From Bruges with Love (2 page)

Van In focused his gaze on De Jaegher's bald head.
One skeleton examining another,
he thought, amused.

“Human remains, irrefutable …” De Jaegher declaimed, his tone professorial.

He lifted the skull in both hands and held it up to his audience as if it were a cheap trophy. Versavel looked the other way. In spite of his years in the trade, the police physician still didn't have a clue about forensics. Such lack of professionalism had rendered important evidence unusable more than once. Small wonder the public had little faith in the courts and the judiciary. Rudy Degrande appeared to share Versavel's thoughts. He comforted the sergeant with a wink.

Van In reacted to Hannelore's poke in the ribs with a suppressed squawk. De Jaegher was clearly annoyed by the interruption, but when he caught sight of Hannelore, a broad smile glided across his lips.

“Aha, Deputy Martens. I had no idea you were already here.”

Hannelore maintained a safe distance from the pit. Corpses weren't her forte. “Can you say anything about the cause of death, Doctor?”

De Jaegher wasn't much more than five foot three, and with his lower half in the pit he looked like a moving plaster bust. “No, ma'am.”

De Jaegher placed the skull on the edge of the pit. Hannelore had the creeping feeling that its hollow sockets were staring at her. Or was it De Jaegher peeking under her skirt?

“I'm afraid there are no
de visu
indicators that would allow me to formulate a proper conclusion. Further analysis will have to determine whether the victim died a natural death or not.”

Van In made a crooked face. Versavel concealed the beginnings of a smile behind his hand.

“You mean I'm going to have to wait for the autopsy report.”

“Precisely, ma'am.”

“And when can I expect it, Doctor?”

This was probably the first time anyone had asked De Jaegher such a question. The poor man gasped for breath.
How dare she,
he thought. “I'm going to need a few days, ma'am. What about early next week?”

“But today's Monday,” said Hannelore, clearly disappointed.

De Jaegher looked around and said resignedly and with a wilted grin: “I'll do my best to complete the postmortem by the end of the week.”

Hannelore rewarded him with a radiant smile. “That'll do nicely, Doctor.” She turned abruptly and headed back to the farmhouse. Even Van In was a little taken aback.

“What time is it?”

Versavel looked at his watch. “Four twenty.”

Van In sipped at his mineral water and made a face. To add to his woes, it was flat. The glass had been standing for more than fifteen minutes in the blazing sun. Hannelore and her diet can fuck off. He raised his hand and the sharp-eyed waiter responded immediately. Van In and Versavel were his only customers.

“Another two Perriers?” the outdoor café waiter asked eagerly.

“No, my friend. I'll have a Duvel. As cold as possible.”

Van In leaned back contentedly in his rickety cane chair. He knew exactly what Alexander the Great must have felt like when he split the Gordian knot.

“Lucky Hannelore had to rush off to the courts,” said Versavel.

Van In had been expecting one or another prickly remark. “Do you have a problem, Versavel?”

“Not me, Pieter. But when she makes you get on the scales later …”

Van In shrugged his shoulders and tossed the lukewarm mineral water onto the thirsty grass. “Skeletons remind me of the desert, Guido. And the last time I sinned was a good two weeks ago. I'm dying of thirst.”

It didn't sound coherent, but Versavel was used to it. Every association Van In made led, in the final analysis, to a Duvel. “Most people in the desert are happy with water. You must be the only man in Flanders who drinks Duvel to quench his thirst.”

“There's an exception to every rule, Guido. You're gay; you should know that.”

“You don't have to tell me,” said Versavel, faking a high-pitched voice. “But if I were you, I'd start practicing for the day we're in the majority.”

The service was perfect. The waiter appeared within the minute with an ice-cold Duvel and a sparkling Perrier. Van In bored his nose unashamedly into the thick froth and guzzled. Versavel let him get on with it.

“Vermast can forget about that meadow of his,” said Van In cheerfully. “In a couple of days, it'll be unrecognizable.”

“Do you think there might be more bodies?”

“Who knows, Guido. The Europeans are getting the hang of this serial killer business. The Americans don't have the monopoly anymore. I pity the public prosecutor's boys having to dig up all that ground.”

“I don't,” said Versavel dryly.

They both burst out laughing.

The telephone rang just as Yves Provoost was locking the door to his office. He sighed, turned the key, and went back inside.

Provoost was only a mediocre criminal lawyer, but he was still able to boast a colossal villa in exclusive Knokke, an apartment in Cap d'Agde, and a chalet in Austria. His legal practice was located in an imposing town house along the Groene Rei, the most picturesque part of Bruges.

Provoost made his way down the long corridor, his footsteps sounding hollow in the lofty narrow space. Unlike the rest of the house, his office was a virtual exhibition of contemporary Italian design: shiny tables in polished cherry, futuristic cabinets without visible doors, black lacquered chairs in which no one could relax for more than fifteen minutes, and whimsical lamps that offered little light.

“Provoost,” he barked into the receiver of an exceptionally flat olive-green telephone.

“Yves, Lodewijk,” was the gruff response, matching if not exceeding Provoost's curtness.

Provoost stiffened. When Lodewijk Vandaele barked, it usually meant bad news.

“We have a problem, Yves.”

“I'm listening.”

“Not on the phone, Yves. Crank up your computer, and wait for my email.”

Before Provoost had the chance to ask for an explanation, Vandaele hung up and marched to his desk. In contrast to Provoost's office, Vandaele's was the epitome of old-fashioned quality­: oak furniture, brass fittings, velvet and nineteenth-century­ paintings by long forgotten masters, and a pearl-gray IBM computer on a Louis XVI–style table. The machine was as out of place as a Big Mac in a three-star restaurant.

Vandaele was old school, but that didn't mean he shunned modern technology. As a disciple of Machiavelli, he made use of whatever means he had at his disposal to serve his goal. And as a good Catholic, he would have married his daughter to a Muslim without blinking if he figured the relationship might bring him some degree of advantage. Fortunately, Vandaele didn't have a daughter. He had stayed single for a reason: women meant trouble.

Vandaele switched on his computer and posted his message in Provoost's electronic mailbox. He used what he called a “robust” code, to which only Provoost had the key.

Chief Inspector Dirk Baert of the Bruges police heard Vandaele shuffle along the corridor leading to the front door of his house. He had known the man for a long time. As a young cop, he once caught him with a half-naked boy on the backseat of a parked car. After a brief exchange, they had settled the matter as adults would. Vandaele had paid him ten thousand francs, and that was the end of it. Baert knew the ropes. If he had started proceedings instead of taking the bribe, he knew that Vandaele would simply have bribed someone else farther up the line. It made no difference for the pedophile either way. But for Baert the difference was ten thousand francs, and that was money he could use at the time. When he met Melissa a couple of weeks later, a woman who was to cost him a small fortune, he got cheeky and decided to give Vandaele another call and negotiate a final payment. The old fox refused to give in to the blackmail attempt, but he didn't send Baert home empty-handed.

He suggested the young officer work as his contact person on the force. In exchange, he would receive a fixed sum per month. Substantial bonuses were assured if he had to take risks or provide important information.

“I apologize for keeping you waiting. I was on the phone with my niece … you know how women are.” Vandaele laughed. “Please, take a seat.”

“Thank you, Mr. Vandaele.”

Baert hoped that Vandaele would cough up some cash. Melissa had been dreaming out loud about a wide-screen TV for months.

“You know how much I appreciate your loyalty, Mr. Baert.” Vandaele was six three, radiated authority, and his stentorian voice had left many an opponent quivering.

“So my information was useful?”

Vandaele pursed his thin lips. His pink little mouth gave Baert goose bumps. Deep down, Dirk Baert hated pedophiles.

“
Useful
would be a slight exaggeration, dear Mr. Baert. Let's just say it was
interesting
. I bought the farm a long time ago. A skeleton on the property is back-page news. Surely you don't think …”

“Of course not, Mr. Vandaele.”

Baert gulped. The skeleton had also been under the ground for quite some time. News of its discovery had clearly startled Vandaele. Why had he rushed to his study in a panic when Baert informed him about it? The old bugger was clearly in a flap, and that story about the phone call to his niece only confirmed it. It was as transparent as Melissa's negligee.

“Your concern deserves an appropriate reward nonetheless.”

Baert's face brightened up. Money was all that could silence him. Vandaele fished four ten-thousand-franc notes from his wallet. Baert beamed unashamedly. Tomorrow Melissa would have her wide-screen TV. When he got home and told her the good news, she'd be naked in a heartbeat, or perhaps she'd slip on that little lace number he gave her for Christmas. “That's very generous of you, Mr. Vandaele.”

Vandaele patted him warmly on the shoulder. “You'll keep me posted on further developments, I hope?”

“Goes without saying, Mr. Vandaele. If there's news, you'll be the first to hear it.”

Hannelore installed herself in the garden, with her legs up and a glass of ice-cold V8 within easy reach. The sun's last rays skimmed the edges of an ominous cloud, their scattered light coloring the whitewashed walls of their private earthly paradise corn yellow as if someone had slipped a Polaroid lens in front of it. If they were to believe the weather forecast, this was the end of the summer.

Van In placed three cigarettes on the table, his movements exaggerated, and sipped at his pinot noir. He was allowed two glasses.

“Taste good?” she asked.

“Heaven.”

The muffled sound of church bells could be heard in the distance. The wind blew in from the southwest. There was rain in the cards, as predicted.

“The diet's doing its job.” Hannelore reveled in her new man. Van In was in his boxers. The car tire around his middle had shrunk in three months to the size of a flabby bicycle tire.

“Versavel said something similar this morning. So what's the next step? A dog?”

Hannelore raised her eyebrows. “A dog?” she asked, not quite sure what he was talking about.

“Then you can make me take it for a walk every evening. Think of all the calories I would burn.”

A sudden gust of wind rustled the leaves. It sounded like a rattlesnake.

“You might be happy you have a dog to walk when the baby's here.”

“What d'you mean?”

Van In lit a cigarette and relished the heady rush of nicotine. Hannelore lifted her skirt, took his hand, and placed it on her belly.

The bulge was more prominent when she was sitting.

“I'm having trouble picturing Commissioner Van In changing diapers.” She grinned. “You'll thank me for sending you out with Fido.”

Associating her shiny belly with a pile of soiled diapers tempered his nascent lust.

“We can start the countdown, Pieter. I felt it move for the first time this morning.”

Van In pressed his hand firmly against her belly but felt nothing. “I wonder if all those emotions are good for you,” he said, his tone unexpectedly serious.

Menacing clouds colored the grass dark green, and the setting sun gave way to dusk as Hannelore sipped on her V8.

“We're not living in the Middle Ages, Pieter. I'm not going to give birth to a monster because I looked at a skull.”

“I wouldn't laugh in your condition. My mother always said—”

“Nonsense! Don't tell me you believe in that old wives' crap.”
Why do men behave like infants when their wives are pregnant?
Hannelore thought to herself. The women had to do all the work, didn't they? For the men, it was wham, bam, thank you, ma'am.

Van In peered longingly at the two remaining cigarettes, like pieces of chalk on the dark wood table. He grabbed one and lit it double-quick.

“Everything used to be so much simpler.” Van In sighed, sucking the smoke deep into his lungs and swigging at his glass.

“Don't tell me you're worried about changing your baby's diapers.”

“I wish we were on a desert island,” said Van In. He could picture it in his mind's eye. “No more fuss. Slurping juicy cocktails, grilling fish, and lying around on the beach all day long.”

“No beach, Pieter, just diapers. This is the Vette Vispoort, there's no more wine, and there's rain on the way.”

Storm clouds were accumulating above the scarlet red rooftops.

“D'you know what?” she said with a cryptic smile. “If you solve the skeleton case within the month, I'll treat you to a week in Portugal.”

“You're not serious.”

“Don't you believe me?”

“Of course I do. But when was the last time you checked our bank balance?”

“I've got a little nest egg put aside for a rainy day.”

“That's money for the baby,” Van In protested. “And what makes you so sure I'll be given the case?”