From Bruges with Love (14 page)

Brouwers had called dozens of travel agencies in search of information when he struck gold with the last one on his list. He had a good story, and he told it with vigor. His brother-in-law, William Aerts, had recommended an apartment hotel on Malta, but he'd lost the address, and his brother-in-law was temporarily out of reach. All he could remember was the name of the travel agency where William made the reservation. He needed the name of the hotel. Would they mind checking?

“How did you know Aerts was staying in an apartment hotel?”

“I made it up.” Brouwers grinned. “But his name was in their computer, and that was the important thing. According to the guy at the travel agency, William booked his first trip to Malta in 1988. He opened the account at the Banco Condottiere a year later. I'm guessing he's been planning his disappearance for quite some time. I also wouldn't be surprised if he got to know someone in Malta.”

“Aren't we getting ahead of ourselves, Jos?”

“I'll be able to answer that question in a couple of days, sir.”

Brouwers had the half million bonus in mind, promised by Vandaele if he managed to liquidate Aerts within the week.

“So you're going to Malta,” said Vandaele.

“If that's OK with you, sir.”

“Of course, Jos. But keep me posted.”

“Of course, sir. I'll call every night between eleven and twelve.”

Van In arrived at the Hauwer Street police station around two-fifteen. He had enjoyed a healthy lunch with Hannelore on the terrace outside the Mozarthuys. Meat roasted on a lava stone grill was an acceptable alternative for people on a diet.

Versavel was peering through the window and barely reacted to Van In's cheerful greeting. “Problems, Guido?”

Versavel turned and sat down at his word processor without saying a word.

“I'm the one with the depression issues, don't forget.” Van In laughed.

Versavel didn't respond. The silence was heavy, like a wet bath towel on dry skin.

“Is there something going on with Frank?”

Versavel reached for his mustache and rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand. Van In joined him at his desk. His arm floated aimlessly through the air for a couple of seconds then landed a little awkwardly on his friend's shoulder.

“Nothing serious, I hope?”

Versavel appreciated the gesture. He turned to Van In with eyes full of sadness and despair. “Frank's gone. There was a note on the table when I went home at lunchtime. He took his clothes and his kitchen stuff—that's it.” He sounded as if he was still reading the note.

“Has Jonathan got anything to do with this?”

“Frank felt cheated, like he was nothing more than my house slave.”

Van In had been through a lot in his life, but a jealous fifty-six-year-old man was a first, and it pushed him to his limit. “Jeez, Guido,” was all he could think to say. “Just like that?”

Versavel shook his head. He'd seen it coming, and he cursed the day he set eyes on Jonathan again after so long.

“It's my fault, when you think of it,” said Van In submissively. “If I hadn't asked you …”

“I made the suggestion myself,” Versavel protested.

“D'you want me to take you home?”

Versavel looked at his friend, his eyes filling with tears. Van In felt a lump in his throat. “Not home, Pieter. It would drive me crazy.”

Versavel took his boss's hand. He was the only man alive who could get away with it. “A breath of fresh air wouldn't go amiss, Pieter.”

Carine Neels was taken aback at the sight of both men holding hands. Two days earlier she would have been sure to knock before entering Room 204, but now she felt like part of the team, a full member of Bruges' Special Investigations Unit.

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn't know …”

“No need to apologize,” said Van In, making no effort to let go of Versavel's hand.

“I thought you'd like to hear my report,” said Carine.

Her telephonic odyssey hadn't been very successful. Five minutes ago she had talked to Dr. Verminnen, the last plastic surgeon on her list, but like the others, he too was unable to remember a young man having his jaw set back for aesthetic reasons. Much to her surprise, Van In didn't seem to be bothered.

“Perhaps you could make yourself useful in another way, Carine.”

Her heart beast faster when Van In used her first name. “At your service, Commissioner,” she responded with enthusiasm.

“Are you free this evening?”

“Depends for what,” she said in a neutral tone.

Van In let go of Versavel's hand and invited Carine to sit at his desk. “Do you know what an undercover agent is, Carine?”

Of course she did. She never missed an episode of
NYPD
Blue
or
Hill Street Blues
.

“Then you know the risks involved?”

She nodded and tried to conceal her accelerated breathing by folding her arms macho-style.

“Good,” said Van In. “I want you to take the rest of the day off and …” He gave her a number of detailed instructions. “I'll expect you at my place around eight. Then we can go through the rest of the operation.”

Carine Neels floated out of the office like a madonna on a cloud. She wanted to broadcast her happiness for all to hear, but she knew that wasn't a good idea. If she did, she would blow her cover.

Gray clouds amassed above the towers of Bruges. After a long, warm summer, September was showing signs of an early winter. Van In headed toward the coast in the hope of catching a few final rays of sun. Versavel said nothing the entire journey, just stared ahead absently as if they were driving toward the end of the world.

Van In parked the Golf near the marina in Blankenberge, a busy seaside resort where the gray fall sky had made way for azure blue. A pleasant breeze wafted in from the sea. The people here seemed friendlier than in stuffy Bruges. The air was pure, and the murmur of the sea was enough to crush even Versavel's stony silence.

“You're a good man, Pieter,” he said out of the blue.

Van In rested his arm on his friend's shoulder. “I know, Guido,” he said with a laugh. “And it's good to hear it from someone else for a change. But you really knocked me for a loop back there. You and Frank? After so many years?”

Versavel filled his lungs with tepid sea air. In the car on the way from Bruges to Blankenberge, he had tried to find an explanation for the tragedy that had torn his orderly life to pieces. “I should have known,” he said. “I couldn't keep up with him, I mean sexually. It must have been painful for him. He alluded to it more than once in the last few months. It made me want to prove myself. The affair with Jonathan was the last straw. Frank's gone and I'm alone and old.”

Van In had experience with depression. Comforting words rarely helped heal the wounds, but silence made no sense either. “Spare me the nonsense, Guido. You don't look a day over forty. There's a big wide world out there, and you're handsome, kind, intelligent, and …”

Van In told Versavel the things
he
didn't want to hear from his well-intentioned friend when
he
had hit the bottom. Then he did something he could never have imagined doing in his wildest dreams. He turned and looked Versavel in the eye.

“And to cap it all off, you're my best friend, Guido, and I love you.”

Even Versavel was taken aback when Van In embraced him. A kiss on the cheek eased the pain if only for a moment. Day-trippers gaped, but Van In paid no attention.

“Hannelore would have done the same,” he said. “We both love you a lot, Guido. Don't forget it.”

Versavel looked up at the sky, at a loss for words to express his feelings. He stroked his mustache Versavel-style, and Van In read it as a good sign. “I think we both deserve a Duvel,” said Versavel unexpectedly.

“We?”

“I think I could use one too, especially today,” said Versavel.

A shrimp boat sailed into the harbor with a swarm of seagulls in its wake. It turned left at the lifeboat station and headed toward the eastern pier.

At the end of the pier there was a wooden warehouse that served as a café cum restaurant. The terrace out front was packed with hikers enjoying the late fall sun.

Van In just managed to secure a table where a group of four cackling Germans were arguing about the price of the sangria. He took advantage of their confusion, and the waiter clearly didn't mind. He smiled knowingly when the Germans continued their “alcohol-free stroll.”

“Two Duvels,” said Van In. “Ice-cold if possible.”

When a stately yacht sailed past the pier, everyone on the terrace turned right, and the cameras started to click. This was the highlight of the day for many of them. An original photo would be evidence to those at home that the day-trip hadn't been for nothing.

“Feeling any better?” Van In asked.

Versavel rolled up his shirtsleeves and loosened his tie. No one would have guessed he was a cop. “De Kee wanted to talk with you this morning,” he said.

“For Christ's sake, Guido, relax.”

“I'm relaxing, Pieter, I'm relaxing. My work is all I have right now. It keeps the ghosts at bay.”

The waiter—friendly, fortysomething—served the Duvels with the usual thick head of froth. When Versavel took out his wallet to pay right away, the man held up his hand. That suited Versavel down to the ground.

“Any idea what the old bugger wanted to talk about?”

Versavel gulped down the high-octane beer as if it were mineral water. Tufts of froth glistened in his mustache. “He read your report, Pieter. I think he's pissed about the list you managed to squeeze out of Linda Aerts. De Jaegher's a board member at De Kee's rotary club.”

“I can imagine some of the names will give him nightmares,” said Van In. He was thinking of Johan Brys, among others, the ambitious minister of foreign affairs. When guys like that reach a certain level, all that matters is money and sex.

“Whoever Herbert is, he must have been quite a special man,” Van In murmured.

“D'you think there's a connection between Brys, Provoost, and Herbert?”

“Two of them are already dead,” said Van In.

“So you're planning to move in on Brys?”

Van In had asked himself the same question a thousand times in the last forty-eight hours. Crucifying government ministers had become fashionable of late, but if he wanted to grill Brys, he would need proper evidence. The occasional visit to an obscure farmhouse for a bit of slap and tickle wasn't a crime. “Some of the other names on the list are interesting too, Guido.”

Versavel nodded. Bringing in the minister of foreign affairs for questioning on the basis of a forced confession from a brothel keeper wasn't worth the risks. The idea of turning up the heat on Brys by smoking out some of his cronies sounded a great deal safer.

Van In ordered another pair of Duvels and a plate of cheese. The light lunch he had enjoyed with Hannelore had clearly been a little too light.

“We have to find the weakest link, Guido.”

He fished a copy of the list from his inside pocket, and they reviewed the names together. After discounting the magistrates, they were left with a dozen or so politicians, a retired federal police colonel, four industrialists, a priest named Deflour, a couple of senior civil servants at the Ministry of Finance, Vervoort, and De Jaegher. Van In was certain that the list was far from complete. Linda Aerts only knew the names of the regulars. He took a pen and underlined the names of the Helping Our Own board members: Vandaele, Provoost, Vervoort, Deflour, and Muys.

“Let me deal with the canon,” said Versavel enthusiastically. “Priests aren't supposed to lie, or so they say.”

Van In circled the name
Deflour
.

“Then I'll take Muys,” he said grinning.

“Why Muys?”

Van In took a swig of his second Duvel. “Isn't it obvious?” He laughed. “Muys rhymes with mouse rhymes with whorehouse.”

Versavel finished his second Duvel in almost a single gulp. The effects of such an overdose were immediately apparent. “I have to tell Europol right away,” he slurred. “I'm pretty sure they don't have that particular method of inquiry in their database.”

Carine Neels had to ask directions a couple of times before she finally arrived at the Vette Vispoort. The man she spoke to on Saint Jacob Street offered her five thousand francs for an hour at his place. Her metamorphosis had clearly worked. Carine caught sight of her reflection in a shop window.
Pretty sexy,
she thought.

10

M
elchior Muys was a corpulent man, his ice-cold cobra eyes bulging behind the convex lenses of his expensive designer glasses. His receding hairline was typical of a genuine bureaucrat. Such premature baldness was once considered a sign of wisdom. Now people knew better. Men were bald because their maternal grandfathers were bald.

Van In knew that Muys was forty-four. Without that information he would have said the senior auditor was at least ten years older.

“Good morning, Commissioner.”

Muys offered him a chair. A tray with a thermos and two cups was evidence that the man had been expecting him. In spite of the obligatory
no smoking
sign, Van In lit a cigarette with the intention of showing Muys who was boss before they got started. Muys was quick to react. He pressed the button on his intercom and asked his secretary to bring an ashtray.

“I'm here about the Yves Provoost murder,” said Van In coolly.

Coming straight to the point had its advantages. The initial reaction of the person being interrogated was often invaluable, certainly if he was pouring coffee at the time. The timing was perfect. Muys spilled coffee in the saucer.

“An unfortunate affair,” Muys conceded.

The senior auditor tried to keep his trembling hand under control.

“You knew him well, I presume.”

Muys returned the thermos to the tray and sat down at his desk, where he felt a great deal safer. “Professionally, yes,” he said with obvious caution. “Yves was a valued colleague. His death has touched me deeply. Such a brutal killing—”

“Provoost was liquidated,” Van In interrupted. “According to the present state of the investigation, we're assuming it had to do with his regular visits to the Love.”

Muys folded his arms under his chin, a bearing intended to absorb the shock caused by Van In's reference to the Love.

“If I'm not mistaken, you visited the place yourself, Mr. Muys?” Van In inquired, sipping his coffee and pretending to look out the window while keeping Muys in view from the corner of his left eye.

“Excuse me, Commissioner, but I'm afraid I don't follow you,” said Muys, his voice composed. The shock effect had clearly worn off.

“You were never there?”

“Never,” said Muys.

The senior auditor had recovered his balance. Like so many middle management civil servants, he had learned by trial and error that truth was a relative concept. Denial was always better than admission. “Another coffee, Commissioner? Or a cognac perhaps?”

He was about to get up when Van In gestured that he was happy with another coffee, but Muys wasn't taking no for an answer. The filing cabinet was where the majority of civil servants kept their stash of booze.

“Yet there are witnesses who swear you were a regular,” said Van In. “Which isn't a crime, of course,” he added immediately.

Muys selected an unopened bottle of Otard from an extensive assortment. “I wonder who such witnesses might be, Commissioner,” he said.

He poured Van In an immense glass of Otard, a tried and tested technique that almost always worked. Food and drink was the cheapest form of corruption in Flanders.

Van In recognized the maneuver. His thoughts turned to Linda Aerts. He understood why she'd lost her bearings. A night in a police cell could be a grisly experience, especially after learning that your partner has taken off with your savings. Van In didn't consider himself an alcoholic, but the amber liquid had a strange attraction.
One glass wouldn't do any harm,
he thought. “I'm afraid I can't say, Mr. Muys, but we have evidence to suggest that …” Muys gave him the glass of cognac.

“Cheers, Commissioner.”

Van In took a sip. Only a week ago, this sin would have filled him with remorse. But today the flavor of wood and fire was sheer pleasure, pure and simple.

“This is an informal interview, Commissioner,” said Muys. “Off the record, if I understand you correctly?”

Van In nodded. He felt like a coachman losing control of the reins, his horses on the verge of bolting.

“I'm pleased to hear it.” Muys smiled. “Otherwise I would be obliged to consult my lawyer.”

He sipped victoriously at his glass. The man's malicious reptilian gaze brought Van In back to his senses.

“I wonder what your lawyer would advise if I were to let him see the videos, Mr. Muys. Unless your wife doesn't mind her husband messing around behind closed doors.”

Van In realized that this was a major gamble, but the way Muys's fingers tensed around his glass spoke volumes. His knuckles turned white, and in the business, that was called a bull's-eye.

“Videos, Commissioner?”

“Every married man drops his pants now and then, Muys. I don't expect the taxman's slaves to be any exception.”

Muys focused on the Otard and gulped greedily at the bait he'd set out for Van In. “It's all so long ago, Commissioner,” said Muys after a few moments of silence. “I was there twice, max.”

“Twice?”

People always lie by degrees, thinking they'll get off cheaper if they minimize the frequency of their misdeeds.

“You mean twice a month,” said Van In sternly.

The senior auditor took another gulp of the first-rate Otard, which he drank like lemonade. Muys searched in desperation for the best way to limit the damage.

“But that's not why I'm here, Muys. I'm more interested in Provoost and Brys.”

Muys was visibly distressed. His reptilian eyes narrowed into thin bloodless slits. He knew there had been problems in the eighties. Vandaele had shut down the Love without warning, and there were rumors going around that something bad had happened in the place. Provoost and Brys had also been mentioned, and it had taken a full year before activities could restart in another location. “Civil servants aren't saints, Commissioner. Sometimes we have to be pragmatic, if you get my drift.”

Van In swirled the cognac in his glass and inhaled its aromas as a connoisseur would. “You mean the taxman's always open to suggestions.”

Muys tried to defend himself as best he could. The lie had burst open like a festering ulcer. “Sometimes there are other factors we have to account for,” he said with caution.

“Such as?”

Van In permitted himself the air of an inquisitor. His illustrious predecessors had demonstrated that the very sight of instruments of torture could have the same effect as actually using them.

“Jobs, Commissioner. If we were to tax every company to the limit, then …”

“Then what?”

Muys poured himself another drink.

Van In enjoyed watching the senior auditor walk into his own trap.

“Everyone knows that taxes in this country are inhumanly high. That's why we're instructed not to be too strict with the minor evaders. At least that's what it used to be like,” said Muys.

“And in exchange for your silence, you get some free ass on a regular basis at the Love?”

Van In grabbed the Otard and made a show of pouring himself a second glass. Victory had to be celebrated. Muys reminded him of a character in a Fellini movie. The senior auditor was nothing more than a quivering pile of fat in a tailor-made suit.

“It wasn't uncommon back then,” Muys whimpered. “That sort of thing was tolerated in the eighties.”

“And you've changed your ways,” Van In observed sarcastically.

Muys looked at him imploringly, like a pig face-to-face with its slaughterer.

“So you have no information on Brys and Provoost?”

Muys shook his head vehemently. One word about Brys and he could kiss his career in the ministry good-bye.

“Vervoort perhaps?”

A vacant expression took hold of Muys's face. Vervoort was dynamite. He had warned Vandaele about him years ago.

“You know Vervoort, don't you? He's on the board of Helping Our Own if I'm not mistaken, and according to the information I have at my disposal, you are too.”

Van In had been saving this observation for last. The talk about Provoost's murder was designed to bring Muys to his knees.

“That's correct, Commissioner.”

Muys pressed his lips together, which made him look like a cobra. “The charity was Mr. Vandaele's initiative. The organization's goal is to support people in need.”

“Our own people?”

“Flemish people in need, Commissioner. Everyone is welcome.”

“No conditions?”

“No conditions,” Muys confirmed. “We verify our clients' stories, of course. We don't want people abusing the system.”

Muys gulped. His Adam's apple wiggled almost invisibly. He shouldn't have used the word
abuse
.

“Remarkable,” said Van In. “I've been told that people who want the charity's help have to be card-carrying FLASYC members.”

It was a reasoned guess. Van In had no hard evidence that the charity only offered help on the basis of ideological inclination.

“Out of the question, Commissioner. FLASYC heads a political movement, and we work with them from time to time. Of course, I can't deny that many of the people we assist end up joining the movement on their own initiative.”

Van In knew exactly how to play the winning hand. “Are you a revisionist, Mr. Muys?”

The senior auditor was manifestly shocked at the question. The vein meandering across his forehead visibly swelled. “I don't have to answer that question,” he said stoically.

Van In gauged the hostility in the man's words. “So you admit it,” he said. “I wouldn't be surprised if the millions the charity spends on printing every year is intended to convince the innocent that the concentration camps were a fable and that the Jews who didn't return died of lung infections and dysentery.”

“You have no right …” said Muys, his pent-up rage visible in the same ugly pulsing vein on his forehead.

Van In felt the time had come to let go. “What gives you the right to mislead people in need? Your sort makes me sick. And let me promise you one thing: I'm going to enjoy cuffing you, Mr. Muys. Soon!”

Van In glanced at his watch. “But now it's time for a breath of fresh air.”

He got to his feet and left the senior auditor a blubbering mess.

Versavel was waiting for Van In in Room 204. His visit with Canon Deflour had taken less time than he had planned.

“The flesh is weak,” said Versavel when Van In asked him about his conversation with the priest. “I came away with the impression that the poor soul was happy to be able to confess his sins.”

In different circumstances Versavel would have grinned at that point. But this time he delivered his report as if he was carrying the pain of the planet on his shoulders.

“Did he have anything to say about Provoost?”

“Negative.”

“Brys?”

“Not a word,” said Versavel. “Deflour seems like an honest man.”

“FLASYC?”

“Deflour swears by all the saints in heaven that he has no access to the charity's accounts.”

“That's crap. There are more Catholic priests with extreme right leanings in this little country of ours than you'd think.”

“What if we're on the wrong track?” Versavel asked.

Van In had also asked himself that question. The connection between Herbert, Provoost and FLASYC was extremely fragile. If Provoost hadn't been murdered, he'd have abandoned the hypothesis long ago. “If the phone tap brings in nothing, then it's time we started looking elsewhere,” said Van In resignedly.

Versavel's eyes widened.

Van In freed a last cigarette from his crumpled pack. “I wasn't planning to mention it, Guido, but …” Van In filled his lungs with smoke. “I know a guy … who happens to owe me big-time.”

Versavel raised his hand to his forehead. “You're playing with fire, Pieter. Does Hannelore know about this?”

“She's determined to go to Portugal.” Van In sighed. “If I go the legal way, it'll take at least two months to get permission to tap their lines.”

“Tell me about it,” said Versavel pointedly. He and Frank had been planning a trip to Turkey. The very thought of it pained his heart. “Why not put a wire on Vandaele and Brys?”

Before Van In could answer, the telephone rang.

“Hello.”

Van In grabbed a pen, scribbled a couple of sentences, and asked a couple of questions Versavel didn't understand. The conversation lasted three minutes. Van In appeared exceptionally upbeat.

“Well?” asked Versavel.

“Vandaele and Brys both have scramblers on their phones,” said Van In, confused.

“That's not what I meant, Pieter.”

“Wasn't that what you asked?”

“Yes, that's what I asked, but now I want to know who you were just talking to.”

Van In pretended he didn't notice Versavel's curt tone. The sergeant was on edge. The positive effects of the visit to Blankenberge hadn't lasted long. Frank's departure had aged him five years in the space of a couple of days. “Muys called Vervoort less than five minutes after I left. He asked about the charity's accounts, whether they were up to a serious audit. If Vervoort's reaction is anything to go by, Muys can relax. There isn't an examining magistrate in the country who would dare to issue a warrant on Helping Our Own.”

“He might be right, Pieter.”

Van In shrugged his shoulders.

Leo Vanmaele was renowned for his perfect sense of timing, invariably appearing when no one expected him.

“Am I interrupting?” The diminutive photographer grinned.

“You? Interrupting? Impossible, Leo. Grab a chair. Any coffee left, Guido?”

Versavel grunted, got to his feet, and fetched him some coffee.

Leo snuggled into one of the new office chairs. He liked the fact that he could adjust the height when he was already sitting down. It was a bit like a Big Dipper ride. But even at its lowest setting, his feet still didn't touch the ground. “Provoost's last hours were pretty ugly,” he said, making a long face.