The Square of Revenge (7 page)

“Come on, gentlemen. Stop messing me around,” she said indignantly.

“All we can do is wait for the results of the investigation. Face it, ma’am. We don’t have any other option.”

“And what about the radio appeal?” she asked angrily. Hannelore Martens clearly did have a volatile temperament.

There she goes again, Van In sighed. She was right, of course. Someone must have seen or heard something.

“Don’t worry, ma’am. I’m sure the chief commissioner will agree to your proposal. But at this moment in time I think I’d be more useful back at the station. There’s a load of paperwork involved in this, and I can’t let sergeant Versavel deal with it alone.”

“Fine, Commissioner, but I’ll be following the case closely.”

“Mr. Vanmaele probably wants to hang around here a little longer.”

Leo nodded.

“Then I’ll be going. By the way, according to Versavel, Degroof gave the keys to the shop to Officer Decoster. I’ll tell him to wait until you’re ready, then he can close up.”

“Okey-dokey,” said Vanmaele. “I can come back tomorrow with a van and a couple of helpers to bring the tank with the golden gunk to the lab. Then we can determine precisely how much gold was dissolved. I figure that’s what Degroof wants to know more than anything else.”

“So that’s agreed.” Van In got to his feet.

“I presume we’ll meet again,” he said to Hannelore.

“I very much hope so, Commissioner. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” she purred. Van In was never going to understand women. She shook his hand and held it firm for a moment. “And don’t forget the radio,” she winked. “I’m certain an appeal will lead to something, and apart from that I insist that it happens,” she added sternly. “If they don’t broadcast it tomorrow morning, I’ll take care of it myself. On the record, of course.”

Outside, Decoster and Vermeersch were having a hard time keeping the curious at a distance. The street was crawling with tourists and everyone wanted to know what was going on.

A thin young gentleman watched events unfold with evident amusement. His short, bald, and unstoppable sidekick took photos of the scene. He was a local reporter who never left the house without a camera. He had bought the story for a thousand francs from one of the officers keeping the crowds at bay.

Van In wriggled his way outside, doing his best not to draw attention. The heat of the summer sun coiled like a burning snake between the rows of houses. It was going to be a sweltering day. Festive flags hung unruffled from the city’s façades, ready for the annual celebration of the Flemish Community the following day. Van In tried to pick up his pace but it was hopeless. There were tourists everywhere, slowing everything down, and they got out of the way for no one.

He kept close to the house fronts, using the walls as cover. His thoughts still fluttered around Hannelore Martens, like a butterfly over a bed of flowers. Van In was angry with himself. He had behaved like an idiot.

Okay, a bit of an idiot, he corrected himself. She hadn’t exactly played the respectable Deputy public prosecutor either.

Versavel was in room 204, his back to the window, sweating over an old-fashioned mechanical typewriter.

“Aren’t you tired yet?” asked Van In as he walked in the door. The sergeant barely looked up from his work. His coarse fingers continued to batter the broken-down Brother without pity.

“Another five minutes,” he groaned.

Van In collapsed into the chair behind Versavel’s desk and lit a cigarette. He ignored the “No Smoking” signs. They were for visitors only.

“And did you wangle a date out of her?” asked Versavel dryly.

“Jesus H. Not you too. Leo spent the whole time winking at me. Why should I? She was just out to impress. Beginners are always a bit weird.”

“She couldn’t keep her eyes off you,” said Versavel, unperturbed. “I’d watch my ass if I were you, buddy.”

There was a moment of silence, broken only by the clatter of the typewriter. Van In wasn’t really sure why he was making a fuss. If it had been up to him, he would have taken her out that very night.

“So, done and dusted,” said Versavel, relieved. He rolled a densely typed sheet of paper from the typewriter and placed it carefully on top of the pile he had completed earlier. “Well-earned overtime. It’s all yours.” He stood and stretched.

“You on duty tomorrow?” asked Van In. “De Kee insists that I take personal charge of the case, and it would be good if I could rely on your assistance.”

“No problem,” Versavel answered.

It was clear that he felt honored by the commissioner’s request. He may only have been a sergeant, but he had proved himself more than enough in the past. Van In was one of the few officers who appreciated him.

“Thanks, Guido, but there are a couple of complications,” said Van In in a confidential tone. “De Kee’s under pressure from Degroof senior. He’s insisting on absolute discretion and no publicity.”

Versavel frowned, but said nothing.

“We can do discreet, can’t we?” asked Van In.

“But then our pretty miss Deputy is determined to broadcast an appeal on local radio in the hope of picking up a witness.”

“Is that so?”

Versavel nodded.

“That complicates matters even more.” He didn’t inquire any further, just accepted the absurdity of the situation as one would expect of an experienced policeman. “So, if you don’t mind, I want you to pick up the phone tomorrow if anyone calls about the case. I’ll ask them to broadcast the appeal between seven and nine. De Kee won’t be in until later and we can only hope that Degroof doesn’t listen to local radio. From the moment someone comes forward as a witness we’re covered. We write up their statements, stuff them in the file and send it to Miss Martens. Then everybody’s happy.”

“I hope so, for your sake,” said Versavel skeptically.

“Don’t worry about me, Guido. I’ve survived bigger disasters.”

“See you tomorrow, then. I’ll make sure I’m here before seven.”

“Thanks, Guido. Now go the fuck home, man.”

“Have a good one, Commissioner.”

Versavel slammed the door hard behind him and legged it down the corridor, whistling as he went.

Before rolling the first sheet of paper into the typewriter, Van In smoked a cigarette. He hated the mass of paperwork that was going to take up the rest of his day. He took a long draw on his cigarette, knowing it was nothing more than a pointless tactic to delay the inevitable.

G
UIDO VERSAVEL CRUMPLED THE PLASTIC
coffee cup he had been holding in his left hand and tossed it into the wastebasket. His aim was perfect. It was seven-fifteen
A.M.
He felt upbeat and rested. Nine hours of sleep and a hot bath had neutralized the fatigue of the previous day.

He had brought a small, portable radio to work and had tuned in to Radio Contact, a popular local broadcaster. The telephone operator had been instructed to transfer incoming calls related to the Degroof case directly to room 204.

In the meantime, Versavel took another look at the substantial report he had sweated over the day before. Few of his colleagues knew that he liked to turn his hand to a bit of writing in his spare time. Two of his stories had been published under a pseudonym, and he had somehow found time to finish his first novel. His love for writing explained why he always paid particular attention to the style and form of his police reports—something his colleagues never understood nor appreciated. He didn’t care that most of the cases they detailed were dropped. For Versavel, having a fluent and correct command of his native language was a point of honor.

The first tip arrived at eight-fifteen.

A man identifying himself as Armand Ghyoot claimed he had seen a couple of Moroccans hanging around Steen Street at ten-thirty the previous evening.

“And one of those habibis was carrying a sports bag,” he added with a chuckle.

Versavel thanked the man, assured him he had taken note of everything, and hung up. Nothing helpful there, he thought. The phone buzzed again ten seconds later, and so it continued for quite some time.

In the space of one and a half hours, Versavel took thirteen calls. Three were about the Moroccans, one about a black guy, and two about Turks, all of which were more telling about the people calling in than who might have melted down those jewels. An elderly lady confused Degroof Diamonds with Deloof Lawnmowers in Zedelgem. She had seen a truck pull into the parking lot the night before and heard the sound of breaking glass. Turned out later that Deloof Lawnmowers had indeed been burgled that night, and Versavel made a note to have someone look into it once this mess at DeGroof’s had been resolved.

Versavel also took a couple of calls from the requisite set of jokers. One was traced immediately because he had been dumb enough to use his own phone. There were still people out there who didn’t know that their telephone number appeared on a display when they called the police.

Versavel shortlisted four interesting calls and drafted a brief report for the attention of Assistant Commissioner Van In.

On Friday at ten-thirty
P.M.
, Mr. Dupon of 14 Dweer Street had taken his dog for a walk, as was his routine. He always followed the same trajectory, cutting through the Zilverpand shopping center to Geldmunt Street, and then the length of Saint Amand Street as far as Market Square. He then stops for a glass of his favorite draft beer—Geuze—at Café Craenenburg, sitting on the terrace if weather permits. At eleven, or thereabouts, he crosses Market Square and saunters in the direction of Burg Square, the heart of the city’s historic district, where he lets his dog—a four-year-old Golden Retriever—run loose for fifteen minutes. In the meantime, Mr. Dupont rests his bones on one of the benches under the trees. Almost without fail, he admires the illumination of the city hall and the Basilica of the Holy Blood, a spectacle of which he never tires.

He then heads back home via Steen Street. With the exception of a couple of speeding cars, he passed no one on the way. That’s why he so clearly remembers the two men standing by the door of Degroof’s, he said to Versavel on his call. The younger of the two—Dupon figures around twenty-five—is holding open the door for the older man. They’re both empty-handed. Mr. Dupon stops for a moment, pretending his dog needs to take a pee, so he can get a better look. Both men are in dark suits and each is wearing a gray tie. The older of the two, a man in his mid-sixties, has long gray hair. The younger man steps into a dark Mercedes station wagon, while the older man locks the door and rolls down the window shutters. Mr. Dupon continues on his way without suspecting anything further.

He had been listening to the news that morning on the radio and had immediately made the connection.

The second useable tip came from a Dutch couple who had decided to celebrate their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary in Bruges.

They had traveled by car from Almelo to Bruges on Friday, July 8. Their four children had paid for a romantic weekend. They are currently staying at Hotel Die Swaene, which some guides describe as the most attractive hotel in the Benelux.

After enjoying a five-course dinner at De Visscherie, an exclusive restaurant on the Fish Market, Judith and Stan Cornuit decide to go for a stroll, sauntering down to Market Square via Burg Square and Breidel Street. They fritter away some time admiring Quijo’s window display, one of Degroof’s major competitors. The young jeweler is upstairs in his workshop putting the finishing touches to a last-minute order. Hence the light in the window display. Stan has saved four thousand guilders under strict secrecy and plans to spend it on a bracelet for his darling Judith.

After five minutes or so—Stan meanwhile had managed to spot a magnificent specimen—they saunter across Market Square like an amorous young couple, heading toward Steen Street. Stan remembers having seen another jeweler there that morning when they passed in the car. He’s not surprised to see light burning. Two men are hard at work inside, removing jewelry from the window displays and carrying it to the back of the shop.

Both men are wearing cotton gloves and are taking the greatest of care. The younger of the two even waves at them when he sees their faces pressed against the window. The older gentleman trails in with a brush and dustpan and sweeps some fragments of broken glass into a pile. The young man helps him. Brushing broken glass together on a deep-pile rug isn’t easy. The Dutch couple didn’t suspect a thing. After all, why would they wave if they were up to anything illegal? The happy couple just assumed there had been an accident.

What a nerve, Versavel sniggered to himself, but you had to give it to them. When he thought about their barefaced modus operandi, he realized that it was probably the least likely to attract attention. He knew from experience that there wasn’t much movement on Steen Street after ten-thirty. The intruders were probably well aware of the fact. Most shops switched off their window display lighting at ten, using an automatic timer. The days of wasting electricity without restraint were a thing of the past. Cutting back on energy consumption was now the height of fashion. It was also cheaper and environmentally friendly, and customers liked that sort of thing.

Even a police patrol would probably have noticed nothing amiss. If they had seen both men at work, they would have assumed the same as the Cornuits did: shop owners often have to work late into the night.

The Cornuits had observed the men for several minutes and were thus able to provide detailed personal descriptions. Versavel gave priority to their statements and made an appointment to see the couple in the course of the afternoon for a more comprehensive interview. He suggested two-thirty and hoped that Van In would be back by then.

The two other useful informants had heard a dull explosion somewhere between eleven and midnight. One said it sounded like a shotgun going off. The other, an elderly woman who lived in a shabby apartment around the corner in Kleine St. Amand Street, was shaken from her sleep by a hard, dry thud, which she put down to a faulty muffler on a passing car.

Versavel knew that Van In would be content with what his report contained. They had four useful witnesses at their disposal, and that was more than enough to keep Deputy Martens happy, especially since it was from the radio call-out she had so adamantly insisted upon.