The Square of Revenge (25 page)

“Jesus, is that a Michel Martens mirror?”

“Do you know him?” asked Van In, surprised.

“I went to an exhibition last week. All I could afford was something small for my purse.”

“Problem is …” he grouched, “you should see my overdraft.”

“If that’s the case, then you have to be corrupt.”

“If only.”

He took her hand.

“Dangerous stairs,” he gave as an excuse.

They descended a spiral stairway built on to the outside of the house.

“I love the oval windows. Are they original?”

“It’s all original. Wait until you see the cellar.”

The stairwell gave out into the cellar. Another door led to the back yard.

“Are we now under the room I love so much?” asked Hannelore as she looked up at the whitewashed barrel vaulting. “Looks fifteenth century, no?”

“Probably. The Vette Vispoort dates back to 1434. The five houses on the right are old almshouses and my house is on the left.”

“Surely this isn’t an almshouse,” she said taken aback.

“No, absolutely not,” he hastened to add. “No one’s sure why they built this place opposite the almshouses. They say it was commissioned by a fish merchant.”

“Logical, I suppose … Vette Vispoort … Oily Fish Street … smelly!”

“But the historians don’t buy it. Too obvious. They need evidence.”

“So do we,” she grinned.

They left the cellar and took the door into the back yard, which was no more than a long, narrow strip between the old canal wall and the back of the house.

The silence of the summer night, the stars glistening in the sky, and the water of the canal gently murmuring in the background transformed the otherwise empty yard into an idyllic oasis.
Morning can wait
, Hannelore thought.

“I didn’t know the house backed onto the canal. But it fits the picture. Wherever you find water, you find people fishing.”

“Not really. There wasn’t a lot of fish to catch in those days. The canal was used more for transporting fish from elsewhere. At least that’s what I’ve read. This part runs along the old city wall dating back to 1127, which means—”

They both froze at the sound of the telephone.

“Thank God we’re still awake,” she jested. But Van In paid no attention to her remark and raced upstairs. She followed at his heels.

“Call all the hospitals?” she heard him ask when she arrived in the living room.

Before he had the chance to say:
do you know how many hospitals there are in Belgium
, Charlotte said: “Start with the university hospitals, and if they can’t help we can try the general hospitals.”

“Presuming, of course, that the young man actually suffers from Marchand syndrome,” Van In responded, unconvinced.

“Marfan, with an ‘f”,’ she corrected.

Van In realized he couldn’t openly ignore her request.

“I’ll get my men onto it at seven. If need be, we can ask the ministry to involve the local police, have them call the hospitals in their region. Yes, you’re right … no stone unturned. I’ll do my best,” he said. “And try to get a couple of hours sleep yourself. We still have a pile of work ahead of us tomorrow … I mean later.”

Hannelore looked at him questioningly when he returned the receiver to its cradle.

“It only gets really tricky when the parents start playing detective,” he sighed.

He brought her up to speed in a few words.

“Do you think there’s anything in it?”

Van In shrugged his shoulders.

“The country’s crawling with tall guys wearing glasses.”

Bertrand Delahaye woke up with a throbbing headache. In all the excitement, Laurent had given him too much sedative.

The first thing he saw through the unsightly dormer window was a twinkling starlit sky. He was lying on a bed and it wasn’t his own, he thought. It wasn’t even his own room.

Bertrand wanted to jump up, but a physical stupor overpowered him. He heard something jingle. It was as if he was being sucked onto the mattress. It took him three tries before he was able to stand, and only then with difficulty. He took a few unsteady steps, but was suddenly held back by an invisible hand. His arm was attached to something and his wrist hurt. He felt helpless and couldn’t make up his mind whether to return to the bed or stay where he was.

Something was making it difficult to think, although it also seemed to stop him from panicking. He had a vague awareness that something bad had happened to him, but he didn’t really care. If only the pounding in his head would go away.

The chain was firmly attached to the wall. He tugged at it a few times, but it only aggravated his headache. He sat on the edge of the bed, resigned to his situation.

His eyes got used to the darkness and he squinted around the room. It was empty apart from the bed. The walls were made of wood and there was a rectangular carpet on the floor. When he stood up again and walked around the bed, he bumped into a chemical toilet. His parents brought something similar when they went camping; that’s why he recognized it immediately.

His head began to spin and he had to sit. He recorded everything in his mind without thinking about it. He had no idea what time it was and just sat there staring listlessly into space. A strip of light under the door suddenly caught his attention. He heard someone shuffle along the corridor on the other side. He heard a key turning in the lock. Strangely enough, he wasn’t afraid.

“I’ve brought you some cookies and lemonade,” said Laurent in a gentle tone when he walked into the room. “You have to stay here for a couple of days, but don’t worry; your parents have been informed.”

Laurent placed the bottle and the cookies on the floor within Bertrand’s reach.

“There’s no need to be afraid. Nothing’s going to happen to you.”

“Can you put the light on?” asked Bertrand. “It’s so dark in here.”

Laurent groped for the light switch. The bare forty-watt light bulb was still enough to make him blink.

Bertrand got to his feet and shuffled toward the lemonade and cookies. The bald old man didn’t look dangerous.

“If you want, we could play a game of checkers or chess,” Laurent suggested. “Unless you want to get some more rest.”

Bertrand was surprised by the strange suggestion, and it confused him.

“You kidnapped me. You were in the police van. I recognize you.”

He snatched the cookies and lemonade as he spoke and then pulled back onto the bed.

Laurent didn’t move a muscle, but simply looked on as Bertrand gobbled up the cookies and guzzled down the lemonade.

The pounding in his head slowed down as he ate. The haloperidol was wearing off, and the first emotion to surface was rage, blind rage.

“Let me out of here,” he screamed. “You’ve no right to keep me locked up like this.”

He grabbed the bottle and held it threateningly in the air.

“It’s the only bottle of lemonade I have,” said Laurent calmly. “If you smash it, you’ll have to drink water all day long.”

“Why didn’t you buy more bottles, then?” Bertrand yelled. He lowered the bottle. Besides, it had a French label and it tasted a lot better than the lemonade at home.

“I’ve got chocolate too,” said Laurent. “If you’re still hungry, I can get you some.”

Bertrand placed the bottle on the floor close to the bed. The old man’s friendliness was irritating him. Was this an abduction, or what?

“Is it Cote d’Or?” he asked in an arrogant tone of voice.

“It is, actually,” the old man smiled. “Wait, I’ll be right back.”

While Laurent made his way to the kitchen, Bertrand checked the handcuff. A protective strip of foam had been taped around his wrist before they cuffed him. The chain was roughly seven feet long and was attached to a wrought-iron ring built in to the exterior wall, which, unlike the others, was made of stone. The ring and the chain combined were easily strong enough to hold a bull in check.

When the old man returned, he had more than chocolate with him. The chessboard was under his arm.

“I brought the chessboard just in case,” he said almost apologetically.

“How did you know I played chess?” asked Bertrand suspicious.

Laurent shrugged his shoulders.

“I just did,” he said. “But if you don’t want to play, I’ll leave you in peace.”

If Bertrand agreed to a game, he would at least have some company. But if he said no, the old man would leave and that would give him a chance to get rid of the foam under the handcuff and try to wriggle his hand out of the thing. The old man didn’t look strong. Without the chain, he figured he had a good chance of overpowering him and freeing himself.

Bertrand checked the cuff. Laurent saw him but paid no attention. He knew the boy would never be able to break loose.

“You’re sure I’ll be home in two days?” Bertrand asked hesitatingly.

“Absolutely, my boy.”

“Go on, then, but I play white.”

“Fine by me. Do you mind if I sit beside you? Otherwise I’ll have to fetch a table and a stool, and I have problems with my back.”

Laurent had almost given himself a hernia dragging Bertrand from the van.

Bertrand took the chessboard and the pieces. Laurent sat down on the bed. The joint in his left knee cracked like a dry twig.

V
AN IN RACED UP THE
stairs to his office on Sunday morning at five past seven to be greeted by Beheyt, D’Hondt, and Hannelore. She had had just as late a night as he, but she looked sprightly and awake nevertheless.

“Good morning,” he said in an upbeat tone.

Beheyt barely looked up. He had a hefty pile of paperwork in front of him on the table, through which he was nervously browsing. D’Hondt was standing at the window and responded to Van In’s greetings with an indefinable gesture.

“A splendid day, Commissioner, don’t you think?” said Hannelore in the best of spirits.

“Any news on the precise location of the abduction?” asked Van In when no one appeared to have anything to say.

“We’re guessing somewhere near Boudewijn Park. A couple of the boy’s friends saw him at the roller-skating rink around one-thirty,” said Beheyt without lifting his head. “There’s been no reaction to the appeal we broadcast on the radio. BRTN and VTM have promised a breaking news broadcast this morning at eight.”

“You never know,” said D’Hondt indifferently.

On the floor above, De Kee was on the phone with the district commandant of the local police. The man was far from happy about Assistant Commissioner Van In and the way he had been leading the investigation.

De Kee listened with patience to the enraged commandant. Everyone knew that the local police had much more experience and know-how and that serious crimes like kidnapping were always assigned to them and the judicial police.

It took the man a couple of minutes to say what he had to say. De Kee then tried to calm him down.

“I’m afraid the decision was made at a higher level, Jacques,” he said mealy-mouthed. “Public Prosecutor Lootens appointed the taskforce in person. It was the public prosecutor himself who assigned Van In to head up the investigation. And if it’s any comfort, he didn’t appoint an investigating magistrate.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” the district commandant grumbled. “Everyone knows that Lootens and investigating magistrate Creytens can’t stand the sight of one another.”

De Kee grinned. Gossiping about magistrates was a favorite police pastime.

“I can only advise you to contact Public Prosecutor Lootens. I’m told he’s spending the day in Knokke. But there’s nothing stopping you from joining us here. We have an evaluation lined up for eight. You’re welcome to be part of it.”

De Kee returned the receiver to its cradle with a bogus smile.

The phone started to ring before he had let it go.

“Your lordship, always a delight to hear from the mayor’s office.”

De Kee leaned back in his chair and enjoyed the warmth of the sun’s first rays.

Minutes later, Van In was developing the impression that he was talking to the wall.

“I just heard from Sergeant Versavel that no one in the neighborhood of Boudewijn Park noticed anything unusual. If my information is correct, the local police interviewed no fewer than four hundred people.”

D’Hondt nervously rearranged his tie and released his adam’s apple from his pinching collar.

“And they’re still interviewing,” he said. “Someone has to have seen something, surely!”

“If we assume that the boy was kidnapped near Boudewijn Park,” Hannelore observed matter-of-factly, “then what about the bicycle?”

“Mr. Vanmaele took it apart to the last bolt. Nothing, zero. All we know for sure is that it’s the boy’s bike. And we questioned people near Oostkamp where it was found,” D’Hondt added despondently. “I presume efforts to hunt down the young kidnapper also failed to produce results,” he scoffed.

“That’s what I was trying to explain yesterday, Captain.”

Van In was, by now, tired and highly combustible. “On the face of it, the kidnappers have taken a number of incredible risks. If we presume they’re not being protected by some kind of magic force, then we have to face the fact that the entire operation has been prepared with precision. Long-legs is safe and sound, believe you me. We shouldn’t underestimate the brain behind all this.”

“I wholeheartedly agree.” Beheyt suddenly woke up. “According to my profile, based among other things on the two faxes, the older kidnapper must certainly have enjoyed a university education. If you ask me, he’s an engineer or a mathematician. I wouldn’t be surprised if he specialized in probability calculus or statistics. I also think we’re looking for someone who has spent several years as a sort of recluse, living well outside the city. It would surprise me if he was actually capable of violence.”

Van In nodded in agreement. D’Hondt didn’t quite understand where Beheyt was getting all this information.

“I don’t have a crystal ball,” said Beheyt. “We imported profiling from the States. The FBI organizes an annual course for foreign police agencies. I’ve just completed such a course and I can assure you, I was just as surprised as you at first.”

“To what extent is such a profile reliable?” Van In was curious to know.