The Square of Revenge (2 page)

Versavel fished a flashlight from under his seat and got out of the van. He shivered. Dawn was always chilly, even in the summer. Petitjean scuttled like a lame rabbit to the other side of the street, formed his hands into a cylinder against the safety glass window and peered excitedly inside. Versavel pointed the powerful beam of his flashlight into the shop’s interior. It took him barely five seconds to reach the appropriate conclusion. The window display was indeed empty and there was a pile of broken glass carelessly swept into a corner. But what concerned him most were two pairs of white cotton gloves beneath one of the tables.

“I think our luck just ran out, friend,” he said sarcastically.

Petitjean stared at him vacantly. A surge of adrenaline suddenly made him shudder. “You don’t mean …”

“Afraid so. Why now, of all times?” Versavel snapped. “You and your lame-ass problem.”

Petitjean couldn’t believe his ears. His sympathy for Versavel melted like an ice cube in a glass of tepid Coke. His colleagues had warned him: never trust a sergeant; when the shit hits the fan he’ll drop you like a ton of bricks. Versavel had been making fun of him all night long. He actually didn’t give a shit about his situation, which of course Petitjean found shocking.

“Don’t move,” Versavel barked. The prospect of bed and sleep vanished as he spoke.

“Whatever you say, Sarge.” Petitjean stationed himself in front of the shop window and stared angrily into space.

Versavel hurried resignedly back to the Transit and radioed the duty officer. It took almost thirty seconds before the man responded. Bart De Keyzer had spent the last four hours snoozing on a folding bed and sounded like a crow with a head cold.

“ONA 3421 here, talk to me.”

“Versavel here.” He nervously drummed the Radetzky March on the dashboard.

“Good morning, Sarge, what’s new?” De Keyzer tried to sound as awake as possible.

“Probable theft … Degroof’s,” said Versavel unruffled. “Steen Street,” he added, knowing that De Keyzer was bound to ask him anyway. If you had said “city hall,” he would have asked for the address.

“Signs of breaking and entering?” said De Keyzer after a pause.

“Negative.”

Versavel hated De Keyzer with a vengeance. He was the youngest officer in the division, and everyone knew that had made promotion via one or other political back door. His father was a vice admiral no less, in the Belgian navy, and still this was the best he could arrange for junior.

“Are you sure it’s theft?”

“Negative, but the entire shop has been cleaned out. There’s broken glass on the floor, and gloves,” Versavel responded curtly. As far as he knew, no one got along with De Keyzer. The man was stupid and arrogant and his skin was thicker than the rubber of a pre-war condom.

“Do you need back-up, Sarge?”

“Jesus Christ,” Versavel cursed under his breath. “If I was you, I would phone the Deputy public prosecutor on call and the owner of the shop. Degroof … got it?” he snarled.

De Keyzer didn’t react to Versavel’s outburst. He knew the man and was in no doubt that he wasn’t afraid to make subtle reference to the incompetence of an inexperienced officer in his official report. He’s been watching too many American cop shows. They’re always calling in the Deputy DA to do their dirty work, he thought to himself, but wisely held his tongue.

“Of course, spot on,” he retorted, slightly indignant. “And I’ll make sure you get to finish your shift on the double.”

“Do that,” Versavel sneered.

It seemed an eternity before Hannelore Martens finally heard the phone ring. She had only been appointed Deputy public prosecutor a couple of weeks earlier and this was her first night on call.

If anything happens, it’s always early on Sunday morning, an older colleague had warned her. Hannelore Martens threw on her dressing gown, switched on the light, and rushed downstairs. Her phone was in the living room by the window. She hoped nothing had happened to her father.

“Hannelore Martens.”

Neither she nor De Keyzer had the slightest inkling that a common, garden-variety robbery was no reason to get a Deputy out of bed. Everyone in the division also knew that Versavel wasn’t averse to the odd practical joke now and then, and Hannelore was new. A prime target.

“Duty officer De Keyzer, ma’am,” he said in his best Flemish. “Sorry to disturb you, but it’s a serious matter.”

Hannelore Martens listened to Bart De Keyzer’s detailed report, her heart pounding. The man had a rather irritating talent: he needed ten times the number of words Versavel, or anyone else, would have used to explain what was going on. When he was finished, she wasn’t really sure what she was supposed to do. The name Degroof rang a bell. Should she inform the public prosecutor?

“Casualties?” she asked just to be sure.

“Negative, ma’am. There’s not even a trace of the culprits.” Her male colleagues had assured her that the only way to learn the ropes was on the job. But what should she do? Nothing, perhaps? Just wait for the report. But if that was normal procedure why had the duty officer phoned her?

Never hesitate in front of a subordinate and act firmly in every circumstance
, the same colleagues had instructed her. She could hear De Keyzer breathing on the other end of the line. She wasn’t to know that the duty officer, like so many other stupid and arrogant people, fostered an almost blind respect for his superiors.

“Might as well take a look for myself,” she said with confidence, “now that I’m awake.”

“Righto, ma’am. Would you like me to inform the owner?”

“Please. Tell him I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Okay, ma’am. I’ll inform my people that you’ll be taking personal charge.”

Before she could say “thank you,” De Keyzer hung up. The excitement made her shiver. She took off her dressing gown and headed for the bathroom behind the kitchen: nothing more than a cramped shower and an old-fashioned washbasin.

Her neighbor opposite, a retired postmaster with all the time in the world, slurped at his first cup of coffee. He was an early riser. The opportunity to admire Miss Martens’s elegant silhouette in all its glory for a couple of seconds was an added, if unforeseen, bonus that morning. He never looked across the street on other days.

It seemed to take even more than an eternity for Ghislain Degroof to answer the phone, but De Keyzer let it ring for close to five minutes. If Deputy Martens hadn’t been on her way, he would probably have given up earlier.

“Degroof,” the man grouched. His legs were like lead and his voice hoarse from too many cigarettes.

“Bruges Police, Mr. Degroof. Duty officer De Keyzer. I’ve bad news, I’m afraid.”

De Keyzer paused for a second to add extra weight to his message.

“A report has just come in from our night patrol. There’s reason to believe your shop on Steen Street has been burgled,” he said in a bureaucratic tone.

Degroof started to choke on his own saliva and turned away from the phone for a good cough.

“Mr. Degroof, are you still there?” De Keyzer asked after a couple of seconds.

“Of course I’m still here,” Degroof rasped. “What in Christ’s name does ‘reason to believe’ mean?”

“The duty sergeant informs me that the window and the display cabinets inside the shop are empty. He’s not sure if that’s normal. There’s also broken glass and a pair of gloves on the floor.”

“Of course it’s not normal,” Degroof croaked at the top of his voice. De Keyzer held the receiver away from his ear.

“Nonetheless, there’s no sign of breaking and entering,” he continued with caution. De Keyzer knew the Degroofs; or rather his father knew them. They were rich and extremely powerful. That’s why he didn’t consider it strange that Versavel had asked him to bring the Deputy up to speed. You could never be careful enough with the Degroofs and their like.

“The Deputy public prosecutor is on her way,” he added with a degree of pride.

Degroof’s head started to spin like carousel. He sat down and tried to assess the damage. Fortunately he was insured for every penny. The only reason his head was spinning was because he hadn’t completely sobered up from the night before.

“Fine,” he said. “I’m on my way.”

G
HISLAIN DEGROOF AND HANNELORE MARTENS
arrived at more or less the same time. She had just parked her navy-blue Renault Twingo behind the police van when Degroof drove up in his pitch-black Maserati.

Versavel took note of their arrival. It was five past seven.

Hannelore Martens was wearing a white T-shirt and a long dark-brown skirt with an ample side split revealing a pair of shapely calves as she stepped out of her car.

“Good morning, Sergeant,” she said brightly.

“Deputy Martens?” he asked in disbelief. He had heard that they were appointing magistrates young these days, but this specimen didn’t look much older than twenty-five.

“Hannelore Martens,” she said with as much polite firmness as she could muster. “How do you do, Sergeant?”

Versavel tapped his cap with his fore and middle fingers. At least she knew her police ranks. Not a bad sign. They were shaking hands when the final rumble of Degroof’s Maserati made them turn their heads. Degroof had parked like a drunken cowboy.

“Degroof, I presume?”

Versavel spotted her derisive tone. “The very one,” he said with a wink.

“Let’s introduce ourselves to the injured party first, shall we?” she said cheerfully.

Versavel followed her. He found it hard to understand how a woman like her could wind up in the judiciary. She could have made a lot more money as a model.

Degroof junior was a tall thin man. His expensive designer frames half concealed an uneven pair of bulging eyes. His pointed angular shoulders protruded through his jacket. He walked with a stoop and looked ten years older than he actually was.

“Deputy Martens,” she introduced herself with confidence.

Degroof seemed just as surprised as Versavel.

“I got here as fast as I could,” she said.

“That’s very kind of you, Deputy Martens.” Degroof was clearly the perfect gentleman.

“My name is Degroof, Ghislain Degroof, Jr., to be precise, proprietor of Degroof Diamonds and Jewelry.”

Versavel almost burst out laughing. Who else had they been expecting: Snow White?

“What in God’s name is going on?” asked Degroof with an expression of painful indignation on his face.

“We should ask Sergeant Versavel,” said Hannelore Martens. “He has all the details. Right, Sergeant?”

Versavel reported what they had observed in short sentences, prudently avoiding any mention of their real reason for stopping at the jewelry shop.

“It’s common for night patrols to carry out the occasional routine checkup on their rounds,” he lied straight-faced. Fortunately, Petitjean was out of earshot.

“There are no signs of breaking and entering. Everything appears to be locked up as it should,” Versavel concluded with caution. “Perhaps Mr. Degroof could open the door for us. I’m sure there’s more to be learned inside.”

“Good idea,” said Deputy Martens. “No point in hanging around. Let’s take a look inside.” She wanted to stay in control and be the one giving the final orders.

Versavel watched the jeweler carefully as he rummaged for his keys. He was wearing a crumpled pinstriped suit, casual moccasins without socks, and a hideous tie. His facial features were limp, his beard negligible, and he had serious bags under his frog-like eyes. There was the smell of strong drink on his breath. That explained the parking job, Versavel chuckled to himself.

As Degroof was unlocking the metal roller shutters, Hannelore Martens gave Versavel a knowing glance. Her first impressions of the jeweler didn’t differ much from those of the sergeant. She didn’t like the look of him one bit. It wasn’t the hangover. Something disingenuous.

“Stay here,” said Versavel to Petitjean when he made a move to go inside. “And don’t let anyone through without my permission.”

Petitjean nodded and did what he was told.

The roller shutter rattled upward with ease. Degroof opened the door, switched on the lights and made a beeline for an inbuilt cupboard, which was almost invisible between a pair of display cabinets.

“First the burglar alarm,” he mumbled.

Hannelore Martens’s intuition told her to stay where she was, but Versavel signaled that she was free to go inside.

“The alarm has a delay mechanism,” he explained. “Degroof has one hundred seconds to disarm the system.”

Degroof punched a four-digit code into the miniature keypad: 1905.

“There we are,” he said, as if he’d just done something extremely complicated. “The coast is now clear.”

Idiot
, Versavel thought to himself.
Who says “the coast is now clear” after a break-in?
But the coast was indeed very clear. There was nothing left.

“Mon Dieu,” Degroof whimpered as he looked around the shop. “They’ve taken everything!”

“Does that mean there’s nothing under lock and key? That you didn’t take anything home for safekeeping?” Versavel asked, surprised.

“With such an alarm system, that’s no longer necessary, Sergeant. It cost me one and a half million.”

He lunged indignantly to the other side of the shop and disappeared into a narrow corridor via a dividing door. Martens and Versavel followed, but before they reached the door they heard him shout “mon Dieu” for a second time.

Versavel was first into the corridor. He saw two doors to his right, both of them closed. On the left there was only one door, and it was half open. He noticed a pungent penetrating smell but couldn’t figure out what it was. Hannelore Martens started to cough.

They made their way into a small workshop. Degroof was standing with his hands in his hair staring at a wall safe. The door of the safe was hanging from one of its hinges like a piece of modern sculpture.

“Curious,” Versavel whistled. He produced his notebook and scribbled a few notes. Just as he was about to ask the jeweler a question, the shop phone started to ring. Like Lot’s wife, Degroof had been rendered immobile, his hand frozen in front of his eyes in a bizarrely watchful, dramatic pose. Versavel returned to the shop and picked up the receiver.