Authors: Jef Geeraerts

The Public Prosecutor (25 page)

BOOK: The Public Prosecutor

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What fascinated Albert most about the man was his face: Barrister-General Bergé’s face was an amalgamation of expressions that appeared to be divided into unconnected units, leaving him, at least so it seemed, completely faceless. He was incredibly meticulous and methodical, puzzlingly ambiguous, nitpicking and one-dimensional, making him particularly useful for certain tasks, such as prying into other people’s sex lives. Albert himself could not abide such business and only took pleasure in it during mundane meetings or get-togethers at his club.

But he was finding it difficult to stay focused. Thoughts of the wonderful night with Maria and the imminent return of Amandine soured his mood, although he planned to make an adventure of the situation: the stupid nun, that sanctimonious bitch, was not going to prevent him from continuing a bloody satisfying relationship under the roof of the house she had received from her daddy to celebrate the tenth anniversary of her failed marriage. The opportunity was not to be missed.

By 11.25 he had had enough. He looked at his watch and said he had to go. Out of politeness, he asked Bergé how far he was with the inaugural speech he was writing on Albert’s behalf, which was to be delivered at the opening of the judicial year in September. The presentation rejoiced in the title: ‘The Administration of Justice and Territorial Jurisdiction’.

“It’ll be ready on time, Public Prosecutor,” Bergé answered with a contented grin, which made his chubby lips curl.

Condescending little bastard, thought Albert, knowing full well he would have to adapt the style of everything but the footnote references, which, as ever, would be perfectly correct.

When Bergé was gone he thought once again to himself: what a wreck! He had once scribbled an excellent description of “Old People” in a luxury desk diary he had received from the General Bank, which he used for the sole purpose of noting his thoughts and musings. He fished the diary from the drawer, surreptitiously slipped on his reading glasses and found the text almost immediately: “One should be on one’s guard when old people appear helpless. When they can no longer rely on their powers of persuasion, they’re reduced to bragging about their authority. Experience can help in this regard, but most of the time they’ve forgotten it. They talk incessantly, because they’re afraid of losing track of their thoughts. They resort to tyranny because they sense that others no longer respect them. They’re impatient because they know their life is coming to its end. They’re distrustful, because they can no longer check up on things, and irritable, because they know people are laughing at them behind their back.”

Albert closed the diary pensively and was overwhelmed by a surge of melancholy. Am I irritable, he asked himself? Do I lose the thread sometimes in conversation? Am I authoritarian? Perhaps the latter was true, he conceded, recalling his enthusiasm for one of Napoleon’s adages: “Obedience is only for officers beneath the rank of general”.

He looked at his watch and cursed. The nun was about to arrive at her ancestral abode and recite the first of many
Salve Reginas
in front of that infernal statue, he thought. Shit!

At 11.30, the precise moment that Baroness Amandine de Vreux crossed the threshold of her town house on Amerikalei in Antwerp, the door having been opened by Maria Landowska dressed in a black below-the-knee dress with a white collar and cuffs, nylon stockings and cheap black moccasins, Paul Hersch telephoned Baron Hervé van Reyn and immediately came to the point: everything was “in the bag” for that evening at nine o’clock in front of the church in Kortenberg.

“You’re kidding,” van Reyn responded with a nervous giggle. “Was it as easy as it sounds?”

“You’ll see. I’ll call you again tomorrow. Cheers,” said Hersch and he hung up.

He was still furious with himself for falling into van Reyn’s trap. The very idea that he had also given his word on the matter in a moment of rash haste simply infuriated him even more.

After looking her servant girl up and down a couple of times, Baroness de Vreux’s first word was: “
Encyclique
.”

Maria Landowska looked at her. Maria had bags under her eyes and appeared to have touched up her eyelashes.

“In my house, the servants do not wear make-up,” Baroness Amandine snapped. She pointed to her suitcase and travel bag and slowly ascended the vestibule’s marble stairs. Maria Landowska followed with the baggage. She was reminded of the way Mr Albert had carried her up the same stairs the evening before and hissed: “Shit!”

At the stroke of twelve, Baron Hervé van Reyn telephoned the detective agency Marlowe & Co. and was immediately put through to the director.

“Perálta,” he said.

“I’m listening,” said the director.

“Can you send one of your men to the church in Kortenberg this evening at nine sharp?”

“What would he be expected to do?”

“Shadow the same… er… target as in Antwerp. Someone is expecting him at the church door. Only the target is to be shadowed.”

“Should we take photos?”

“No! No unnecessary risks.”

“We never take unnecessary risks, Perálta,” was the director’s uppish response.

“I should hope so. I’ll call back tomorrow at nine.”

“Ten would be better.”

“Shadow the man, Mr Marlowe, nothing else.”

“Bye bye, Perálta.”

Hervé van Reyn returned the receiver to the cradle, looked at his watch and realized he was fifteen minutes late for the Angelus in the chapel. He pulled the same face as that of his great-grandfather, whose portrait still graced the walls of “Beukenloo”, the family castle in ’s-Gravenwezel, picked up the wooden figureless cross that enjoyed a permanent place on his desk next to his right hand, kissed it, held it tight and thought of Josemaría Escrivá’s Saying 82: “First prayer; then, atonement; in the third place - very much in the third place - action.”

“
Salve Regina, Mater misericordiae
,” he prayed, his eyes closed, cross in hand.

After five
Salve Reginas
, he meditated for a time on penance and atonement. He would wear the cilice after lunch. After thirty minutes the pain would be unbearable. He preferred not to think about “action” for the time being.

At two thirty, Baroness Amandine de Vreux was opening her mail, her glasses perched on the end of her nose. She arranged the letters into two piles:
reply
and
file
. The second pile consisted of worthless junk mail and advertising material, which she collected, nevertheless, in a sturdy cardboard folder held shut with an elastic band. It was an obsession she had inherited from her mother: never throw anything away. A row of cupboards in the house was filled to bursting with things she had been keeping for years. Her grandmother’s evening dresses, military uniforms of family members who had fought during the war, toys belonging to her parents, her sons and herself, school books, piles of newspapers and magazines tied together with string, boxes, wrapping paper, bed linen, etc., everything neatly arranged and folded, each cupboard with a list of contents on the inside of the door. Every now and then she would walk through the rooms, open one of the cupboards, gaze at its contents and savour the enormous satisfaction it brought her.

After dealing with her correspondence, she studied the list of telephone messages Maria had scribbled in her crooked handwriting. There was only one worth answering immediately, from Thérèse de Montignac, old French aristocracy and married, like herself, to a commoner. Thérèse loved gossip. Amandine returned the call.

“
Ma chère
Amandine…”

“
Quelles nouvelles, ma chère
Thérèse?”

“You were away last week.”

“Yes, I was in England looking at gardens.”

“Where did you stay, if it’s not indiscreet of me to ask?”

“With Edith and Noël Beiresford-Peirse.”

“Mmm… Do they still have that
sublime
estate?”

“Yes, it’s truly
incredible
. And the weather was
magnifique
.”

“Just like here.
Insanely
beautiful, all last week, until yesterday in fact.”

“You called when I was away?”

“Mmm…”

“Do I get to know why?” Amandine tested the water with a nervous chuckle.

“But of course,
ma chère
; but it’s… eh… a little
delicate
… if you get my drift. Are you alone?”

“I’m alone.”

“
Eh bien, ma chère
, I’m duty bound to keep you informed… let me see… on Saturday 29 May around seven in the evening, I was at the Zwarte Hengst in Schilde, you know, where I keep my horse…”

“Mmm…”

“And I saw your husband there.”

“…”

“Hello?”

“I’m listening.”

“
Eh bien
, he was horse-riding in the company of another woman.”

“Nothing new.”

“Perhaps, but they were in jeans and T-shirts with those vulgar training shoes, you know the sort. And the woman was like a savage on horseback…”

“Well, well. And what did she look like?”

“Sturdy. Well endowed. A red ponytail… a real floozy. And they were so sweet to one another. I was struck by one particular detail: when I passed them in the bar, I noticed she had a row of metal teeth… a
ghastly
sight…”

Baroness Amandine de Vreux turned pale, closed her eyes and was unable to speak. “
Un grand merci
, Thérèse,” she squeaked. “I’ll call you back later,
au revoir
.”

She slowly returned the receiver to its cradle, removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes. She dragged herself to her feet, shuffled step by step to the corner of the room, where a tiny statue of Our Lady was perched on a plinth against the wall, folded her hands and started to pray.

Albert parked his car on Brouwerstraat, which opened out onto the Church of Our Lady in Kortenberg. He got out, closed the door and looked around. Little traffic, empty streets. Typically Belgian, he thought, everyone’s glued to the box. He made his way towards the church, its ridiculous tower peeking out above the rooftops. The man was standing next to a larger-than-life statue of the Sacred Heart carved in stone. He was wearing a dark raincoat and hat, and was, as expected, short and rotund.

Albert approached the man with confidence, stopping about fifteen yards from where he was standing. He was sure the man had seen him, but without some sign of recognition he couldn’t be certain.

Albert marched over to him and said unabashedly: “Didn’t we have an appointment?”

“Indeed.”

He had the same voice as the man on the phone, but he didn’t look the least bit aristocratic. Albert had consulted a list of aristocratic families, the Gotha Almanac, at home and the name Maraudy de Moretus was not mentioned.

“What should we do?” Albert asked curtly.

“Shall we go to my car?”

“Do we have to?”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Depends on you.”

Albert had a canister of CS spray in his Burberry raincoat pocket and was determined to use it if he had to. He broke into a sweat.

“It’s parked close by,” the man said.

“On condition that you don’t put the key in the ignition.”

The man smiled briefly. His broad, flat face had something Tartar about it.

“Don’t be nervous, Mr Savelkoul, I’m not planning to kidnap you.”

When he heard the man say his name, he suddenly regretted having agreed to the meeting in the first place. His mood had deteriorated in the course of the afternoon, after reading a message from Amandine, in which she informed him of her agenda for the next two days. The following evening, there was a charity function organized by the Neckerspoel de Dickpus family to collect money for gifted yet needy children. The proceeds would allow their parents to send them to an exclusive school in Lima. He wasn’t sure it was a worthy cause. He remembered a similar function organized by the same family to collect money for a school, the Villa Madero in Buenos Aires, to which the crown prince himself was later invited for the opening ceremony. It later turned out to be an Opus Dei institution. Scandalized readers sent letters to the press but the case fizzled out. He would have to come up with “something urgent” to get out of it. It made no difference to him that she insisted on being chauffeured to the event in his official car.

“Let’s get a move on then, I don’t have much time,” he said bluntly.

The man smiled yet again. “This won’t take long, Mr Savelkoul.”

Albert noted that the man’s French inflection had disappeared and detected a hint of a Flemish accent, perhaps Mechelen.

They entered a side street. The fact that he was head and shoulders taller than the other gave Albert a degree of self-confidence.

BOOK: The Public Prosecutor

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