The Square of Revenge (3 page)

“Sergeant Versavel speaking. Who’s this?”

For a few seconds, there was silence on the other end of the line. The man from Securitas knew he was out of luck.

Every time the alarm was switched off, a signal was transmitted via a special telephone line to an emergency center almost sixty miles away. But the security guard had taken a couple of hour’s nap that night, something he had never done before. He had promised his son a day out at an amusement park and his ex-wife refused to allow for the fact that he worked shifts. As far as she was concerned, he had visiting rights on Sundays and she made no exceptions.

“Freddy Dugardin from the emergency center. Is this the police?” he asked in the vain hope that the answer would be negative.

“Yes,” said Versavel without intonation. He figured the man was nervous and could understand why. If the alarm had gone off that night or been disarmed and he hadn’t heard the signal for one or other reason, he could expect to be signing up for unemployment on Monday morning.

“Nothing serious going on, is there?” Dugardin asked, close to desperation.

“The entire shop’s been cleared out, my friend.” As Versavel spoke, he suddenly realized that the alarm had in fact been on when they entered the premises. Degroof had disarmed it. That was why the guard had called. It was Sunday, and the system should have functioned normally until Monday morning. There should have been no interruptions, either right this morning or any time the night before.

“Did anyone disarm the system during the night?” Versavel inquired. In the meantime, he had opened his notebook and his pen was at the ready.

“One moment,” said Dugardin. He feverishly typed the code for Degroof Diamonds and Jewelry into the keyboard in front of him on his desk: wv-BR-1423. After a couple of seconds the computer provided the requested information. Dugardin rubbed his face with the palm of his hand and started to breathe again.

“Sergeant,” he said, audibly relieved, “nothing registered between midnight and now.”

“And before midnight?”

“Just a second.”

It took two minutes before Dugardin volunteered an answer.

“Mr. Degroof disarmed the system himself on Friday evening. He informed my colleague by phone.”

“Friday, you say,” Versavel repeated. “Stay on the line for a moment. Mr. Degroof is here beside me.”

Versavel turned to Degroof. “Did you disarm the system on Friday evening?” he inquired. Deputy Martens had joined them and was listening carefully.

“Of course not,” said Degroof, evidently affronted.

“Mr. Degroof claims he didn’t disarm the system on Friday evening,” Versavel told Dugardin. He used the word “claims” on purpose. He had been in the force long enough to know that people should never be taken at their word.

“Not so,” Dugardin answered, a deal more confident. “He called at 22:23. You can listen to the tape. Just a second.”

Versavel drummed a waltz by Strauss on the tabletop while he waited for Dugardin to rewind the tape.

“Here it comes,” said Dugardin triumphantly. After a couple of buzz and whistle tones, Versavel heard the voice of Degroof. Like the rest of Bruges’s prominent citizens, Degroof used a sort of sanitized West Flemish dialect, with the odd word of French tossed in here and there for good measure.

“Allo, emergency center. Ghislain Degroof speaking. Sorry for the change, but I’m expecting an important client this evening so I’ve switched off the burglar alarm.”

“Understood, Mr. Degroof. Do you have any idea how long the system will be down?”

“An hour, an hour and a half. Is that okay?”

“So before midnight everything will be as normal?”

“Bien sur, mon ami.”

“Okay, Mr. Degroof, have a nice evening.”

Degroof was straining at the leash with impatience and signaled nervously to be allowed to listen to the recording.

“Can you run the tape one more time?” Versavel asked. “Mr. Degroof wants to hear it for himself.”

“With pleasure,” said Dugardin.

Degroof grabbed the receiver from Versavel’s hand. The sergeant stepped aside and angrily rubbed his moustache.

Dugardin pressed the start button, leaned back, and lit a cigarette.

As Degroof listened to the recording, the blood drained from his face and he turned deathly pale.

“But that’s not my voice,” he said disconcerted.

A curious Hannelore Martens turned to Versavel. For her, this was pure excitement. No one had ever told her that fieldwork could be so much fun. Degroof was still holding the receiver to his ear and was speechless. Versavel carefully took it back. Degroof shook his head and collapsed into a chair.

“Are we done?” asked Dugardin, relieved.

“Forget it buddy,” said Versavel in what came close to an authoritarian tone. “If I was you I’d start writing my report, all the details, on the double. We’re not done with you by a long shot.”

“Of course, Sergeant,” said Dugardin, happy that he was more or less off the hook with regard to his nap.

“If you ask me, something strange is going on,” said Deputy Martens as Versavel returned the receiver to its cradle. The sergeant shrugged his shoulders.

“This is our bread and butter, ma’am.”

“Is that so?” she reacted with a hint of indignation.

“But the man’s lying,” Degroof interrupted. “I didn’t call anyone! I spent Friday evening at a wedding in Anvers, a nephew of Anne-Marie. We stayed the night. That’s why the shop was closed for the whole weekend. I have a hundred witnesses who can confirm my whereabouts.”

“Calm down, Mr. Degroof,” said Versavel. “No one’s accusing you of anything. You’re the injured party, don’t forget. We now know that someone called the emergency center in your name. We also know that whoever was responsible for this knew what you were doing this weekend. He apparently knew that you were busy with a family engagement. But more importantly, he knew how to disengage the burglar alarm.”

Deputy Martens nodded approvingly. Sergeant Versavel knew his onions. Her picture of the force had changed. Her colleagues tended to be condescending when they spoke about the Bruges police.

Degroof stared vacantly into space and dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Relax for a while, Mr. Degroof. We’ll take a look in the workshop first and then come back for your statement,” said Versavel.

“Do you mind if I join you?” asked Hannelore Martens, determined not to be left alone with Degroof.

“Under no circumstances. I can’t afford to make mistakes in front of a Deputy,” Versavel joked. He was taking a risk, but fortunately she had a healthy sense of humor.

“I don’t think there’s much danger of that, Sergeant,” she said with a wry smile. Her reaction pleased him.

They had barely set foot in workshop when Degroof stuffed his handkerchief in his pocket, grabbed the telephone receiver, and nervously punched in his father’s number. The phone rang three times. Ludovic Degroof wasn’t a late sleeper. He got up at six-thirty sharp every day without fail.

“Allo papa, ici Ghislain.”

Ludovic Degroof listened to his son’s confused account. When he was finished, he gave him detailed instructions.

“I’m going to call the commissioner tout d’suite. Restez là. I’ll take care of everything.”

He always took care of everything.

“Something stinks in here,” said Hannelore.

“I was thinking the same thing,” Versavel growled.

Versavel examined the wall safe. Whoever blew it open knew what he was doing. Versavel spoke from experience. He had spent part of his military service in bomb disposal, sweeping for mines.

“Is it empty?” she asked.

“More than likely.” But he took a look inside just to be sure. “Nothing. Professionals never leave anything behind.”

Hannelore started to cough again. The acrid stench refused to clear, in spite of the open door.

“It’s like acid,” she hacked. “I remember my father dunking his soldering iron in hydrochloric acid when I was a kid. It’s the same smell.”

Versavel nodded. He wanted to tell her she was an okay girl and that friendly Deputy public prosecutors were about as rare as white long-distance runners.

The workshop wasn’t very big, no more than a hundred and thirty square feet. A bench against the wall opposite the door had been fitted with an articulated arm with a powerful magnifying glass and built-in lighting. Next to a bench vise a number of precision instruments were scattered in disarray. There was also a compact buffing wheel. This was apparently where minor repairs were carried out.

Versavel suddenly noticed the aquarium on the floor between the bench and the side wall. The thing was completely out of place and he didn’t understand why no one had noticed it before. The walls of the glass container were roughly twelve by twenty and appeared to be the same on all four sides. It was filled with a cloudy liquid. A silvery scum floated on the surface.

“That’s where the smell’s coming from,” Versavel snorted when he crouched and held his nose over the container. Hannelore crouched at his side. Their knees touched.

“Yuck, that’s disgusting!” she yelped, turning up her nose.

“I think we should get Degroof in here,” said Versavel.

She held out her hand and he helped her to her feet. Hannelore found Versavel a handsome man, amiable, the easygoing type, her type. She had always fallen for older men in her student days.

“Mr. Degroof,” Versavel roared, “can we see you in the workshop?”

“Mon Dieu,” Degroof blared when Versavel pointed to the tank. “Aqua regis, mon Dieu.”

Degroof’s pretentious “mon Dieus” were beginning to get on Versavel’s nerves, so he resisted his initial urge to ask what aqua regis was.

Degroof yanked open a drawer under the bench and produced a pair of rubber gloves. He pulled on the left glove and dipped his hand carefully into the goo. His face was twisted with anxiety, as if he was afraid of finding something terrible at the bottom of the tank. A meandering vein started to swell on his forehead, making him even uglier than he already was and drawing particular attention to his uneven bulging eyes. He dipped his hand so deep into the sludge that the stinking fluid almost seeped into his glove. After thirty seconds rummaging around the bottom of the tank, he irately pulled out his hand. He had a wafer-thin strip of yellow metal between his thumb and his forefinger.

“Nom de Dieu,” he grumbled.

“So?” Versavel asked, playing ignorant. “Did you find something, sir?”

Degroof glared at him in a rage and started to stir the grimy liquid in something of a frenzy. He didn’t seem to care that the liquid came close to splashing into his glove as he stirred. Versavel and Hannelore were mesmerized. In a matter of minutes he managed to fish a small pile of unrecognizable twisted gold from the bottom of the tank.

“Are you suggesting that the culprit took nothing with him?” Hannelore inquired. She was slowly beginning to realize what was going on.

“Surely no one would take the trouble to break into a jewelry store just to destroy the spoils,” said Versavel level-headedly.

“No?” Degroof squawked. “And what do you think this is?”

He held out his hand to reveal a pair of soiled precious stones.

“Barbarians!” he ranted. Without paying the least attention to Versavel and Hannelore, he continued to root around the bottom of the tank like a man possessed.

Versavel looked at Hannelore and realized for the first time that she was having a ball. Then someone in front of the shop shouted “hello.” While Hannelore continued to watch in amusement as Degroof fished for what was left of various formerly extravagant bracelets, rings, necklaces, and earrings, Versavel made his way out to the front of the shop to see what was going on.

“Ah, Versavel, how’s it goin’, kiddo?” Officer Decoster blared like a broken trumpet in the broadest of Bruges accents. “Sorry we’re so late, friend. But you know De Keyzer. It always takes more than half an hour before he’s awake and then another hour to explain everything.”

His colleague Jozef Vermeersch burst out laughing.

“You made it clear enough that we should be careful. Turns out Degroof’s a bit of a protégé, if you get my drift,” Decoster continued to blare.

Versavel raised a warning finger to his lips and nodded to the rear of the store. But Decoster wasn’t interested. He and Vermeersch were cops without manners. If Versavel hadn’t known better, he would have sworn that De Keyzer had sent the pair on purpose just to annoy him.

“It’s always the same with those protégés,” Vermeersch grinned. “That’s why we stopped off at Decoster’s on the way to pick up a pair of velvet gloves. You can never be too careful with those chic types. But I don’t need to tell you that, eh, Versavel? Eh?”

Decoster produced one of his typical nervous whinnies. Versavel took him by the shoulder and brought his lips to within a few inches of his left ear.

“Dep-u-ty,” he whispered, syllable by syllable, pointing in desperation to the back of the shop. Okay, she was still wet behind the ears, but a Deputy is a Deputy. Decoster confirmed with an exaggerated wink that he had understood the message and he treated Vermeersch to a jarring nudge in the ribs.

“What the … Jesus!” Versavel signaled that he should shut up.

“Petitjean’s falling asleep at the door,” said Decoster evasively, but Vermeersch still didn’t get it. The important thing was that he was silent.

“Lucky his future father-in-law isn’t in the neighborhood. Otherwise …”

“Do me a favor, Decoster. Don’t start on about Petitjean. He hasn’t stopped blabbing the whole night.”

“Everyone takes his turn. That’s fair, eh, Sarge?” Decoster teased. “I was landed with him twice last month.”

Versavel wisely concealed the fact that he would have been in his bed at this very moment if it hadn’t been for the ups and downs of Petitjean’s love life.

“I think we should send him home,” Versavel suggested. “He’ll just get in everyone’s way. Give him a lift to Hauwer Street,” he said to Vermeersch, “then Decoster can help me with the police report.”

“Can’t the Deputy help?” Decoster joked. “Those guys are always rarin’ to go.”