From Bruges with Love (17 page)

“Hmm.” Van In sniffed. “I have to admit that our friend William has pretty good taste, but Hannelore insists on Portugal. Sorry, Baert.”

Versavel stared at his boss in disbelief. One day Van In was going to go too far and Baert was going to explode like an overinflated balloon.

“Let's go, Guido. Poirot here has work to do. First stop home to collect my ID.”

Versavel didn't hesitate. Before Baert had the time to recover from his second surprise, the two men were chuckling in the corridor.

Van In parked the Golf on Burg Square, a privilege granted only to the police and a handful of apparatchiks. He loosened his tie and tossed the choking thing onto the backseat.

“De Kee's expecting me in his office at eleven,” he said nonchalantly. “But first we need to talk.”

“So you don't trust De Kee either.”

Versavel tapped the dashboard as if he were playing an invisible piano.

“Dirk Baert is a sucker, and they say suckers can be vindictive. It wouldn't surprise me if our chief inspector is reporting back to the big boss every day, and the very thought drives me up a wall,” said Van In.

They wrestled their way through an almost stationary sea of people blocking access to Blinde Ezel Street like a herd of dull-witted cattle.

“I presume we're looking for a quiet café terrace,” Versavel figured.

“Needs must, my friend. The Duvel supply at home has dried up, so I'm forced to be unfaithful.”

“Huidenvetters Square?”

“Too much yackety-yak, Guido. I prefer l'Estaminet at this hour of the day.”

Van In wormed his way through a horde of hysterical Spaniards. A well-mannered family man who was just about to take his best ever video shots called him every name in the book. Van In didn't give a damn. He had walked into the occasional cameraman's field of fire on purpose.

Queen Astrid Park is sometimes referred to as the green lung of Bruges, a nickname it doesn't really deserve since it has little more to offer than a dozen unhealthy trees, a silted-up pond, and two hundred square yards of parched grass. Van In couldn't help agree as he walked past the listed facade on the Pandreitje, an adjoining street. The old prison had been demolished five years earlier, and the undeveloped land had been transformed into a cheerless parking lot after a political wrangle that seemed to take forever. The ad hoc urban intervention hadn't done anything to improve the view of the park. The city fathers might just as well have planted a power station on Burg Square. But the disharmony between nature and commerce offered one positive advantage: tourists avoided the place like the plague.

It was pleasantly warm on l'Estaminet's covered terrace. A group of about fifteen handicapped youngsters with almost as many supervisors had commandeered the lion's share of the tables. The atmosphere was friendly and good-natured. Van In reveled in being surrounded by real people for once. A young man with palsy treated him to a huge grin. His face was covered in chocolate sauce, and it clearly delighted him.

Van In chose a table in the corner of the terrace, and Versavel joined him. Like Van In, he too enjoyed the sight of the handicapped youngsters having such fun.

“I wanted to have a word about the Pamela Anderson connection,” said Van In, coming straight to the point.

Versavel was a stranger in the hetero world, and Van In could read it in his eyes.

“The silicon boobs, Guido.”

Johan, the proprietor of l'Estaminet, wiped the table with a damp cloth. Unlike Versavel, he knew exactly who Pamela Anderson was, and her silicon boobs didn't bother him in the least. “Two Duvels?” he asked.

“A Perrier and a Duvel,” said Van In when Versavel waved the offer aside.

Johan beat a professional retreat. He wasn't in the habit of eavesdropping on his clients' conversations.

“The prostheses are no use to us, Guido. There's no way we can trace where they came from. All they tell us is that our Herbert was a transsexual, and that sheds a whole new light on the case. Until yesterday we presumed Herbert was a man and his connection with the orgies at the Love was unclear. But as a woman, he fits perfectly into the little network Vandaele and his consorts created. Whores get bumped off every day.”

Versavel nodded. He had to admit yet again that Van In's intuition was not to be mocked. The commissioner had been following the right tracks from the outset. Herbert's death had a direct link with the parties at the Love.

“Are you thinking what I'm thinking?” asked Van In as he curled his thirsty lips around the frothy Duvel Johan had just served.

“That things got seriously out of hand at one of those parties?” asked Versavel.

“Gold star, my boy! Front of the class!” Van In grinned.

One of the handicapped girls responded to his grin with a fitful grimace. The young man with the face full of chocolate sauce was sitting beside her. A supervisor wiped his mouth, which he clearly didn't like. He stamped his feet and demanded another ice cream. Paid charity was clearly an ersatz solution, but Van In still admired the patience with which the supervisors interacted with the youngsters in their care. If he had been a believer, he would have said a prayer there and then, and begged God for a healthy baby.

“I can't imagine too many sex-change operations were carried out in Belgium in the eighties,” said Versavel. “I'm guessing only a couple of places were equipped back then for that kind of business. Why not have Baert call the university hospitals. We'll know who Herbert is before the day's out.”

“Baert's already called every specialist in Flanders,” said Van In. “And besides—”

“You don't trust the man.”

“How did you guess? If Dirk Baert identifies Herbert, he'll be on the phone to the press in a heartbeat to take credit for a breakthrough in the investigation.”

“Ask Carine then.”

Van In shook his head. “Carine's got other business to attend to.”

He briefed Versavel about the undercover operation. “Social services agreed to help. If someone from Care House asks for information on Carine Neels, they'll get a social worker on the line with a fake story. According to their files, Carine Neels is on benefits. Her husband left her with a pile of debt, and if she doesn't pay up in a couple of months, she'll be evicted from her apartment.”

Versavel looked at Van In with surprise. “Does De Kee know about this?”

The group of handicapped youngsters was getting ready to move on. At least they could rely on the safe shelter of a properly functioning institution, something most ordinary people had to do without. Van In waved when the ice-cream-guzzling young man treated him to another lopsided smile.

“Jesus H. Christ. Didn't I say De Kee was expecting me at eleven?”

“You did,” said Versavel. “And you've got ten minutes. Shall I call a taxi?”

Van In emptied his glass in haste.

“I'll walk, Guido.”

He jumped to his feet.

“And I'll settle the bill.” Versavel grinned.

Van In turned.

“Relax, Pieter. I'll make the university hospital calls when I get back to the office.”

“Thanks, Guido.”

The jingle of keys arrested his movement.

“The car's parked around the corner,” Versavel said.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Van In groaned. “Couldn't you have said that earlier?”

Versavel took two hundred-franc notes from his wallet, left them on the table, and followed his boss.

“Hello, Amand.” Jeroen Plets's voice sounded tense. Jane was standing at his back. “Jeroen here. There's something I have to tell you.”

Amand looked at the busload of hungry Germans noisily storming his restaurant. “I don't have a lot of time, Jeroen. It's busy as hell here.”

“Two minutes,” Plets begged.

Chief Commissioner De Kee was deep in the shit. Dr. De Jaegher was a good friend who overstepped the mark once in a while. No big deal. Most men grabbed a bit on the side when they could. The problem was that the doctor's name had appeared on a list Van In had acquired by improper means. De Kee was faced with a dilemma. If he rapped Van In's knuckles for his unorthodox methods, the insubordinate commissioner would accuse him of bias. If he said nothing, then De Jaegher planned to go public with an old secret, and De Kee was determined not to let him. No one had to know that he had gotten a young officer pregnant ten years before and that De Jaegher had skillfully disposed of the result of his fleeting moment of passion.

Van In waited at the door until the clock in the corridor struck eleven. He straightened his tie and knocked.

De Kee jumped to his feet and instead of pressing the
enter
button on his desk he opened the door himself. “What a pleasure to see you, Pieter,” said the chief commissioner a little too emphatically.

They shook hands. De Kee sat down at his desk and invited Van In to take the seat opposite him. The office had a familiar feel to it, as if De Kee had never been away. Van In looked around. Everything was back in its place—the framed university diploma, the photo of De Kee with the king, the artwork he had been given as a gift by the Belgian football association, an etching of city hall, and a baseball hat with the logo of the American Police Federation.

“And how is the Provoost case progressing?” De Kee folded his arms, rolled back his chair, and stretched out his legs, just like the legendary J. Edgar Hoover had been in the habit of doing.

“I think there's light at the end of the tunnel,” said Van In.

“Explain, Pieter.”

“We're focusing on the first murder for the moment,” said Van In. “And we're expecting a breakthrough anytime now.”

De Kee maneuvered his chair closer and leaned over his desk.

“I'm not interested in the mysterious John Doe, Pieter Van In,” he whispered. “Take my advice and leave that line of investigation be for a while. It's a nasty bag of worms, and it could drag you in before you know it. There are names on the list you gave me—important people, people with influence. There's a strong possibility—”

“Dr. De Jaegher doesn't need to worry.”

Van In stared the chief commissioner in the eye.

De Kee got to his feet. It was clear from his tightening jaw muscles that he was doing his best to contain himself. “And why might Dr. De Jaegher have reason to worry?” he asked.

“I can't say. We all make mistakes, Chief Commissioner, and if we were to drag everyone who ever crossed the line before the courts, the prisons would be full of decent citizens.” Van In allowed himself an arrogant smile.

De Kee sat, joined his hands behind his head, and stretched. The message was loud and clear. Van In would keep his hands off De Jaegher if the Linda Aerts incident was allowed to fizzle out. “A reasonable way of looking at things, Pieter.”

His voice was much milder than it was minutes earlier. It wasn't the first time he had underestimated Commissioner Van In's shrewdness. “Don't think I'm trying to influence your investigation, Pieter. My main concern is the welfare of my team. That's why I felt it my duty to discuss a number of delicate issues with you. But now that our strategies would appear to be aligned, let's hope both murders can be resolved to our mutual satisfaction. In fact, I'm looking forward to it with bated breath. Let justice be done.”

Even seasoned politicians would think twice before uttering such crap, but De Kee thought he'd fended for himself pretty well given the circumstances.

“Will that be all, Chief Commissioner?”

“One last thing, Pieter. As far as I'm concerned, the Linda Aerts affair is closed but only on the condition that you leave her alone. As long as she's not being indicted on charges, keep your hands off her. Is that clear?”

Van In didn't blame the old bugger for wanting the last word. “You can count on it,” he said, relieved.

De Kee got to his feet and accompanied his subordinate to the door. The conversation had lasted no more than ten minutes, and both parties were satisfied with its outcome.

As soon as Van In was out of his office, De Kee called Dr. De Jaegher.

“Psst.”

Van In was about to walk into Room 204 when Carine Neels drew his attention with another
psst
. It may not have been particularly original, but it worked. Van In turned, and Carine gestured that she wanted to have a word. The young policewoman looked far from sexy in her uniform.

Van In played the game. They walked together to the first floor where there was a room that was tailor-made for clandestine encounters.

“Big news,” she whispered excitedly.

Van In locked the door behind him. The poor creature was quivering like a hummingbird.

“You were right, Commissioner. Care House is a front for a prostitution network. I tried to reach you yesterday but—”

“Calm down, Carine,” said Van In. He wondered if he had done the right thing when he gave her the job. Carine sat down.

“Ilse contacted me this morning. She said that they were looking into a solution for my problems and asked if I would stop by.”

Carine was in such a hurry to tell her story she sounded more and more flustered by the second. “The charity is prepared to settle my debts and pay my rent in arrears in return for a small favor.”

Her cheeks blushed.

“You didn't agree to anything, did you?” said Van In.

“Ilse took a couple of photos,” she said provocatively.

“Nude photos?”

She nodded.

“Ilse then explained what was expected of me. I have to make myself available for six months. During that time I can be called for a maximum of twenty sessions.”

“Sessions? You don't mean …”

Carine giggled nervously. Van In had the impression that the whole operation was turning her on.

“No sessions,” he said. “Absolutely out of the question.”