From Bruges with Love (9 page)

“So you want a word with my husband,” said Linda, the drink still in her voice.

“Correct, ma'am. We hoped to find him here. Is he on the premises?”

“Take a look for yourselves,” she baited.

Van In wasn't planning to let a drunk brothel keeper rile him. He parked himself on a chair. Versavel followed his example, almost stepping into a dried egg yolk in the process.

“We can wait till he gets home,” said Van In.

“Then you'll have a long wait. The bastard left me … yesterday.”

And probably not for the first time,
Van In wanted to say. “When do you expect him back?” he asked.

Linda was leaning against the kitchen counter, her dressing gown hanging open wide enough to reveal a pair of plump legs. She deliberately waited until both men looked away before covering up.

“I told you … the bastard isn't coming back,” she blurted out.

“What makes you think that, Mrs. Aerts?” Van In asked, rummaging a cigarette from his breast pocket and lighting it. The stench in the place was beyond belief.

“One for me too?”

Van In gave her a cigarette, leaving only one left in his pack. It seemed to calm her as she puffed it a couple of times in quick succession.

“He took his mother's photo with him,” she said, pointing to an empty space on the mantelpiece. “He's never done that before.”

Versavel was reminded of his own mother and the photo he wore of her around his neck since she passed three years earlier. It was precious to him, a sort of talisman. She and Frank were the only people who had shared his life through all its ups and downs, and he missed her at that moment. Van In followed Linda's eyes, which lingered most of the time on the empty bottle of Elixir d'Anvers. Her fingers trembled as she puffed her cigarette.

“So it's not the first time your husband has left the marital home?” Van In inquired, not entirely comfortable with the formality of the expression.

“The marital home,” she brayed. “If I'd known at the start that the man was incapable of keeping his hands to himself, I'd never have married the pussy-chewing fucker.”

Versavel looked at Van In. Both men were struggling to contain their laughter.

“So you think he's not coming back,” Van In mumbled through his teeth.

Linda tossed her half-smoked cigarette on the floor and mooched another. Van In gave her his last. She still had at least six in her own pack.

“I don't give a fuck if the bastard's been cheating on me, but he should've kept his grubby paws off my money.”

The truth was out. She didn't mind them knowing that her ass-worshipping husband had run off with her money. That made him a thief in the eyes of the law, and cops were paid to catch thieves, weren't they?

“Your money, ma'am?”

“Right, my money. That oversexed banana sucker is a common thief.”

“Am I correct in assuming that you would like to file charges against your husband?”

“Is that too much to ask?” she snarled.

“How much money are we talking about, Mrs. Aerts?” Van In inquired.

“Sixteen million Belgian francs, and I earned at least half of it.”

Neither Van In nor Versavel had known Linda in her younger days, and they were both having trouble imagining how she managed to earn so much money.

“Sixteen million is a pile of money, Mrs. Aerts,” said Versavel incredulously. Xanthippe had once driven the wise Socrates to despair. He understood that when men were baited to the verge, they could do the weirdest things. A little money was always welcome, but sixteen million … With a nest egg like that, he'd have left her years ago.

“Was your husband a gambler?” Versavel inquired.

Linda jumped and turned toward him. Versavel tried to look innocent.

“Only when it came to women,” she said. “Clearly not your cup of tea, eh?”

Versavel was taken aback and turned to Van In. His boss was having a hard time keeping a straight face.

“Do you have any idea where your husband might be? With friends? Family? A girlfriend?”

Linda's face hardened. She suddenly regretted having confided in the police on a whim. William might have been a slippery smooth talker, but when it came to the cops, he knew what he was talking about:
a bunch of brainless bunny fuckers.

“Do you really think I'm that stupid? Of course I called his friends.”

“And there was no sign of him,” said Van In guardedly. In the meantime he tried to think of the best way to formulate the next question; next to a white shark, a woman aggrieved had to be the most dangerous creature on the planet. “Did Lodewijk Vandaele perhaps figure among the, eh … friends you contacted?”

“What kind of question is that?” she snorted. “What would William want with Vandaele?”

It was the first time she had used her husband's first name.

“Didn't William work for Vandaele?” Van In asked.

Both men thought she was at the point of exploding.

“Work, work. William's self-employed. He works for no one.”

“I'm talking about sex-industry work, Mrs. Aerts—earning money from illicit sex,” said Van In.

“Illicit sex, Jesus Christ. What's that all about?” Her hoarse voice flipped into a croaky screech. “Is this the Middle Ages? What planet are you on? Illicit sex? In this day and age you can grease your flagpole whenever you like.”

She shrieked with laughter. Van In had to admit that her vocabulary was pretty original.

“According to the law, sex between adults is not forbidden as long as there's mutual consent. Without consent we're talking rape, Mrs. Aerts, and that's a felony.” His argument was on the feeble side, but it was all he could think of.

“Rape, my ass,” she roared. “I'm trying to report a theft, and mister police officer here rambles on about sex. D'you know what you are? A bunch of pervert baton fuckers.”

“Hold it, ma'am. Tone it down or we'll have to charge you with disturbing the peace. You need to watch that mouth of yours.”

Linda Aerts drew herself up to her full height. “You can go to hell!” she screamed. “Out of my house right now, or I'll call the feds.”

She legged it indignantly to the other side of the kitchen, where a grimy telephone was hanging on the wall. “You've got thirty seconds,” she snorted.

Van In jerked open the Golf's door in a rage. Versavel took his place in the passenger seat and fastened his seat belt.

“What do we do now, Pieter?”

Van In rummaged in vain in his breast pocket. “The bitch finished my cigarettes,” he growled. No one had ever called him a baton fucker before. “Call the station. I want a surveillance vehicle here on the double with four cops in it. If the bitch sets a foot outside, I want her arrested and locked up in Hauwer Street Station.”

“On what grounds?” Versavel asked.

“Drunk and disorderly. The bitch was drunk as a skunk and running out of cigs. My guess is she'll be heading out soon for supplies.”

Versavel passed on his boss's orders via the radio.

“I thought the baton-fucker thing was pretty funny,” he sniggered.

“She was talking to you,” said Van In. “What the fuck would
I
want with a baton?”

“Dildo, Pieter. We call them dildos.”

“Jesus, Versavel, give it a rest.”

When the police vehicle arrived with backup, Van In gave them the necessary instructions, shifted the Golf into first, and sped off. Versavel was happy he was wearing a safety belt. Van In drove like a madman, and the sergeant counted at least ten infringements on the way to the station. He only missed ramming a twenty-ton truck by a hair's breadth when he hammered through a red light at the Kruispoort.

It took Van In three cigarettes to calm down. He called the police stationed outside the Cleopatra every five minutes for a report and paid little if any attention to the fax Hannelore had sent him. All he could think of was Linda Aerts. He was going to get the bitch, and sooner rather than later.

It took almost forty-five minutes. Officer Deschacht reported that Mrs. Aerts had finally been arrested.

“You should have warned them she was no easy game,” said Versavel when Deschacht had finished his report.

Van In rubbed his hands with contentment. He didn't give a damn that they'd followed her all the way to Maldegem—a good ten miles—and had been forced to drive her off the road. The fact that she'd punched one of the officers to the ground was music to his ears and only fired his determination.

Officer Deschacht looked disconcerted when he walked into Room 204. “The suspect is safely behind bars,” he said, his relief unconcealed.

“What about the wounded officer?” asked Versavel, concerned.

“Ronny was taken to emergency. The doctors are worried he might have broken his collarbone.”

“Perfect,” said Van In. “Call the public prosecutor's office. I want her held for at least twenty-four hours.”

Deschacht nodded enthusiastically. Ronny was a good friend. The hysterical creature had almost scratched out one of his eyes. “Anything else, Commissioner?”

Van In glowed. “Have her brought upstairs.”

Deschacht hesitated. “She fell asleep moments after we locked her up, Commissioner. Wouldn't it be better to let her sleep it off?”

“Nonsense, Deschacht. Tell them to throw a bucket of water over her. I want her sober, and I want her now.”

Deschacht didn't respond. Letting someone cool off in a cell for twenty-four hours was one thing, but this was pushing it.

“You can't be serious,” said Versavel in disbelief.

“You bet I'm serious. And if you're not up to it, then I'll do it myself.”

“Can I do anything else, Commissioner?”

“No, Deschacht. You can go.”

The officer turned on his heels in an instant.

“Come with me, Guido,” said Van In. “It's time Sleeping Beauty got a wake-up call.”

“Sorry, Pieter, but that sort of game doesn't float my boat.” The days when drunks were strong-armed back to sobriety and then treated to a good hiding were a thing of the past. “De Kee will be furious if he—”

“De Kee will cover me. That's what chief commissioners are supposed to do.”

“I wouldn't count on it,” said Versavel. “He's more likely to issue sanctions for unlawful detention.”

“No one ever died from a bucket of water, Guido. She's gasping for a drink and a cigarette. This is my only chance to get her to talk.”

“Your funeral, Pieter. I'm heading home.” He clicked his heels together. “
Sieg Heil
,
Herr Kommissar.
”

Versavel grabbed his jacket and left the room. This time Van In had crossed the line.

Van In treated the departing sergeant to his middle finger. He expected to have the loose ends tied up by the following morning. Then they would all be lining up, including De Kee, to congratulate him for forcing a breakthrough in the case.

Hannelore arranged slices of sizzling calf kidney in a large frying pan. A jar of green peppercorns and a carton of cream stood ready on the kitchen counter. She had found a dusty bottle of Vin de Cahors in the cellar, which now enjoyed pride of place in the middle of the dining table next to a romantic candle.
Pieter deserved a little extra,
she thought. She hadn't thought he would hold out for more than a couple of days on her Spartan diet, let alone three months. The festive menu was her way of saying thanks for his efforts.

She glanced at the clock on the wall.
He'll be here in twenty,
she figured. She browned the slices of kidney then added the peppercorns and cream. With a bit of luck, his favorite dish would be ready just as he walked in the door.

Then the phone rang. If the telephone rings when you're expecting someone, it's usually bad news. Still, Hannelore turned down the heat and made her way over to the phone, unsuspectingly.

“Hannelore Martens.”

“Hi, honey.” Van In never said “hi.” “Sorry, I'm on duty tonight. Don't worry about me. I'll grab a sandwich later. See you when I get off.”

Hannelore wished him a fine evening, blew out the candle, and tossed the kidneys in the trash.

6

Y
ves Provoost made his way up the gravel path leading to Lodewijk Vandaele's villa. The flat Belgian landscape to which the great Jacques Brel once pledged his heart was on the point of slipping into a misty sleep. The temperature in Flanders that afternoon had been unbearably warm, but now a September chill had risen up from the centuries-old canal in front of the house. Changeable weather was as much a part of Belgium as fries and chocolate. The crowns of the trees bowed down as if this bogus herald of an advancing fall was a danger to their foliage. Here and there a wisp of blue smoke hovered above an isolated farmhouse set off against a cotton candy sky. Provoost shivered. The short bicycle ride hadn't done him any good. He was chilled to the bone.

Johan Brys, Vandaele's other guest, had parked his jet-black BMW in front of the villa. Provoost noticed the license plate. Brys liked to follow fashion. He had replaced the ministry license plate with his private number, a tactic the majority of dignitaries were inclined to deploy these days. It made their excellencies a little less obvious when they were tearing along the highway at double the speed limit.

“Yves. Come inside, quickly. The evenings are getting colder, don't you think?”

Lodewijk Vandaele welcomed his visitor with a broad smile. Provoost took off his jacket and followed his host into the living room. Four large blocks of oak crackled in the fireplace. The flames from the expensive fuel roared gently.

Brys was much more reserved and restricted himself to a formal handshake. Provoost concretized the coolness of the greeting by standing as far from Brys as he could. There was little left of their old friendship. Both men had agreed to meet out of their own self-interest, and Vandaele was well aware of the fact. He tried to lighten the atmosphere.

“So, I guess we could all use a drink.”

Before waiting for a response, the former building contractor crossed to the liquor cart and filled three glasses. Vandaele was anything but miserly with the expensive Exshaw. “Here,” he said in what sounded like a command. “This'll perk you up. What possessed you to come by bike?”

Provoost gulped down the contents of the glass like a giraffe that had finally found water after four hours of searching. Instead of raising it to his mouth, he had leaned over and tilted the cognac to his lips at an unusual angle.

“There's no need to worry, Yves. I have the whole business under complete control. Johan's been on the phone to the prosecutor-general. In a couple of days the investigation will be dead in the water and we can all get on with our lives.”

Brys nodded when Vandaele turned to him but didn't seem entirely convinced. Counselor Lodewijk lived in the past. The days when a government minister could put pressure on a prosecutor-general were dead and gone. The scandals that had shaken the judiciary in recent years had left an indelible mark. But he wasn't about to tell Counselor Lodewijk that of course. The old man was still convinced that every crime could be covered up for the sake of discretion.

“And what about Aerts?” Provoost asked.

Vandaele rested his right elbow on the mantelpiece. The intense heat of the fire did his rheumatic bones a world of good.

“I have reason to believe that Aerts's departure has nothing to do with the case,” he said, his tone reassuring.

Brys swirled the Exshaw in his glass. “What makes you think that, Counselor Lodewijk?”

Vandaele smiled. He liked to be called “counselor.”

“William and Linda are always at each other's throats. He's left her a dozen times. Give him a couple of days. He'll be back. I'm convinced of it.”

“I wonder if the police would share your opinion,” Brys grunted. “If they connect Aerts with the Love, his departure will raise questions.”

Vandaele sighed. Aerts was indeed the weakest link, and it didn't look as if either Provoost or Brys were about to swallow his argument that the man's departure was backpage news. “And do you think our wonderful Bruges police will be able to make the connection?” he asked condescendingly.

Provoost emptied his glass in a single gulp. “They've put Van In on the case.”

“Surely you're not afraid of a policeman, are you, Yves?” Vandaele was completely certain the prosecutor-general was going to call Van In to heel.

“Don't underestimate Van In,” Provoost protested. “The man stops at nothing and no one. I don't have to remind you how he took on Degroof and Creytens.”

“Degroof committed suicide, and Creytens was taken out by some crazy Mafioso,” Vandaele retorted.

“Pretty convenient if you ask me. Am I the only one to notice that the guilty rarely make it to court when Van In's on the case?”

Brys nodded. Provoost was right. As a local, he had followed both cases closely.

“Come on, Johan. Surely you don't believe that a second-rate commissioner like Van In would take the law into his own hands.”

Vandaele sensed he was losing his hold on Brys and Provoost. “Van In doesn't have a leg to stand on,” he said, trying to placate them.

“So why did you ask me to pressure the prosecutor-general?”

Vandaele was speechless for an instant.

“I think we should account for the possibility that the police will track Aerts down,” Brys insisted.

Like every politician who had been around the block a couple of times, Brys had learned that the human factor was the most unreliable.

Vandaele was unable to disagree, but he wasn't about to give up on Aerts without a fight. “The most important thing is that we all tell the same story if there's a confrontation. The corpse was found on my property, remember. Technically, that makes me an accessory to murder.”

An oppressive silence filled the room, only to be interrupted by the sound of a block of wood collapsing in the grate in a shower of sparks.

“Everything depends on Aerts,” said Brys, hammering his point. “If he starts shooting his mouth off, we're all in the shit.”

Provoost poured himself a second drink. The cognac was both fast and merciless. Another sip and he would be drunk.

“If it ever comes to that, I'll see to it that Aerts disappears once and for all,” said Vandaele resolutely. No one could accuse him of not trying to save Aerts's skin.

Brys and Provoost completely agreed with the provisional sentence. They knew that the counselor was a man of his word.

“Then I can finally stop paying the bastard.” Provoost sighed after his slip of the tongue, for which the Exshaw was clearly responsible.

Vandaele frowned. Brys studied the bottom of his glass.

“Would you mind repeating that, Yves?” Vandaele asked.

Provoost glanced knowingly at Brys, but his former friend had nothing to say.

“Aerts has been blackmailing us for years. The bastard claims to have videotapes of the incident.”

Vandaele abandoned the comfort of the fireplace, lit a cigar, and started pacing. He didn't like it when people kept him out of the loop.

“Tell me now,” said Vandaele.

“We didn't want to cause you any embarrassment,” Provoost whispered. “I was convinced he was blackmailing you too. Didn't Johan tell you?”

Brys glared at Provoost. That was a step too far.

Vandaele hawked like an old mineworker, and the cigar wasn't to blame. His nerves had gotten the better of him. He was willing to forgive the fact that Aerts had buried the body on his property, but blackmail was a different matter altogether.

“I'll take care of it right away,” he said in a toneless voice. “Our William has been a little too greedy.”

Vandaele now understood why Aerts had disappeared in such a hurry. He had known damn well that the boss would punish him.

Van In needed two buckets of water to wake Linda Aerts. The result wasn't a pretty sight. Linda looked like a wet kangaroo, and she started to race around her cell like a madwoman, cursing and swearing at the top of her lungs.

Van In was safely ensconced behind the door. He smoked one cigarette after the other. It was only a matter of time before she reached the point of no return.

Every half hour he opened the hatch and peered into the cell. Around midnight, the frequency of her temper tantrums diminished. The quieter it became, the more often he opened the hatch to take a look. Linda was hunched up on her wooden bed, her teeth chattering, a coarse stinking blanket draped over her shoulders. Earlier that evening, Van In had asked the assistance of a female officer who had helped Linda out of her wet clothing. He didn't want her to catch pneumonia.

Around two thirty he sent a young officer to buy cigarettes at the convenience store. There wasn't much time. This was his only chance to force her to her knees.

Van In lit a cigarette, opened the hatch, and puffed a cloud of smoke into the cell. Their eyes met for a couple of seconds. The stimulating smell of the cigarette smoke roused her from her lethargy. She jumped like a cat with its tail on fire. “Pervert fucking shit packer!” she screamed. “Lousy baton fucker, cock sucker, pile driver, limp-dicked, sour-faced canary fucker, piss drinkin' cum dump …”

The expletives kept on coming. Van In smiled and continued to blow smoke into her cell. The sight of his grinning face was the last straw. Linda charged at the door, a finger pointed and ready to do some damage. Van In took a step backward, sat in his chair, and listened as she thumped the door. She kept it up for a good ten minutes, then she collapsed, burst into hysterical tears, and tossed the blanket on the floor. If Van In had entered the cell at that moment, he would have risked immediate suspension. No chief commissioner would cover for him if there was evidence he had spent more than ten seconds alone in a police cell with a naked woman.

Carine Neels offered Linda back her clothes, which she had dried to the best of her ability over an electric heater. They were still damp, but Linda had no complaints. The temper tantrum had left her completely empty. She got dressed like a zombie. The shock treatment had also screwed with her sense of time. How long had she been in the cell? When would they let her go?

“She's ready, Commissioner,” said Carine when Linda was fully dressed. “Do you want me to stay?”

She had cause for concern, and she knew her presence could spare the commissioner a headache or two.

“I'd appreciate it, Miss Neels.”

Carine nodded. She liked it when Van In addressed her formally. In spite of the rumors circulating about the commissioner, she had a soft spot for him.

Van In took a deep breath. He wasn't one to take young officers into his confidence, but he didn't have much of a choice. It was three forty-five, and time was of the essence.

“But then you have to promise me one thing: whatever you see or hear remains strictly confidential.”

Her heart pounded. She once smoked a joint as a student. The tingling feeling now running up her back was at least as much fun.

“Goes without saying, Commissioner.”

Van In smiled. The girl was as green as a pool table, and in this situation, that was more an advantage than a disadvantage.

“We're pretty sure Mrs. Aerts has information that might prove indispensible for winding up the case. Do you understand, Miss Neels?”

Of course she understood. She had been following the business with the skeleton step by step.

“Please, call me Carine,” she whispered conspiratorially.

Jesus H. Christ. Here we go again,
thought Van In.

Linda followed them to Room 204 without protest. A dormant desperation glazed her eyes. Her self-confidence had taken some serious blows. Forced abstinence was beginning to take its toll as the merciless demon drink cranked up its final offensive. If Van In had told her at that moment that she was going to be locked up in jail for six months, she would have believed him without condition. The thought almost drove her out of her mind; locking a person up was the worst thing you could do to them.

When Van In offered Linda a chair, she almost thanked him for it. The jargon junkies liked to call that kind of reaction the Helsinki Syndrome, a concept that emerged in the 1970s when endless hostage takings plagued the TV screens. Psychologists observed that a sort of friendship evolved during hostage situations between the victims and their captors. Twenty years ago, it took a few days for such a special relationship to evolve, but in today's instant society, of course, a lot less time was needed.

Linda took a seat, bowed her head, and folded her hands in her lap. Carine Neels stood at attention, her back like that of a sentry. There was something Eastern European about the whole scene. All that was missing was a leather jacket and a piercing desk lamp.

“Mrs. Aerts,” said Van In in a dulcet tone. “I'm afraid I still have a couple of questions to ask.”

Linda barely reacted. She was terrified. She remembered seeing a movie in which a female guard suddenly turned into a crazed, bloodthirsty sadist.

“I want to know the names of the men your husband escorted to Mr. Vandaele's little house in the country.”

Linda raised her eyes. William had always made her promise never to mention names.

“I kept out of it.”

“Come, come, Mrs. Aerts. Mr. Vandaele's special guests all used to meet in the Cleopatra, where you were tending bar.”

In the old days, when men appreciated a firmer chunk of flesh, she was a welcome sight in the Love. But most men tended to prefer stuffed skeletons these days, and William had degraded her to barmaid.

“That's possible,” she said, her self-confidence on the return. “I may have taken care of the drinks, but I never asked for IDs. They say that's the police's job.”

Carine snorted indignantly.
What a liar,
she thought.

“Of course, ma'am.” Van In consciously emphasized the word
ma'am
. “But don't tell me there were no regulars, people you knew by name.”