From Bruges with Love (6 page)

“Counselor, how dare you?” Provoost was clearly on the edge. His bulbous lips filled with blood.

“Easy does it, Yves. Trust me, it'll never get that far. We'll solve this problem together. Have I ever let you down?”

It was a bizarre conversation. Provoost was known for having the gift of gab. In court he was a superior orator, a man feared for his caustic rejoinders. At least that was what people said. Face-to-face with Vandaele he was like a schoolboy who didn't dare speak to his teacher.

Vandaele knew his pupil. He stroked Provoost's head. “My dearest Yves, the chances that the police will draw a link between Aerts and the murder are exceptionally small. It's all so long ago, remember. Aerts is nowhere to be found. And anyway, who's going to believe him if he starts shooting his mouth off? It would be your word against that of a pimp. This is Belgium, Yves. No one gets convicted in this country unless guilt is established beyond dispute. You should know that. And don't forget, you enjoy the protection of the minister of foreign affairs.”

Vandaele's words appeared to do the trick. Provoost calmed down and emptied his glass in a single gulp. The alcohol dissolved the anxiety in his eyes. Vandaele poured him another glass and included himself this time around.

“You're probably right, Lodewijk,” said Provoost. He sounded determined. Whiskey always made him overconfident. “I've cleared dozens of criminals in my time, most of them a lot more miserable than me.”

Vandaele was happy that the whiskey was having the desired effect. “That's the spirit, boy.” He slipped another Davidoff from its silver sheath. Smoking wasn't allowed, not since the legion of black cancer cells had invaded his lungs and were now readying themselves to annex the rest of his body. His death was in clear sight, but his good name had to continue, and no stupid murder could be allowed to change that. They would name streets after him. Lodewijk Vandaele hoped that young people would remember him as the man who purified his country of foreign decadence.

“But Aerts still bothers me,” said Provoost after a long silence. “Turning stool pigeon is fashionable these days. No one is likely to feel any sympathy for a lawyer on the witness stand. The plebs would have a field day, and the gutter press would call for my head on a plate. Aerts is a cunning little bastard—we both know that. He's always been unpredictable.”

Vandaele suppressed the desire to clear his throat, lit his cigar instead, and took a puff. “Don't let that worry you, Yves. I promise you one thing: Aerts will be taken care of.”

Provoost leered at the bottle of whiskey on the coffee table.
One more
,
he thought. Then he could sleep.

4

O
nly a handful of passengers checked in for the scheduled flight to Rome, but that didn't mean Brussels National Airport was quiet. The charter flights to the Canary Islands attracted their usual stampede. Pretanned retirees dragged overfilled baggage to their assigned departure desks. These days, sun and sea was available on prescription. There was nothing more inspiring than the thought of succumbing to a heart attack on a subtropical beach.

William Aerts passed though passport control without a hitch. He looked like the average businessman: casual suit, lightweight Delsey carry-on, and a copy of the
Financial Times
under his arm.

Aerts had been looking forward to this moment for more than fifteen years. He had finally found the excuse he needed to flee the shit-heap country that sired him. No more Linda … whining fucking hippo. And the pedophile? No more humiliation … the fucker couldn't touch him anymore. Today he was a free man. The timing wasn't perfect, but what the fuck. Real men follow the path chosen for them by fate.

The thrust of four screaming jet engines pushed him back into the soft upholstery of his ample seat. A minute later he was in the clouds. Rain had been forecast, and the Belgians were welcome to it, every last one of them.

“Would you like something to drink, sir?” A freshly scented flight attendant leaned toward him.
This was the life,
he thought. He was flying first class and was sharing the compartment with no more than six other passengers.

“Campari, please.”

Aerts stretched out his legs. He had dreamed of this sort of luxury all his life and had paid a pretty penny for the extra space. After three decades he had finally managed to defeat his adversaries. He was on his way south, and his erstwhile buddies were up to their ears in shit.

“Your Campari, sir.”

The flight attendant smiled affably, or so it appeared. Or was she smiling because she thought he was stinking rich?

Aerts sipped at his aperitif and closed his eyes in contentment. The corpse had earned him more than he could ever have imagined.

“Mr. Vandaele can see you in a few moments, Commissioner Van In.”

Vandaele had retired, officially, but he still spent the best part of his day at the office. The old bugger liked to keep a firm eye on things.

The secretary accompanied Van In to a small waiting room looking out onto an empty concrete courtyard, the company's trademark. Yellowing photos graced the walls, probably the work of an overzealous office clerk. The pictures portrayed bridges and roads, with men dressed in black in the foreground, one of them invariably cutting a ribbon.

Louis Vandaele, Lodewijk's father, had earned a fortune in his day from public contracts. In the 1960s, he had blacktopped half of Flanders' roads.

Van In thanked the bespectacled secretary with a smile.

“Coffee, Commissioner?” the gray-suited creature inquired.

“No, thank you.”

She was the image of Audrey Hepburn, just like Benedict Vervoort's assistant.

“I demand to speak to the manager this instant,” Linda Aerts snorted.

Marc, the counter clerk, tried to calm her down. There were three other clients behind her. One of them was Mr. Ostijn, and Mr. Ostijn wasn't fond of disturbances. Hilaire Ostijn was the chairman of the local businessman's association and one of the branch's best clients.

“No need to get upset, Mrs. Aerts. Mr. Albert will be here in five minutes. I'm sure he'll agree that there must have been some mistake.”

“If you give me ten thousand francs, you can tell Mr. Albert to stay where he is,” Linda roared.

The counter clerk looked back and forth between Mrs. Aerts's red face and Mr. Ostijn's tight lips. In the past he could have solved the problem without thinking. He would simply have handed over the ten thousand francs. But minor counter clerks didn't have that kind of authority anymore. No numbers, no cash. The new rules were set in stone.

“Are you going to get a move on, or do I have time to tell everyone how I came to know Mr. Albert in the first place?” asked Linda as she turned to the customers behind her ready for a fight. Ostijn pretended not to recognize her. The bank clerk, on the other hand, knew that both his boss and Ostijn frequented the Cleopatra. He grabbed the money from the drawer and typed the amount into his computer. At that moment the door flew open. The speed with which Albert Denolf responded to the situation was nothing short of astonishing. He knew why Linda was here, and he knew her temperament.

“Mrs. Aerts,” he said, his voice dripping with sweetness. “What a delight to see you. No problems, I hope?”

Marc returned the money to his drawer and canceled the withdrawal, much relieved.

“No problems?” she jeered. “Where do I start?”

“Linda,” Denolf interrupted. “If there are problems, we can talk about them in the quiet of my office.”

His compliant approach worked. Linda suspended hostilities, turned with a flounce, and followed Denolf into his office.

Ostijn had come to redeem some bonds, collect his daily statements, and pay a pile of bills. The wealthy businessman was old school to the core. Internet banking wasn't at all his thing. Marc sighed inaudibly. Ostijn's transactions were likely to take at least fifteen minutes of his time. But their routine exchange was suddenly interrupted by a crash of glass. Ostijn reacted like every right-minded capitalist would: he first slipped his bonds across the counter and only then looked around to see what was happening.

“But, Linda, for goodness' sake,” he heard Denolf lament with a suppressed roar. The door to Denolf's office flew open, and the shards of glass from the smashed ashtray crunched under Linda's heels.

“That was
our
money!” she screamed.

Denolf was rooted to the spot.

“And you gave him the whole thing without batting an eyelid.”

“The money was in
his
name, Linda. I tried to make him change his mind, but this is a bank, and my hands were tied—”

“So your hands were tied,” Linda screeched. “You fucking asshole. Do you know what would cheer me up right this minute?”

Everyone, including Ostijn, listened with bated breath.

“The sight of that Catholic wife of yours' face when I tell the bitch what her respected husband gets up to every month.”

“Linda, please.” Denolf hurled himself at the door, most likely breaking the world indoor triple-jump record in the process. He slammed it shut and pulled out his wallet.

“Here … ten thousand. William will be back in a few days, I'm sure of it. Then we can look for a solution.”

“Make it twenty,” Linda ventured.

Denolf sucked in so much air in the following few seconds that he was on the verge of hyperventilating.

“William might have stolen our money, but the videos are still in our safe,” she bragged. “Try to picture the malicious delight on the faces of the police as they watch them, Albert,” she blurted out, adding insult to injury.

Denolf had fallen victim to a nightmare in broad daylight. He gestured that she should wait, grabbed the phone, and called Marc.

“Give Mrs. Aerts twenty thousand francs from my account on her way out.”

“Tell him to bring it,” Linda snarled.

Denolf nodded like the perfect slave. It always worked, with or without the leather outfit.

“Leave it, Marc. I'll collect it myself.”

Lodewijk Vandaele welcomed Van In with a jovial handshake. He pointed to the cozy lounge suite close to the window. In contrast to the waiting area, Van In's new surroundings boasted a magnificent view and a carefully maintained rock garden with a splashing fountain in the middle. Every self-respecting human being had one.

“A drink, Commissioner?”

Van In was tempted but said no. It would be a sign of Roman Catholic hypocrisy if he were to turn a serious sin into a daily one.

“Be a sport, Commissioner. A wee dram never killed anyone.”

Van In was still tempted but shook his head.

“Coffee then?”

“Please.”

Vandaele rested his fat cigar in the ashtray and ordered coffee via the intercom.

“I should make it clear from the outset that my visit is off the record,” said Van In in a formal tone.

“Take a seat, Commissioner.”

Van In sat down in an imposing chair that almost swallowed him up completely. Vandaele sat opposite, the hefty old man towering over Van In like a golem.

“I presume your visit has to do with the discovery at the farm, Commissioner, at the Love?” He anticipated a potential question from Van In with the air of a modern-day Nostradamus.

Jesus H. Christ,
Van In thought. Vandaele had even given the dilapidated hovel a name. He was reminded of his youth, playing on the beach at Blankenberge with his sister and the local grocer's daughter. The city's peeling villas also rejoiced in pompous names like Camelot, Beau Geste, and Manderley. A fancy name was cheaper than a lick of paint.

“Precisely, Mr. Vandaele. According to the police physician, the murder was committed around the time you owned it. The Love …”—Van In had trouble even pronouncing the ridiculous name—“was still in your ownership back then, wasn't it?”

Vandaele stretched his left leg and massaged his knee.

“Rheumatism,” he groaned. “My knees have been bothering me for years.”

The old fox was clearly stalling for time by trying to change the subject, but Van In was onto him.

“Do you mind me asking if you visited the place on a regular basis?” Van In inquired casually.

“Aha, Commissioner. My father built the Love with his own hands. I spent most of my summers playing there. Later I liked to paint there from time to time. The house was something of a childhood memory.”

“Did you ever rent out the place?”

Vandaele roared with laughter.

“My dear commissioner, I own a slew of houses, villas, and apartments, and I rent them out. The Love is nothing more than a bit of nostalgia. It was our first holiday home, but as far as I can remember, the shed has always been dilapidated. People expect comfort these days, Commissioner. No one would pay rent for such a dump.”

Van In was happy that they at least agreed on one issue. It also explained why Vandaele had transferred the Love to the charity. Everyone knows that rich people only give away the things that have no value to them or the things they themselves can no longer use.

“So the Love has been empty all this time?”

Vandaele puffed vigorously on his cigar. A discreet pale-faced young man appeared with a tray.

“Leave it on the desk, Vincent. We'll serve ourselves.”

Vandaele got to his feet, creaking and grousing. In profile he looked a little like President de Gaulle—commanding and unapproachable.

“I used to bring a couple of cousins now and then,” he said cheerfully. “Children love old houses, especially when they can do whatever they want. We even stayed the night at times. Then we would light an enormous campfire. Not allowed these days, but back then no one cared. We drank gallons of cola, sang songs, pretended we were actors in a play. I can remember the summer of 1972 as if it were yesterday. It was so hot we all slept outside. I don't see myself doing that nowadays either,” said Vandaele, pointing to his knees.

Van In also had some treasured memories of the same hot summer. August 20, 1972, was the first time he slept with a girl.

“Later, when one of my cousins was a leader with the Scouts, the Love served as a campsite for a number of youth associations.”

Vandaele poured the coffees. “Sugar?”

Van In shook his head.

“So no one ever lived in the place,” he insisted.

“Correct, Commissioner. Several years ago I handed it over to a charitable organization. The youth groups weren't interested anymore. They only set up camp if there are showers and microwaves nearby.”

Vandaele laughed. “Young people these days are too demanding. Romance is dead, Commissioner. The only thing that still interests them is starting a career and making money, and preferably sooner than later.”

Van In didn't think Vandaele was the man to be making such observations, but he nodded nonetheless and sipped his coffee.

“I know a thing or two about that myself, Mr. Vandaele,” he said diplomatically. “It all has to be fast and automatic. Imagine the panic if we were to ban remote controls starting tomorrow.”

Vandaele nodded his head to every word. He put his cup on a side table and said: “We would be totally helpless, Commissioner. Most people would be up in arms, call a technician, insist they come and fix what they presumed to be broken.”

Van In played along, making a clumsy attempt to imitate the gloating building contractor. Was it too obvious, or did Vandaele realize that he had walked into Van In's trap like an inexperienced cub?

“Of course, we shouldn't blame the youth of today for all the sins of humanity,” said Van In in an unexpectedly serious tone.

“Go on, Commissioner. Luxury can be an addiction, even for us grown-ups. Those gadgets can come in mighty handy at times,” said Vandaele, ostentatiously massaging his stiff knees. “I'm not averse to a bit of modern technology now and again, Commissioner, and I'm not ashamed to admit it. The garage door at home is fitted with a remote. It saves me the hassle and pain of getting in and out of the car. It's easy to get used to such comforts, then—”

“Do you have remotes installed everywhere, Mr. Vandaele?”

The elderly contractor's signature jovial grin seemed to freeze for an instant. He sipped at his coffee, pretended it had gone down the wrong way, and feigned a coughing fit. The theatricals gave him a few seconds' respite.

“I presume you're referring to the gate at the Love, Commissioner.”

Van In nodded.

“That wasn't a question of laziness
or
of stiff knees,” said Vandaele. He tried to sound dramatic. “The installation of the electric gate was a direct consequence of the bend in the road.”