elixir had started to do its business. The combination of sweet liqueur, an empty stomach, and a glorious cigarette gave her a sense of euphoria she hadn't experienced since her student days.

“Johan, Yves, and William were bosom buddies.” Linda giggled.

“Yves Provoost?”

“Mr. Respected Lawyer Provoost. God rest him,” she snorted. “I could have had all three. My body drove them crazy.”

“Typical men.” Hannelore smiled. “Good-looking women always get the short end of the stick.”

“You're telling me.”

Linda's speech started to slur. She lit one cigarette after the other and left them to burn themselves out in one of the stinking ashtrays.

“They'd been friends for years?”

Linda nodded enthusiastically. Her eyes were glazed, and Hannelore wasn't sure if she should continue. This was just as cruel as the water treatment Linda had so vigorously complained about. “Johan was the smartest, Yves was the richest, and William had the biggest. You get my drift?”

“But you haven't done so badly,” said Hannelore.

William Aerts had set aside sixteen million francs over a period of fifteen years. In business terms he was far from a failure.

“
Pff
. This place still doesn't belong to us. That's Vandaele's fault. The bastard never lets go of his prey, and every favor has its price. I once sent him a video of
The Godfather
. You know the film?”