The Public Prosecutor (20 page)

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Authors: Jef Geeraerts

BOOK: The Public Prosecutor
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Soliman stopped abruptly at the perimeter and neighed deeply, allowing Albert to rub his forehead and press his cheek against his warm jaw. I still have Soliman and Maria, he thought resignedly, I still have Soliman and Maria. He slapped the horse’s flank with the palm of his hand, looked around and tried to think of a practical solution. He would have to bring Soliman to a riding stable for a while. The farmhouse was in Louise’s name. He was sure she wasn’t planning to change her mind and come back. He would have to call her mother to find out where she was.
“Public Prosecutor, sir,” he heard the Major say behind him.
He turned as de Vreker was walking towards him, holding something between his thumb and his index finger: an empty rifle shell.
“The same calibre as the rifle?” Albert enquired with a smile.
“Precisely. In the grass.” de Vreker replied in elliptic police language.
So someone used my weapon after all, thought Albert, who had only half-believed Materne’s revenge story.
“Confiscate the weapon, Major,” he said.
“Me, personally?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“Sure,” the Major answered, as if it were against his better judgement.
“Didn’t you say there was a missing person’s out on D’Hoog?” Albert asked.
“Yes.”
Albert petted Soliman pensively between the ears. “What do you think of him?” he asked without looking at the Major.
“Handsome horse. Fine hindquarters. Four perfect legs.”
“Andalusian thoroughbred,” said Albert, “spirited but correct.”
After a short silence, Albert looked the Major in the eye and said: “Can I be frank with you?…”
The Major nodded.
“This is the pied-à-terre where I used to visit my lady friend.”
“I had already guessed as much, Public Prosecutor.”
“Her horse was shot by a certain Materne, whose pit bull was shot by a certain Johan D’Hoog, a vet from Brecht… With my rifle.”
The Major nodded anew.
“It’s essential we identify the firm Bineco…”
“Everything is being done, Public Prosecutor,” the Major repeated with obvious patience.
“Who do you think is behind all this?”
“No idea, sir.”
“Not even an inkling?”
“No, sir.”
“
I do
. My wife.”
The Major appeared hesitant but said nothing.
“And that’s why I’m almost a hundred per cent sure that the Bineco delivery van is a detective agency observation vehicle.”
“We’ll get to the bottom of it, sir, you can rest assured.”
Albert fished his mobile from his pocket and called Louise’s mother. Her mother answered the call in person and hung up when she heard Albert’s voice. Without blushing, he called the stable where he used to go riding on occasion and asked them to send a trailer without delay.
The reaction of Louise’s mother on the phone brought Albert a degree of relief. He was reminded of Bruce Chatwin’s
What Am I Doing Here?
: “Men of action have a habit of consigning past loves and indiscretions to oblivion in the hope of better things to come.”
While he rubbed Soliman’s lips, something the horse couldn’t get enough of, Albert said earnestly: “This stays between us…”
“You have my word, Public Prosecutor,” Major de Vreker answered.
 
While Albert and Major de Vreker waited in the Kempen for the trailer to arrive from the riding school, an old-fashioned CID investigation was underway in Brussels: clandestine, without the knowledge of the Public Prosecutor’s Office - in other words, against every law and ordinance of a constitutional state. The two gendarmes from Brecht had taken the initiative and it wasn’t long before they were overstepping their jurisdiction, upon the explicit request of sergeant Jeff Vermeersch of the Antwerp CID and with his assured protection. After an unforgettable night of repeated threats and verbal abuse, they had found a car key in Materne’s pocket and gone in search of the car on their own initiative. They found it parked on the Oude Baan, not far from the farmhouse, opened it, recovered Materne’s wallet, mobile and keys, discovered that it was fitted with false magnetic number plates and interrupted Vermeersch’s sleep to bring him up to date. Vermeersch jumped into his car and arrived on the scene thirty minutes later. He noted every detail, took charge of the keys and the wallet, and found it a shame that Materne had been taken to hospital and that Louise Dubois had driven off. He gave the men orders not to tamper with the front door of the farmhouse, to type up a report, seal it and have it delivered by courier to the district chief in person. He then drove home, called Major de Vreker in spite of the late hour and gave him a detailed account. The men had an excellent relationship. They agreed not to inform the Public Prosecutor’s Office as yet, and to start a parallel investigation in Brussels, Materne’s home base. At nine o’clock the same morning, Sergeant Vermeersch, together with two Brussels CID officers, conducted a search of Materne’s bachelor apartment on Monrosestraat in Schaarbeek without an official search warrant. They used the owner’s keys, leaving no trace of a break-in. The men found an arsenal of weapons: three Kalashnikov machine pistols, two FAL NATO assault rifles with fitted infrared sights, eight Czech-made hand grenades, smoke bombs and an anti-tank missile, likewise from NATO.
The discovery was interesting, needless to say, but it took until eleven thirty before they found what they were really looking for: the address of Materne’s employer (the detective agency Marlowe & Co.). The mystery of the Bineco delivery van was solved there and then, but an unexpected element came to light at one and the same time: the management of Marlowe & Co. had “special connections” with the Brussels CID. Two years earlier, the detective agency had been caught by a gendarme patrol breaking into an estate agent’s in order to make copies of a number of documents. Brussels CID had struck an old-fashioned bargain. Marlowe & Co.’s licence, which would otherwise have been withdrawn on the spot, was left untouched as long as the agency agreed to pass on interesting information to the CID when required. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.
After the search, the CID officers informed a magistrate of the illegal procedure (the magistrate supplied them with a predated warrant - not exactly kosher but still the done thing - and told them everything was fine). They then drove to Marlowe & Co. and had a conversation with the director. When he had been informed of what had happened, he ordered Joost Voorhout, who happened to be in the office at the time, to organize a management meeting. The Dutch-born Belgian made the best of a bad bargain and tried to save his skin by confessing everything. He was fired on the spot.
The director was kindly invited to supply the name of his correspondent and the nature of the commissioned detective work. The correspondent’s telephone number was typed into a special computer, which linked it with the Belgian Prelature of Opus Dei (something the director of Marlowe & Co. had known from the outset).
While the details were being noted, it became apparent that one of the CID men had more insight into the case than the others, particularly when it came to the implications of such of a surveillance assignment commissioned by an institution like Opus Dei against a senior magistrate. It could only have been blackmail, and at the highest level. But the most interesting element (the motive) still had to be found. The fact that a public prosecutor had evidently been keeping a mistress in a remote farmhouse was no more than a spicy piece of incidental information.
One of the Brussels CID men was reminded of a comment he had heard from an FBI colleague: “This is dynamite: if you push a case like this too far, the fucking shit will hit the fucking fan.”
It was made crystal clear to the director of Marlowe & Co. that the matter was best kept under wraps, but he seemed to have taken the point. To his great relief, no one asked him if photos had been taken.
At around one thirty, the three arrived at the CID building on Leuvensesteenweg in Brussels. Sergeant Vermeersch called his district commander. Major de Vreker had just returned to his office after an intriguing visit to the farmhouse on the Oude Baan. He had helped to load the reluctant horse into a trailer and had driven back to Antwerp with Albert. He had barely sat down at his desk to dig in to a takeaway hamburger when the phone rang. De Vreker took note of what Vermeersch had to say, his brow furrowed. He whistled through his teeth when he heard the name
Opus Dei
, thought for a moment, and insisted that Vermeersch not blab about the affair and get himself to Antwerp as quickly as possible. Major de Vreker was a gendarme at heart, and his loyalty to the corps was his first priority. As far as he was concerned, double dealing Antwerp’s Public Prosecutor’s Office was all part of the picture. In addition, he was expecting to be promoted to lieutenant colonel the following October. He felt free to maintain his position, because expressions such as
Octopus Agreement
and
New Political Culture
- launched in the hysteria surrounding the Dutroux affair and aimed at the reform of Belgium’s law-enforcement instances - had become something of a dead letter in the election campaign that was now in full swing. As usual, politicians based themselves on the memory of the average voter, which was a bit like a rabbit’s tail, short and fluffy. Charles-Ferdinand Nothomb, a former speaker of the chamber of representatives, abundantly illustrated this reality when he said in the
Cercle Gaulois
: “The new political culture is like the Beaujolais nouveau: you drink it, you piss it.”
As chair of the college of public prosecutors, Albert had always declared himself in agreement with the principles of judicial reform that had been proposed by the government (followed by inaction and waiting). Like Pontius Pilate, he washed his hands in innocence, because he knew from experience that such matters rarely progressed beyond declarations of principle. If need arose, the magistrates of the Supreme Court - who enjoyed the last word in such matters and staunchly defended the sanctity of the separation of powers - would cover him. It was fashionable among progressives to subscribe to the idea that on the eve of the twenty-first century, Belgium was being governed by a club of old men who thought they were still living in the nineteenth century.
 
As Major de Vreker finished his hamburger, Albert and Maria Landowska tucked into asparagus with butter sauce and chopped boiled egg, sprinkled with exquisite Meursault Charmes 1990 from the cellar of Amandine de Vreux d’Alembourg. Amandine had telephoned that morning,
nota bene
, to inform Maria that she would be returning the following Tuesday, 1 June.
“Ha haaa, then we have the place all to ourselves, Maria!” Albert cheered as Maria fed him asparagus tips like a baby bird. He was wearing jeans and a white Arrow sport shirt that set off his bronzed hairy arms. Every asparagus tip was followed by a peck on the lips.
“And if we have the place all to ourselves…” she said, her face more radiant than ever. He had never seen her wear eye make-up before, but the difference was amazing. Without her usual ponytail, she reminded him of one of Van Eyck’s musical angels.
“We can do whatever we want,
kochanie
.”
“Say it again, Mr Albert.”
“
Kochanie
…
Kochanie
…
Kochanie
,” he intoned. Head over heels at my age, he thought! Who would believe it?
When they had finished the asparagus, he opened a box containing a chocolate cake he had bought from the best patisserie in Antwerp.
“This calls for a Sauternes!” he proclaimed, scampering down to the cellar like a teenager.
14
 
At two thirty, after the director of Marlowe & Co. had more or less come to terms with the shock he had received with the help of a couple of serious whiskies and the application of a technique he called “self-brainstorming”, he telephoned the Belgian Opus Dei prelature from a public callbox close to his office in a fit of paranoia, reinforced by the whisky. He was put through to Baron Hervé van Reyn, who had just returned from prayer in the chapel with the other numeraries. Fifty Ave Marias in honour of the month of Mary. Van Reyn spoke diplomatically of his appreciation for the documents and enquired once again about the invoice. The director first let van Reyn talk and then told him what had happened in elliptical police language, hiding nothing.
“I see,” van Reyn mumbled sceptically. “And… er… are we facing an impasse, Mr Marlowe?” (He used the name mockingly.)
“To be honest, I would prefer to talk with you personally, Perálta—”
“Completely out of the question,” van Reyn retorted. His head shuddered and his lips twisted as if he had just eaten something unpleasant, a notorious aristocratic tick he found impossible to suppress when confronted with the inane reactions of common folk.
“But I must insist, Perálta,” the director persevered, “I must warn you—”
Van Reyn was immediately on his guard. “Is that right? And can you tell me why?”
“If you insist on the telephone…”

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