From Bruges with Love (4 page)

“Lively girl,” said Van In. “Is she always so full of energy?”

He hadn't meant it as a compliment, but it visibly cheered Vermast nonetheless.

“My wife thinks she should go to a school for gifted children, but there isn't one in the neighborhood. Her IQ is way above one hundred thirty, so that can be problematic, especially when you have to deal with teachers who don't understand.”

Van In raised his eyes to heaven.
Kids. Jesus H. Christ
. The boy was half-autistic, and to compensate, they'd bumped up the neurotic girl to prodigy status.

Vermast grabbed a third cup and filled all three with tea. The stuff smelled of dirty laundry. Van In should have known better, but now it was too late.

Leen pushed open the kitchen door with her foot, bulging brown paper bags from the local supermarket under each arm. She dumped them on the kitchen counter.

“Hi, honey. Good day, Commissioner.”

Leen was wearing a sleeveless minidress. She collapsed on a chair with a sigh, involuntarily hitching up the short skirt. Most women cross their legs out of modesty, but Leen didn't make the least effort to conceal her snow-white panties from the commissioner's gaze. Van In was convinced she knew what she was doing. He looked up. The tops of her breasts were quite visible in the V-neck of her dress, and that sight was much more interesting.

“Mommy, I want carrot juice,” Tine whined. Vermast smiled sheepishly. Van In, by contrast, would quite happily have treated the little monster to a clip on the ear.

“Mom, I want carrot juice. You promised.” The girl pounded her head stubbornly against Leen's shoulder.

“Later, sweetheart. Mommy's having some tea first.”

“Mooom. You prooooomised,” she said, stamping her feet. The girl's screeching cut to the bone. Van In gritted his teeth as he used to when someone ran fingernails across the blackboard at school. Leen let her daughter have her tantrum, sipped at her tea, and smiled every now and then at Van In. The girl turned to her father in a rage.

“Renovating a place like this must take a serious toll on your energy.”

Van In hadn't been planning to raise the subject, but the circumstances forced him to. Tine pestered her father relentlessly, constantly trying to grab his attention. Going on about the house seemed to be the only way to restore communication between him and Vermast.

“And the rest, Commissioner. I worked on the place day and night for eight months before we could move in. It was more like a cowshed than a farmhouse back then.”

Vermast pushed his daughter aside and joined Van In at the table. Leen finished her tea and fetched the juicer from the cupboard with clear reluctance. She ripped open one of the brown bags on the kitchen counter and grabbed a bunch of carrots. Tine clung to her mother like a black widow on her partner.

“I can show you some photos of what it used to look like if you're interested.”

Van In nodded, trying to hide his lack of enthusiasm. Things were going from bad to worse.

“Let's go to the living room. It's quieter there,” Vermast suggested, hoping fervently that the girl would stay with her mother.

They had just arrived in the living room when the juicer started to whine at an earsplitting pitch. Vermast was wise enough to close the door, reducing the volume by a good forty decibels. He invited Van In to take a seat on a rustic sofa, the upholstery of which was in a lamentable state, much like the rest of the furniture.

While his host searched for the promised photographs in a quasi-antique linen closet, Van In sized up the Vermast family habitat. They had probably paid a fortune to some canny antique dealer for the rickety furniture. The cupboards were full of bursts and cracks and were covered with caustic soda stains. A clumsy endeavor to camouflage the stains with thick layers of furniture polish had clearly failed. An orange crate would have fetched more at auction. The rest of the woodwork was worse than the furniture, if that were possible. In an eager attempt at giving it the authentic farmhouse look, Vermast had tried to clean the grime from the beams supporting the roof. Without the protective layer of paint, the wood now looked like dried gingerbread. It was nothing short of a miracle that the place was still standing. The state of the wooden floor defied description. Capricious tunnels testified to the unflagging zeal of a woodworm colony.

Their things had clearly been put together from rummage sales and flea markets—artificial pewter plates, a rusty set of fire irons, a chandelier in the form of a wagon wheel, and a selection of agricultural implements on the walls, all intended to create a country feel. What irritated Van In the most, however, were the unrecognizably mutilated toys scattered all over the room.
Anything goes,
he thought.

“Finally,” Vermast groaned. He had emptied half the linen closet by this time. “Here they are.”

Vermast turned to reveal a torn cardboard box. He placed it between them on the sofa and removed the lid. It was overflowing with photos, most of them simple family snapshots.

“These are from last year.” Vermast handed him a pile of underexposed Polaroids. Van In examined them carefully. The piece of land was only recognizable from the hawthorn hedge and the leafless elms against the ominous fall sky. Vermast hadn't been kidding. The original building was little more than a hovel.

“Incredible, Mr. Vermast. You've worked wonders with the place. It's close to a miracle.” Vermast smiled like an amateur cyclist winning his first race. The compliment had tickled his vanity. He walked over to the old-fashioned dresser, where he kept a bottle of cognac behind a pile of magazines and newspapers.

“Leen's brother-in-law has a buddy in the real estate business who pointed us in the right direction. It was a bargain, let me tell you. He also took care of the necessary building permissions.”

Van In raised his eyebrows.

“The new house will be three times the size of the old place,” said Vermast, grinning conspiratorially. “The property is designated for agricultural purposes, if you get my drift?”

Van In didn't understand. Vermast took a surreptitious look at the kitchen door, filled a couple of glasses with cognac, and hid the bottle where he had found it.

“According to the letter of the law, we aren't allowed to extend the building more than thirty percent,” said Vermast eagerly, tossing back his cognac in a single gulp. “But I don't have to explain the law to you, do I, Commissioner?”

Van In sipped carefully at his glass. He had to admit that the cognac tasted pretty good.

“With the money we saved on the purchase of the house, we can now afford a luxury or two. I managed to pick up a batch of Burgundian antique floor tiles last week. Not cheap but perfect for the living room. Another cognac?”

Van In emptied his glass, a bad move after three months of enforced abstinence. The stuff burned in his stomach, but that wasn't reason enough to refuse another glass. “Just a small one.” He couldn't say no.

Vermast tiptoed back to the dresser like a naughty schoolboy and refilled the glasses.

“The remote-controlled gate must come in handy too,” Van In observed in passing. The noise of the juicer in the kitchen finally stopped. Leen must have made a gallon of carrot juice.

“Not really my thing, Commissioner. I'm not into gadgets. The remote was installed by the previous owner.”

“A modern farmer, no doubt?”

Vermast shook his head, tossed back his glass, and looked at Van In with imploring eyes. Van In was forced to follow his host's example. Vermast snatched his guest's glass and returned both to the dresser unwashed.

“The place used to be owned by a nonprofit organization.” Now that the glasses were safely back in the cupboard, Vermast seemed more at ease with himself. “Leen knows more about it than I do. Some kind of charity, I think.”

At that moment Tine stormed into the living room with a huge glass of carrot juice in her hand. “Look what Mommy made for me,” she yelled in triumph. The girl threw herself onto the sofa whooping with delight and managed to spill a third of the juice on Van In's freshly washed jeans.

“Tine, for goodness' sake,” said Vermast, his tone mildly reproving. He jumped to his feet and gave her a symbolic little smack. The wretch burst into an uncontrollable fit of tears, attracting her mother's immediate attention.

“What's going on?” she asked.

Vermast explained what had happened. He knew exactly what his wife would do. First comfort Tine, then fetch a towel.

“Don't worry, Commissioner. Carrot juice doesn't stain.”

Leen got to her knees and dried Van In's jeans without the least embarrassment. Not an unpleasant experience. He noticed from his new vantage point that she wasn't wearing a bra. Good thing Hannelore wasn't around.

“Helping Our Own, it was called, for people in need. I think Benedict was on the board.”

“Benedict?”

“Benedict Vervoort, the real estate agent who arranged the sale of the house. If I'm not mistaken, they used to organize weekend camps here for scouts and the like.”

Leen was so thorough that Van In had a hard time controlling himself.

“Any idea why the charity wanted to get rid of the place?”

“According to Benedict, they found something bigger. They had grown over the years and urgently needed more space.”

Growing was the last thing Van In wanted to think about. “I guess that's dry enough, Mrs. Vermast.” He did his best not to groan.

“Are you sure?” she asked, still concerned.

3

B
enedict Vervoort ruled the roost at a modest real estate agency in the center of Waardamme. A neon sign above the door and display window covered the entire breadth of the facade. Van In read the sign:
vervoort services
. The capital
V
in the middle of the name already spoke volumes about the branch manager.

The street was empty, but Van In chose to park his VW Golf in the agency's parking lot, which, as another sign read, was reserved for clients only.

The office was located in Benedict Vervoort's modest parental home. The living room had been transformed into a counter area, little more than a glorified closet, and with no clerk in attendance behind the glass barrier. But Vervoort's business was multifunctional, and real estate was only one of the many services he had to offer. The average farmer could use it to deposit cash and bonds, as Van In observed from the various handwritten posters that graced the office walls.

A middle-aged woman—the front office junior clerk—welcomed him. She was the image of Audrey Hepburn but without the makeup.

“Mr. Benedict is expecting you,” she said in a formal tone when Van In introduced himself. “Please take a seat.”

A cock crowed in the distance. Van In wasn't dreaming. This was the West Flemish countryside, where fortunes were being made behind the walls of banal houses and where a mud-covered­ Mercedes by the front door was the only visible sign of luxury. Benedict Vervoort hadn't even considered it necessary to replace the floral wallpaper.

“Good morning, Commissioner.” Benedict Vervoort approached Van In with open arms. He was wearing a loud suit, a canary-yellow shirt, and a grass-green tie. The majority of the Mafiosi in Sicily were less ostentatious.

Van In shook his hand. The young businessman's chubby, ring-adorned fingers felt sticky. The aftershave with which he had lavishly sprinkled himself smelled of toilet cleaner, a stench Van In could barely stand.

“How are you, Commissioner?” asked Benedict in polite West Flemish. “And what can I do for you?”

Benedict eased back into his fake leather office chair. His head seemed to consist of pink lips, puffy cheeks, and little more. Van In had a hard time concealing his opinion of the man opposite him.

“Am I talking to Mr. Vervoort?” he asked with more than a hint of condescension.

“The man himself,” said the grinning yellow-green harlequin.

“Do you mind if I smoke?” Van In fished a cigarette from his breast pocket. Benedict raised his hand.
Shit
, Van In thought.

“Allow me to offer you a cigar, Commissioner,” said Vervoort with a gesture of hospitality. He opened one of the drawers in his desk and produced a flat box of Havanas. “They belonged to my late father.”

Van In was obliged to accept the offer. The cigar crackled like a freshly unrolled sheet of papyrus.

“Any relation to Aloïs Vervoort?” Van In inquired.

The question seemed to please Benedict.

“Aloïs was my father,” he said with undisguised pride.

“Really?”

Aloïs Vervoort was Flanders' cycling idol in the 1950s. The plucky Waardammer had managed third place in the Paris-Roubaix race on a couple of occasions and even won a stage during the 1956 Tour de France.

“Woe betide anyone who dared make a noise on Sunday afternoon, when the race was broadcast on TV,” said Van In.

Benedict laughed like an American presidential candidate in the middle of a campaign.

“Laugh, go on. But I remember getting more than one pasting because of your father.”

“Happy to know it, Commissioner.” His father's status radiated from Benedict's face like the sun setting on Mount Fuji. There was also a hint of the Orient in Vervoort junior, the spitting image of a sitting Buddha.

“The real reason for my visit is the Vermast family and their property in the Bremwegel.”

Benedict unfolded his hands, placed the tips of his fingers on either side of his nose, and pretended to be deep in thought.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, anxious and curious at once.

“I presume you read the papers.”

“You don't mean … surely—”

“I do mean, Mr. Vervoort.”

“Nothing to do with me,” said Vervoort resolutely.

“What has nothing to do with you?” Van In's curt tone drove Vervoort to abandon his defensiveness.

“The murder, of course.”

“Murder?”

“Well … I mean … they found a body, didn't they?”

“A skeleton,” Van In corrected.

“A skeleton. Of course, Commissioner. That's what I read in the paper.”

Van In looked Vervoort in the eye. The countryside realtor clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back in his gaudy chair. He clearly wasn't going to be pressured.

“Happenstance.”

Now it was Van In's turn to be caught off guard, an opportunity Vervoort deftly deployed to regain control of the conversation.

“Life is a succession of unexpected events, Commissioner. If you had found the skeleton before the sale, I would have been stuck with a worthless property. Who wants a house with a grave in the garden?”

Van In puffed on the dry cigar and did his best not to cringe. The thing smelled of rotten wood and dog shit.

“Mr. Vermast informed me that the farm was owned by a charity called Helping Our Own,” said Van In as he placed the cigar in an ashtray, hoping it would go out by itself.

“Not exactly, Commissioner. The farm was owned by one of our benefactors. The charity was given free use of it.”

“Can you tell me a little more?”

“Don't you know the charity?”

Van In shook his head. “Should I?”

Vervoort inspected Van In with the air of a student who had just left his first psychoanalysis class. “It was founded in 1986 by a number of idealists determined to improve the quality of life of the country's less well-off.”

Van In would have bet his bottom dollar that Vervoort had just quoted from the charity's brochure, word for word, and all pretty hollow.

“So if I understand correctly, the charity is about helping people, helping Flemish people … hence the name.”

Helping Our Own was already beginning to sound a bit paternalistic, with shades of the far right.

Vervoort didn't let Van In's moderate sarcasm throw him off balance.

“Helping Our Own has been collecting funds for years to fight poverty here at home,” he continued unperturbed. “The charity offers financial assistance to people struggling to make ends meet with the crumbs this welfare society of ours throws at them.”

Vervoort's words became increasingly emphatic. His fleshy chin quivered like blancmange on a Power Plate.

“We offer study grants, housing, holidays, cheap loans, legal support—”

“We?” Van In cut in.

“Yes, we,” Vervoort responded enthusiastically. “I'm the charity's treasurer. Does that surprise you?”

Van In wasn't sure what to say—that he'd rather see Mother Teresa strip for
Playboy
than Vervoort giving twenty francs to a beggar on the street?

“Far from it, Mr. Vervoort. If I haven't forgotten what they taught us in religion class at school, Jesus also had a soft spot for both whores and Pharisees,” said Van In, slightly taken aback by the impulsiveness of his own reaction. But such statements could also yield remarkable responses at times. He noticed Vervoort's eyes narrow in a flash.

“‘Love thy neighbor' is very close to our Christian hearts, Commissioner. It may not seem obvious in a world governed by egoism and self-interest, but perhaps you'd like to get to know our work a little better? You would be more than welcome to visit Care House whenever you have the time.”

Vervoort paused with the panache of an African president addressing the plenary assembly of the United Nations. “Care House is our most prestigious realization,” he continued with renewed vigor. “The farm offers a home to twenty single people and ten families. The entire project is self-financing. We produce our own food and cover the rest of our needs by selling fruit and vegetables.”

“So you sold the Vermast place to finance the new project,” said Van In guardedly. He stubbed out the half-smoked cigar. This was the biggest pile of crap he'd heard in a long time. Benedict seemed to read his mind.

“When the big service clubs brag about their charitable achievements, Joe Public thinks it's fantastic. They organize a tasteless banquet a couple of times a year, have their members pay a fortune to attend, and hand over ten percent of the takings to one or another good cause. The press loves it. But Helping Our Own doesn't need publicity. Our funds are used directly to help the poor improve their lives, to give them a better future.”

“A very noble goal,” said Van In dryly. The puffed-up rhetoric­ of this Samaritan from West Flanders was beginning to get on his nerves. “I'll be sure to visit Care House when the investigation is over, but in the meantime, I have to be moving. I have a busy afternoon ahead.”

Vervoort walked Van In to the door. They shook hands.

“By the way, Mr. Vervoort, Vermast's farm had a gate with a remote control. Did the charity install it?”

“It was already there, Commissioner. The former owner probably knows more about it.”

“Of course,” said Van In. “And do you happen to have the name of the former owner?”

“Is that important?”

“In a murder investigation, everything is important, Mr. Vervoort.”

The realtor may have felt cornered at that moment, but he didn't let it show.

“I'm afraid my hands are tied, Commissioner. The farm was made available to us by a benefactor who wishes to remain anonymous.”

In polite conversation, such a response would have been enough to prevent further inquiry, but Van In didn't consider it polite conversation, not in the least. “Listen very carefully, Mr. Vervoort. As a realtor, you know as well as I do that such transactions are always registered. For me it's only a question of time before I identify your anonymous benefactor. The choice is yours.”

Vervoort swallowed his indignation and switched back to the good little boy approach. He had made a mistake, and he had to correct it.

“My apologies, Commissioner. I didn't realize such information might be important to the investigation. I hope you understand our need for discretion when it comes to our financial backers. The majority prefer to remain anonymous. That's why I—”

“The name please, Mr. Vervoort.”

“Are you familiar with Lodewijk Vandaele?”

Van In nodded. Lodewijk Vandaele owned one of the largest contractor companies in West Flanders.

“So we're talking about Lodewijk Vandaele,” said Van In.

“Indeed, Commissioner. But I beg you to use this information only if it's absolutely necessary for the investigation. Mr. Vandaele detests publicity, and Helping Our Own is deep in his debt.”

“I'll do my best,” said Van In. He glanced at his watch. “But now I really have to go. Good-bye, Mr. Vervoort.”

Van In made his way to the parking lot. His VW Golf was alone as he had left it. Only then did Van In realize that Vervoort's multifunctional real estate agency had been client-free throughout his visit.

Linda Aerts was snoring, flat out on a narrow single bed, an empty bottle of Elixir d'Anvers on the nightstand, and a Marlboro still smoldering in the ashtray beside it. A two-inch ash clung to the filter like grim death. The room stank of sour sweat, cheap deodorant, and dirty laundry, and the chaos was enough to turn the average teenager green with jealousy. Fortunately the curtains were closed. The piles of dirty underwear appeared in the half-light like fluffy flowerbeds and the plates with rotting food like a Tracey Emin installation.

Linda was wearing a satin nightgown. The shiny cloth mercilessly accentuated every band of fat around her loins. Her sagging breasts heaved up and down with the rhythm of her breathing.

The telephone had been ringing every ten minutes for more than an hour. Linda dreamed that she was part of a funeral procession. The hearse, a black Chevrolet with chrome bumpers, sliced through the unruly crowd like a prehistoric batmobile. Linda was on the back of a white stallion. Everyone was trying to catch a glimpse of her. People chanted. Linda recognized dozens of them from her childhood. She reveled in their adulation, her head held high, parading in the wake of the Chevrolet.

The hearse was carrying a glass casket, its lid buried under bouquets of lilacs. William had been laid out on a velvet mattress, his head resting on an embroidered pillow with tassels on each corner. He was breathing, but the public didn't seem to notice. No one could see the silver shackles that bound him to the casket, nor the linen tethers around his neck, chest, and pelvis that pressed him firmly to its base. His eyes reeled. Beads of mortal terror covered his forehead.

“What a babe,” Linda heard someone shout.

“Need a bed for the night, darlin'?” another lusty admirer intoned.

The funeral procession approached the center of the city. The square in front of the bank was full to bursting. Linda slackened the reins as the deferential crowd gave way. She turned as she passed the bank. The building, a cage of steel and mirrored glass, reflected her image. She was naked. The onlookers broke into a song, its words vile and disgusting. Suddenly a jester appeared in front of the horse, grabbing the reins and groping greedily at Linda's thighs. The bells on his cap drowned out the uproar. Linda tried to fend him off. She kicked the white stallion into action. It shivered, reared, and bolted, leaving Linda behind on the cobblestones. The last thing she remembered before opening her eyes was staring at William's smirking face. He was about to tie her up. She screamed.

Linda woke up on the floor next to the bed. The telephone was ringing, and this time it didn't stop.