The Square of Revenge (30 page)

“And your sisters?”

This time her answer took a little longer.

“I don’t think so,” she said with a sigh. “Everyone knows my father’s a ladies’ man, Commissioner. He even has a relationship going with my sister-in-law. My father arranged the marriage with Ghislain. That way, she was always around. But to be honest, I know nothing about Aurelie. She’s never spoken to me about it. I was always away at boarding school.”

“Did you know that Benedicta tried to commit suicide?”

This time she jumped.

“Did he tell you that?”

Van In nodded.

“One of the kidnappers, the younger of the two, managed to approach her in the monastery. Is it possible that she knew something?”

Charlotte was silent. Van In was overcome once again by an oppressive unease.

“Apparently the entire tragedy has to do with Aurelie. Your father claims she lost her mind when he forced her to have an abortion.”

“Abortion? Aurelie never had an abortion! My father banished her to our country house in Loppem. That’s where she had the baby. The local priest arranged for an adoptive family. She never forgave him for it. My father had her committed because her aggressiveness was getting out of control.”

“Is this true?” asked Van In, barely able to control his excitement.

“Of course it’s true!”

She sounded like a doctor refusing to back down after making a diagnosis.

“But what does it have to do with the abduction of Bertrand?”

There are moments when the solution to a problem presents itself in a flash and then turns gray all of a sudden before you have the chance to grasp its essence. Van In was familiar enough with the frustrating experience. He had to act quickly.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but I think we might finally have a tangible clue.”

“Really, Commissioner?” was all Charlotte could manage.

She sat frozen to the spot as Van In rushed inside.

He called Hannelore, Public Prosecutor Lootens, and De Kee in that order.

In less than half an hour, the investigative machinery they had at their disposal was running flat out.

T
HE ELDERLY DOMESTIC ADMITTED VERSAVEL
to the episcopal palace, astonishment written all over his face.

The bishop in person was waiting for him and brought him to the archives that had been housed for the last couple of years in refurbished stables at the back of the commanding mansion.

“The archivist is on his way,” the bishop declared nervously. “Pity I can’t be of personal assistance, but the archives are not my domain.”

“No problem, your grace, I’ll wait.”

The archivist, a skeletal cathedral canon, arrived a couple of minutes later, puffing like a leaky bellows. He had run all the way from his home on High Street to the palace on Holy Ghost Street.

“1964,” he wheezed. “Loppem. I don’t have to check. Fernand Debrabandere was parish priest in Loppem from ’63 to ’72.”

“Is he still alive?” asked Versavel, hoping for a positive answer.

“Let me think …”

The canon furrowed his brows and held his hand in front of his eyes. His memory was apparently not perfect. After a couple of seconds he rushed over to a metal filing cabinet and opened the bottom drawer.

“Debrabandere Georges, Debrabandere Adolf, Debrabandere Fernand.”

He pulled the file from the drawer and opened it.

“Pastor in retirement since 1982. He lives with the Sisters of Mercy in Ruiselede,” he crowed triumphantly.

The bishop produced a studied Pepsodent smile, the sort he saved for the faithful on feast days, and turned to Versavel with sparkling eyes. He hoped the media would appreciate the diocese’s spontaneous cooperation after the successful resolution of the kidnapping.

Versavel contacted the station on Hauwer Street by radio and passed on the information.

“Perhaps your grace would be kind enough to contact the sisters in person.”

Versavel caught himself striking an unctuous tone.

“Commissioner Van In insists that we question Father Debrabandere this evening. He’s on his way to Ruiselede at this very moment in the company of Deputy Public Prosecutor Martens.”

“But of course, Inspector.”

“Sergeant, your grace,” said Versavel. “I’m a sergeant.”

Hannelore leaped at the telephone like a tiger when it rang that evening at seven-thirty.

She had spent the entire time moping over the stunt Van In had pulled with her. She found it hard to believe that the conversation with Degroof had lasted so long. If he had discovered something, why in God’s name hadn’t he called?

Van In was straining at the leash with impatience when she turned onto Bishop Avenue. The adrenaline pumped through his veins. He had never managed to force such a breakthrough in his entire career. But honesty also compelled him to add that he had never been confronted with a case of this magnitude in all his years in the Bruges police.

Van In felt reborn, liberated in one fell swoop from twenty years of routine. If he managed to successfully conclude the Degroof case, he could finally salvage some of his long-lost self-respect.

“Hi, Hannelore!” It was the most upbeat he had felt in years.

“Do you need a chauffeur, or am I allowed to join in properly this time?” she snarled, her mood an antidote to his good cheer.

Charlotte was taken aback by the way they interacted, but she didn’t let it show. Van In was in such a euphoric mood that her sarcasm didn’t bother him in the least.

“Let’s call it a draw,” he chirped. “Don’t forget, you weaseled out on Friday in the interests of the inquiry.”

Hannelore caught sight of Charlotte and bit her lip. They were acting like an old married couple.

“But at least I gave you a full report, Commissioner,” she said, sounding a bit more formal.

“And you can expect the same from me, ma’am.”

Charlotte accompanied them to the front door. The tempo of the investigation had picked up since earlier in the morning. Now she had the impression that something was actually happening.

“Don’t wake your husband,” said Van In. “Who knows, perhaps we’ll have better news before morning.”

Just before they walked out the door, Charlotte grabbed Van In by the arm and gave him a warm kiss on the cheek.

“Every success, Pieter. You can’t imagine how much we’ll be in your debt if you find our son alive and well.”

Van In beamed, and he didn’t fail to notice the short but nasty look from Hannelore.

“Ruiselede, and don’t spare the horses,” he said as Hannelore started the Twingo.

Versavel had just returned from his visit to the bishop and was waiting in the station’s inner courtyard for them to pick him up. He had called Charlotte and knew they were on their way.

Sister Marie-Therese kept watch at the convent gate on mother superior’s orders.

“Don’t keep them waiting, whatever you do,” the bishop had insisted. “The life of an innocent child may be at stake.”

Hannelore steered her diminutive Renault at breakneck speed in the direction of Ruiselede, while listening carefully to Van In’s slightly revised account of his meeting with Degroof. He made no mention of Degroof’s bribe offer.

In the meantime, mother superior shepherded Father Debrabandere, the convent’s spiritual director, with considerable urgency toward the front door. The poor man had already been in bed for an hour and she had had to push her powers of persuasion to their limits to convince the half-senile priest that the police visit was of exceptional importance.

“The bishop himself called,” she had said when the stubborn clergyman protested. She deposited him in a chair in one of the parlors and hurried to join sister Marie-Therese at the gate. Five minutes and three Hail Maries later, Hannelore’s Twingo tore around the corner into Pensionaat Street. The convent door swung open before she got out of the car.

“Walk this way,” said the plain-spoken mother superior in what sounded like a cross between an order and a request.

“Father Debrabandere is still a little groggy. I think I should be present, given the circumstances … with your permission, of course,” she added devoutly.

Debrabandere was a quirky old clergyman. He had devoted his life to the Church, and as a priest he had instilled the faithful under his charge with awe. The simple among them had believed his every word, and the prominent among them had provided him with the necessary prestige.

He was now eighty-two. He had watched the Church slide from a mighty organization to a narrow-minded institution that had lost almost all of its credit.

Father Debrabandere had kept his promise of celibacy throughout his priestly life. But the whirlwind of renewal that had raged through the Church in recent years had ultimately driven him to the bottle. When the bishop concluded that he was no longer in control of his drinking, he banished him to the convent.

“I remember the incident well,” said Debrabandere with a twinkle in his eye when Van In cautiously inquired about Aurelie Degroof’s child. “Mr. Ludovic consulted me personally.”

“And the child was probably placed with a family immediately after the birth? A Loppem family, I would imagine?”

Van In raised his voice. Mother superior had told him that the priest was hard of hearing.

“Absolutely,” said Debrabandere. “I took care of it myself.”

“And do you remember their name, Father?”

The elderly priest closed his eyes. Deep wrinkles appeared in the parchment skin of his forehead.

“Their name, Father,” Van In insisted when the man remained silent.

Debrabandere’s fleshy chin sagged to his chest.

“Don’t fall asleep, Father. These people have come especially from Bruges. A boy has been kidnapped,” said mother superior, shaking his shoulder. Debrabandere raised a single eyelid.

“Forgive me, sister,” he mumbled. “My memory isn’t what it was. But a good glass of Burgundy might help. I know that from experience.”

Van In and Hannelore were perplexed and turned to mother superior. The sturdy sister was also at a loss.

“But Father,” she protested. If Van In and Hannelore hadn’t been there, she would have given him a good telling off, reminding him that the bishop’s orders had been clear and unequivocal: no alcohol, not even on feast days.

“If a glass of wine can help, sister,” said Hannelore impatiently.

“We urgently need this information,” said Van In, piling up the pressure.

The sister was of two minds. The bishop’s orders had indeed been clear, but he had also asked her to help the police in whatever way she could.

“All right, then,” she sighed. “His grace will forgive me this once.”

When she was gone, Debrabandere signaled that Van In and Hannelore should come closer.

“The family’s name was Verhaeghe, Jan and Bea Verhaeghe. The lived on Station Street in Loppem back then. Jan was a teacher at the village school and Bea raised money for the missions. They were childless, but the Degroof child brought them enormous happiness,” the elderly priest grinned.

“Are you sure?” asked Van In.

“Of course I’m sure. They left Loppem in 1966. The boy had health problems and they decided to move to the coast, De Panne if I’m not mistaken.”

“De Panne?”

Debrabandere straightened his back, almost got to his feet, and raised a bony finger to Van In.

“Listen, young man. There’s nothing wrong with my memory.”

And your hearing’s fine too
, Hannelore thought to herself.

“The Verhaeghes live in De Panne,” he snapped.

He collapsed back into his chair with a gasp. Van In was worried they might have pushed the old man too far. He wasn’t to know that Debrabandere was worried too, that his harshness toward the police officer might have endangered his liquid reward.

“But do me a favor,” the priest groaned endearingly. “Wait till she comes back with the wine.”

Van In gave him the opportunity to empty two glasses, which the elderly priest managed in no time at all. Mother superior followed the drinking session with her eyes on stalks.

They thanked Debrabandere and mother superior accompanied them to the gate, her skirts in a flurry.

“I’m certain his grace would appreciate it if Father Debrabandere were to receive an appropriate reward for his assistance. Don’t you think, Deputy Martens?” said Versavel.

“Absolutely,” Hannelore concurred with a wink. “I think he earned every bit of his bottle of Burgundy. It stimulates the memory, my grandfather used to say. If I were you, I’d treat him to a couple of glasses every day.”

“Is that true, ma’am?” mother superior asked, a little awe-struck.

“Of course. Who knows … that bottle of Burgundy may have saved an innocent child’s life,” said Van In.

They all burst out laughing in the car.

“To De Panne?” she asked rhetorically.

“There’s a telephone box next to the church. Call Bruges and ask them to contact the local police.”

“Can’t we just look up their address in the telephone directory?”

“But what if there’s more than one Verhaeghe in De Panne? It’s a fairly common name. Let’s not take any chances. And let’s swing by the station in Hauwer Street first. I think it’s time to switch to a police car.”

“As long as I get to drive,” said Hannelore. “And switch on the sirens,” she added.

No one could accuse the De Panne police of not being fast and efficient.

“The Verhaeghes are on vacation,” Versavel shouted as they stepped out of the car in the station’s inner courtyard.

“One of the duty officers happened to know the family. They’re driving around the south of France in a camper van for three weeks.”

“Shit,” Van In cursed. “That’s all we needed.”

Hannelore was bewildered.

“And the children? Do they know where they live?”

“They don’t have their own children! Why else did they adopt Aurelie’s child?”

“That’s what I meant,” said Van In, irked.

“We’re working on it,” said Versavel.

“Okay, let’s go inside and have a coffee. Sorry, sweetheart, but I promise you can switch on the lights and siren next time.”

“Is that a promise, Pieter?” she pouted.

Versavel pretended not to have heard.
Jesus … what are they like?
he thought.
A couple of schoolgirls
…