The Square of Revenge (29 page)

Van In blinked. He had expected a completely different reaction.

“May I ask how you reached your conclusion, Commissaire?”

He was never going to forget the sense of victory that tore through his head like a rush of pure cocaine. Finally one of the untouchables was going to have to admit that he, Pieter Van In, was correct.

“The Templars’ Square,” he said, cool and poised. “I thought it was a cryptic message, that its solution might shed light on what motivated the perpetrators. But that wasn’t it, was it? It was a signature, intended for you alone.”

Degroof heaved himself out of his chair and filled the glasses.

“Your health, Commissaire.”

He held out his glass and they clinked like old allies.

“I do indeed know the man. We studied together in Leuven and he was my closest friend. We were both fascinated by all things alchemical and esoteric. We spent nights on end discussing the writings of Blavatsky, Papus, De Guiata, Steiner, Crowley, the Egyptian mystery schools, the neo-Platonists, and the Templars. The Latin square was a shared secret. We swore an oath that we would never talk about it with anyone else. When I received a letter full of threats a couple of weeks ago, I realized right away it was from Aquilin Verheye.”

“He warned you in advance,” Van In noted. “And you paid no attention.”

Degroof burst into a hoarse laugh.

“At the time I did, Commissaire. I took the letter very seriously indeed. You should know that when we were young, Aquilin and I fell in love with the same girl. She loved him infinitely more than she loved me, but the de Puyenbroucke family chose fortune over love. They had the name and my father had the money, a lot of money. Elisa, who had little choice in the matter, became Mrs. Degroof. Aquilin was distressed beyond words, and he swore he would avenge the injustice.”

Van In shook his head. “But that was more than fifty years ago,” he said, finding it hard to believe. “Your friend Aquilin must be roughly the same age as you.”

“He’s two days older,” Degroof smirked. “But even if he was a hundred, I still wouldn’t dare to underestimate him. And if I hadn’t known him so well, I would indeed have paid no attention to that ridiculous threatening letter. Aquilin Verheye was a fanatic. Every student knew back then that he never went back on a promise and he never made empty threats. I could tell you a few stories, Commissaire. Your hair would stand on end.”

Degroof had gotten to his feet and was pacing back and forth, his glass of cognac secure in his hand.

“I could have informed the police, of course, and had him prosecuted.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No, I didn’t, Commissaire. The Degroofs prefer to take care of their own problems. And don’t forget, I had no substantial evidence.”

“Did you ever hear from him prior to this?”

“No. I lost track of him after the wedding. I had no idea what had happened to him, so I hired a private detective to track him down.”

“So that’s why you didn’t want to involve the police,” Van In warbled. He now understood why he had at first fallen into Degroof’s disfavor.

“Correct. When Ghislain called and told me what had happened, I immediately suspected Aquilin. Dissolving gold in aqua regis is just the kind of thing he would do. And because it all appeared so ludicrous, I wanted to contact him myself. Perhaps he had lost his mind, I thought; perhaps there was something I could do to help him.”

“And did you succeed, Mr. Degroof?”

“Yes, I succeeded,” said Degroof slowly. “The private detective delivered his report on Wednesday. Aquilin Verheye died two years ago. He’s buried in a village in the Ardennes.”

Degroof crossed to a dresser by the window and took a cardboard folder from one of the drawers.

“The detective was even kind enough to take a few photos of the grave.”

Van In took the folder, which contained three large-format photos. The detective had first photographed the grave from a distance between the other graves, and had then made a couple of close-ups with a zoom lens. The text was perfectly legible: Aquilin Verheye. The dates of birth and death were a little less in focus, but the years were clear enough: 1914 and 1992. It was a simple bluestone memorial, probably the cheapest model.

“Do you now understand why I called in your help on Saturday?”

Van In wasn’t sure if he should feel honored or fan the suspicion that was smoldering at the back of his mind.

“When my grandson was abducted and I knew that Aquilin had nothing to do with it, I wanted someone I could trust. I heard that you had given up part of your vacation to poke your nose into my family’s past, and not without results it would seem.”

“I can’t see why my involvement would help avoid a potential scandal,” said Van In, on his guard. He wasn’t sure where Degroof senior was leading.

“Your discretion, Commissaire. Your discretion is what attracted me. It’s a rare quality, Commissaire, one I rate highly and one I’m prepared to reward. You get my drift? Let’s be frank, Commissaire, everyone likes a little luxury, a social life, a beautiful home. But not everyone can afford it.”

Van In got his drift, all right. Degroof was a cunning old fox, and his offer was tempting. Shame Hannelore knew everything and was also involved.

“I’ve mixed with all sorts of people all my life, Commissaire, and many envy my ability to judge a person’s character,” said Degroof, his mood lighter.

“I don’t doubt it, sir. But I fear my discretion won’t be of much use to you. The identity of the letter-writer was my only clue thus far. I don’t see how we can find a solution before morning. Our only hope is that our tall young friend will drop his guard, but even then it won’t be enough to prevent the bonfire. And we might even be putting Bertrand’s life at risk if we make an arrest.”

“That’s true, Commissaire. But what if he’s spotted?”

“Then we’ll shadow him discreetly,” said Van In.

“Let’s hope Bertrand is returned to us safe and sound,” said Degroof. “Whatever happens, I insist that my grandson’s safety be given the utmost priority. I’m counting on you for that, Commissaire. If you succeed, I’ll be in your debt.”

“We’ll do our best,” Van In grinned sheepishly.

“Another cognac, Commissaire?”

Van In checked his watch.

“Mmm. Why not,” he said.

When someone knocked at his hotel room door, Daniel Verhaeghe jumped from the bed into his wheelchair.

“Come in,” he shouted.

A spotlessly dressed waiter opened the door and wheeled the cart into the room.

“Would sir prefer to eat by the window?” he asked politely.

“If it’s possible,” said Daniel.

“Of course, sir.”

The waiter pushed a table up against the window, leaving room for Daniel’s wheelchair.

“Will that suffice, sir?”

Daniel nodded. The waiter draped a fine linen tablecloth over the table and arranged the silver-plated cutlery next to the plate. He made sure the bowls and dishes were close enough for Daniel to reach from his wheelchair.

“Enjoy your meal, sir, and if there’s anything you need don’t hesitate to call.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Daniel produced a one-hundred-franc note and slipped it to the waiter.

As soon as the man was gone, Daniel got to his feet and replaced the wheelchair with a normal chair. From his room on the hotel’s third floor he had a magnificent view of Zand Square. He tucked in to a helping of smoked salmon while keeping a close eye on the various police vehicles turning into Hauwer Street. The manhunt continued unabated. The previous evening he had made his way from Bishop Avenue to Boeverie Street on his scooter. Boeverie Street ran parallel with the side of the Park Hotel where Laurent had reserved a room for him. The reporters had discovered his message at the appropriate moment and he was going to be just in time for the late evening news. He parked the scooter in front of the Franciscan friary and made his way to the dark blue Ford Transit parked nearby. He unloaded the electric wheelchair with the help of a plywood panel resting on the rear fender.

Laurent had informed the reception that the guest in room 306 was a wheelchair user and that he would be arriving late. The seat of the wheelchair had been lowered three inches so that Daniel’s six feet ten inches would be less obvious. He also took off his glasses when he entered the hotel and waited until he was in his room before putting them on again.

A police patrol had called in at the hotel in the course of Sunday morning. Daniel had just parked himself in the hotel lounge, and he listened with bated breath as the receptionist informed the two officers that no one in the hotel matched their description.

Daniel thought back to the moment with an indescribable sense of euphoria. He poured himself a glass of Muscadet and replaced the empty plate of salmon with a plate of oysters.

Everything had gone like a house on fire thus far. Laurent had kept his promise. Daniel had been able to experience every phase of the plan at close quarters.

“The police will never find you,” Laurent had assured him. “Unless they’ve read Edgar Allan Poe’s
The Purloined Letter
. And even then they would never make the link between fiction and reality.”

Laurent De Bock had a PhD in Applied Mathematics, defended on the basis of a dissertation titled
Methodological Complexity as Source of Inefficiency.
He had mathematically structured and scientifically analyzed what Poe had recounted in his intriguing story, and had succeeded in demonstrating that standard procedures were rarely successful when they were used to solve unique problems.

The apparent recklessness with which Laurent and Daniel operated had a single purpose: to confuse. The police were completely in the dark when it came to motive, making their actions against the Degroof family appear inexplicable. The only information the police had at their disposal was a vague description. Their investigations were focused on an exceptionally tall young man with glasses. But Laurent had in fact arranged it so to make it more exciting for Daniel.

When Daniel had finished his exquisite meal, he lit a cigarette and punched in the number of the chalet in Namur.

Bertrand heard the telephone ring. It was five-thirty. His eyes rolled in their sockets and his heart thumped visibly against his ribs. He screamed without making much noise and yanked hysterically at the chain. In spite of the foam, his wrist was badly cut. The sight of the blood made him nauseous.

He couldn’t remember how long he had slept. The telephone had woken him with a start. His lips were chapped and his tongue blistered.
If someone doesn’t let me out of here soon, I’m going to die of thirst
, he thought in a panic. The unnaturally high temperature in the room had left him soaked in sweat. He had once read that people rarely survived more than twenty-four hours in the desert without water. His situation was much the same. He had nothing to drink and was losing massive amounts of fluid.

Daniel let the phone ring for five minutes. Perhaps Laurent had gone to the bathroom or had ventured outside?

He smoked a couple of cigarettes and tried again.

By eight o’clock, he started to worry. Laurent had a weak heart. Maybe all this effort had been too much for him. A drive to Namur was too much of a risk, and Laurent himself had explicitly forbidden it.

“I’ve taken care of everything, my boy, down to the last detail. Nothing can go wrong. There’s plenty of food and drink in the chalet,” Laurent had insisted. “Whatever happens, stay in the hotel until I come and get you.”

There must be something wrong with the phone
, Daniel figured with naïve optimism.
If there’s a problem with the line, it’ll probably be Monday morning before it gets fixed
, he thought.

“I’ll try again in the morning,” he said, half out loud.

Hannelore had left half an hour before Degroof’s chauffeur dropped Van In off at the bungalow. Bishop Avenue was a lot quieter. Most of the foreign TV crews had moved into hotels in the city and had relocated their hardware to Zand Square in readiness for the following morning’s spectacle.

Van In looked worn out and Charlotte immediately offered to make coffee. Only two policemen were still in attendance outside, and when the coffee was ready she offered them a cup.

Van In installed himself in the garden. Charlotte joined him.

“Patrick’s asleep,” she whispered. “I gave him a couple of sleeping pills; otherwise he won’t make it through tomorrow.”

“And what about you?”

Van In’s tone was personal and intimate for a change, now that he was no longer around the rest of the cops, and she didn’t appear to mind.

“I’m counting the minutes,” she said, putting on a brave face. “The only thing that worries me is the possibility that the kidnappers are mentally disturbed, that they’re playing a game and have no intention of letting Bertrand go.”

She raised her eyes to heaven. She didn’t need tears to prove her sadness.

A couple of hours earlier, Van In had assured her that there was no need to worry about Bertrand being freed, but now he was less certain. He drank his coffee. Their eyes met. She didn’t need to ask. Van In knew that he owed her an explanation.

“I’m afraid we haven’t made much headway. I thought there was an alternative way out,” he said, taking his time.

She didn’t ask what he had tried to do immediately, but Van In could see the question in her eyes. A tear ran down her cheek. She sobbed.

Then Van In did something he had never dared to do before: he took her hand. He told her what he had discussed with her father, and Charlotte listened without interrupting him.

“I had hoped I could persuade him to reveal the identity of the perpetrator, but your father had already organized his own investigation. The man he had suspected has been dead for two years. He gave me photos of the gravestone.”

Van In showed her the photos.

“Did your father ever abuse you sexually?” he asked, unexpectedly blunt.

She didn’t jump at his question. Instead, she raised her head and wiped her tears.

“No,” she said, without a flinch. This topic had been raised before, apparently.