The Midas Murders (20 page)

Van In let her lean on his shoulder, and he turned on the TV.

Moens appeared on the screen after a piece about the war in Bosnia.

“According to a recent police report, the bomb attack was the work of an extremist Walloon faction….”

“Jesus,” Van In groaned.

Hannelore woke with a start when he turned up the volume from six to ten.

“According to State Security, the Mouvement Wallon Révolutionnaire has been active for almost twenty years,” said the journalist taking the interview.

“That's correct,” said the mayor.

Moens was wearing his best suit, but was struggling to disguise his thick West Flemish accent.

“In the nineteen-seventies and eighties, the MWR was responsible for a wave of arson attacks in Wallonia, in most instances on Flemish-owned property. Just like today, they never claimed responsibility for their terrorist activities.”

Moens used long complicated sentences, and it was close to a miracle that they made any sense at all.

“Are you expecting further attacks, Mayor Moens?”

Moens turned to the camera like a tormented Churchill. “The security services are on red alert, and the minister of the interior has just granted permission for two special-intervention platoons to be positioned at strategic points in the city throughout the night.”

“So the citizens of Bruges can sleep secure?”

Moens conjured a smile that would have made many a U.S. presidential candidate jealous. “Bruges at this moment is unconquerable,” he declared with pride. “We're determined to nip any potential acts of terror in the bud.”

Van In zapped angrily to a commercial station. Anything was better than Moens's bullshit.

“In a hundred years' time, they'll be able to use his statement for high school TV,” he growled. “The fall of Western democracy in ten installments.”

Hannelore let him blow off steam.

“Anything else worth eating in the house, Pieter?”

Van In looked deeply into her eyes.

“There's a jar of pickled herring in the refrigerator,” he said, not quite sure what she was on about. “Don't tell me you're really—”

“Go get it. I'm starving.”

“Are you serious? I thought you were joking. How can you be so sure, for Christ's sake?”

“We'll see who's laughing in nine months,” she said playfully.

Van In wasn't in the mood for a discussion on women's intuition. He got to his feet and headed for the kitchen.

“There are still three of them swimming in the jar.”

“I'll take all three, and pour the juice in a glass.”

Van In didn't protest. As a father-to-be, he just did what he was told.

P
RECISELY A WEEK HAD PASSED
since person or persons unknown had blown up the statue of Guido Gezelle. The day after the mayor's melodramatic TV interview, Flanders's right wing was up in arms and the newspaper headlines were as plain as the nose on your face. No more shilly-shallying: the annual transfer of billions of francs from Flanders to Wallonia had to stop. The Flemish authorities held emergency consultations, and a variety of organizations threatened concrete action. Flanders was a powder keg, and one stupid statement had lit the fuse.

“Moens just farted,” Versavel observed with undisguised sarcasm. “The system's gone haywire.”

Van In put down his newspaper and lit a cigarette. “The Flemish are a hardy bunch,” he said resignedly. “They'll swallow almost anything. But if you touch their historical patrimony, they lose it big-time.”

“And why now?” said Versavel. “The bomb attack was last week, and it hardly made the news. Now they're rolling out the heavy artillery.”

“Odds on, the news editor is from Bruges.”

“What do you mean?”

Van In tore a sheet of paper from a notepad and scribbled in jagged letters: “Vandekerckhove / Zeebrugge / billionaire–Bostoen / Bruges–State Security–Creytens / Bruges / investigating magistrate–X / Bruges? / press.”

Versavel studied the names. “What connects them?” He grabbed the telephone directory for Brussels from his desk and looked up the TV station's number.

Van In stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and lit another.

“Mr. Lanssens isn't in his office? Can I reach him at home?” Versavel fiddled with his moustache, his pen at the ready. “It's extremely urgent,” said Versavel. “It's about yesterday's broadcast. We're following a new line of inquiry, and I'm certain Mr. Lanssens—”

Versavel nervously tapped the edge of the receiver with his fingers.

“No, I need to talk to him personally.” It took a full minute, but then Versavel gave the thumbs-up and started to scribble Lanssens's details on the back of a piece of scrap paper.

“I have the number of his car phone,” Versavel beamed.

In less than five minutes, the National Records Office computer coughed up an answer to the sergeant's question.

“Lanssens is Bruges-born and -bred. He moved to Brussels in 1968. Before that, he was a journalist with the
Bruges Trade Journal
.”

“The man who wrote the series of articles on our man Scaglione. I should have guessed,” said Van In enthusiastically. “Long live the chaotica.”

Versavel nodded pensively. The commissioner's loopy theory was sounding more plausible by the minute.

The telephone interrupted his musings.

“Hello, Sergeant Versavel speaking.”

Van In lit a cigarette and smiled when Guido tried to respond in French.

“C'est très gentil,”
he heard him say.
“Oui.”

A silence followed and Versavel plucked nervously at his moustache.
“Bien sûr. Je vous donne le commissaire Van In.”
Versavel handed him the receiver with a scornful smile. “They found a file on Scaglione,” he grinned.

Hannelore had never been to police headquarters before, but no one asked for her ID. A young officer accompanied her to room 204.

“Au revoir,”
she heard Van In say as she walked inside.

“That was Neufchâteau, sweetheart,” he said, upbeat. “The Scagliones have a bit of a reputation. Our friend Luigi retired to Sicily in the seventies; his son Enzo still lives not far from here. There's no such thing as coincidence.”

“I've got news too,” she said. “On Saturday, March 11, Fiedle rented a Learjet from Abelag Private Jet Leasing. According to the flight plan, it took off at four-thirty
p.m.
, destination Nice.”

“The bouillabaisse,” Van In roared.

Both Hannelore and Versavel were dumbfounded.

“Bouillabaisse?” they echoed.

Van In grinned like an adulterous woman who had just witnessed a judge hit her husband with a massive alimony schedule.

“Tub gurnard and zander, the fish they typically use in Mediterranean fish soup. Fiedle had bouillabaisse in his stomach.”

“But you can eat bouillabaisse anywhere in Europe,” Versavel observed dryly.

“Of course you can,” Van In said. “But don't try to tell me this isn't right up our alley.”

Hannelore took off her coat and sat gracefully on the edge of Van In's desk.

“The jet was on standby until four-thirty
a.m.
, and then it returned to Belgium with a single passenger.”

“Vandekerckhove?”

“The pilot described the man as elderly and heavyset. I faxed him a photo of Vandekerckhove.”

“And?”

“Nothing. The passenger was wearing a scarf over his face and didn't say a word to the crew.”

“Now we know at least that Vandekerckhove lied,” said Versavel. “The nocturnal trip makes him very suspect.”

“I presume it's enough to have him arrested,” Van In mused. “A DNA test would certainly simplify matters.”

Hannelore nodded. If Creytens refused to cooperate, she would go directly to the public prosecutor.

“So you think Vandekerckhove killed Fiedle,” she said bluntly.

Van In was aware that he couldn't give a flippant answer to her question. If the test was negative, Hannelore would look like a fool, and young magistrates were very vulnerable beings, especially at the public prosecutor's office.

“Actually, I don't,” he said unexpectedly. “I can't imagine Vandekerckhove busying himself with the dirty work, and certainly not right in the middle of Bruges.”

“What are you planning to do?” she asked in despair. “Surely you don't think he's going to volunteer a DNA sample.”

Van In tried to order his thoughts. There were so many elements he had to account for.

“Give me a minute. I think it's time for another little chat with Tjepkema.”

The Groningen commissioner had been just about to call Van In when his phone rang.

“Hello, Jasper. Pieter here.”

“Talk about telepathy,” Tjepkema grinned. “The results of the autopsy arrived just fifteen minutes ago.”

“And?”

“Frenkel died from a blow to the skull. The fire was to get rid of the evidence, as you thought.”

“The blood group?” said Van In impatiently.

“A-positive. Is that any help?”

“No, Jasper. The skin under Fiedle's nail was O-negative.”

“Shame, Pieter. It looks like you're going to have to wait for the results of the DNA test.”

“Thanks anyway, Jasper.”

“Perhaps this might help,” said Tjepkema, trying to be optimistic. “According to a couple of locals, someone came asking about Frenkel on Thursday evening. One of them referred him to the holiday house.”

“Do you have a description?”

“We certainly do,” Tjepkema beamed. “Male, thin build, five-ten or thereabouts, thirty to thirty-five years old, straight black hair, trendy dresser with a southern European look.”

“Scaglione,” Van In whispered.

“What was that, Pieter?”

“You're a star, Jasper.”

“My pleasure, Pieter. I'll call if I have more news. 'Bye.”

Hannelore was fidgeting with her blouse, and Versavel stared at Van In with bated breath.

“Vandekerckhove's off the hook,” said Van In, “unless he's O-negative.”

“Maybe they used a hired killer,” said Hannelore matter-of-factly.

“Who's ‘they'?” Versavel appropriately wondered.

“No idea,” Van In sighed. “I think I need to take time out for a couple of hours.”

“Then I'm going with you,” Hannelore chirped.

The fire was still smoldering when they arrived back at the house. Van In adjusted the thermostat to 72 and tossed a symbolic log on the grate.

“Carton's going to be looking for you later,” she teased.

“Then the luck's on your side,” he retorted sarcastically. “Magistrates don't need an excuse when they take a couple of hours off.”

“The courts aren't soft on men who molest their pregnant wives,” she snapped.

“I almost believed you, Hanne,” said Van In wearily. “But I checked a couple of books this morning. It's impossible to tell if you're pregnant after a week.”

She walked to the refrigerator.

“Any pickles?”

“No, sweetheart. If you want gherkins, you'll just have to buy them yourself.”

“Oh, how I wish I was Mrs. Van In,” she pouted.

“Please, Hanne. I came home to think.”

“Would Holmes like a jab of morphine, or shall I make a pot of coffee to stimulate the old gray matter?”

“There's some cake in the cupboard,” he said resignedly.

When Van In stormed back in at six-thirty with two jars of pickled gherkins, Hannelore was sitting in the living room with an exceptionally pale young man.

“May I introduce Xavier Vandekerckhove?” she said with a gracious gesture of the hand.

Van In looked like a child who had just received a visit from ET. He recognized Véronique's frail, slightly balding bag carrier immediately. This was Armageddon, he thought with a sigh. Hannelore seemed highly amused.

“Xavier can spare you a bunch of mental acrobatics; true, Xavier?”

The timid young man nodded. Van In put the gherkins in the refrigerator and poured himself a cup of coffee. A Duvel would have tasted a lot better.

“Good evening, Commissioner Van In. I suppose I'm the last person you expected to see.”

You can say that again
, Van In thought, obliged to agree. He broke into a cold sweat.

“I've been in two minds whether to contact you, but circumstances compel me….”

Xavier spoke like someone who had just visited a speech therapist. He articulated every syllable.

“That's very courageous of you, Xavier.”

Van In cast a desperate glance in Hannelore's direction, but she was playing the Queen of Sheba.

The young man didn't beat around the bush.

“I wanted to talk to you about my father and about Thule.”

Van In sat down and took in a mouthful of lukewarm coffee.

“Very few people know that my father has two sons. Ronald was always Daddy's favorite. I'm the problem son. No one's heard of me.”

Xavier was clearly having a hard time. His pointed adam's apple bounced up and down in a frenzy.

“Father thinks I'm mentally unbalanced and refuses to let me be part of the business. But that doesn't mean I'm retarded, you understand.”

“I'm already convinced,” said Van In in an optimistic tone.

“That's why I asked Véronique to tell you about my father. He really was in Villa Italiana on March 11.”

Van In froze. “True, yes, that's what she told me,” he said nonchalantly.

If Xavier coughed up any more details, Bruges would soon be one more unmarried mother the richer.

“Véronique's a sweet girl. She goes with anyone and everyone, but that doesn't bother me. No one knows that I'm in love with her.”

Xavier knew how to build up the tension.

“I thought you'd be able to solve the case on the basis of my hint, Commissioner. But I had no way of knowing that my father would come up with a watertight alibi.”

“Not as watertight as he thought,” said Van In. “We've already discovered some holes in it.”

“Thank God,” Xavier sighed. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. The glow of the dancing flames gave his ashen complexion a yellowy sheen.

“But tell me something about Thule, the name you mentioned a moment ago,” said Van In.

He hoped that Hannelore wouldn't notice how desperate he was to change the direction of the conversation.

Xavier nodded submissively. “Electronics is my hobby,” he said with a hint of pride.

Hannelore looked at Van In. He avoided her stare. They were both thinking the same thing: Xavier seemed far from balanced.

“Please be patient, Commissioner. I'll get to the point in due course,” said the delicate young man, anticipating their surprise. “My father gave me free rein, and money was never an obstacle. But what started as a pastime turned into a nightmare.”

Van In lit a cigarette. Hannelore pulled up her legs and huddled into a corner of the couch. The young man's story intrigued her immensely.

“In my free time, I installed listening devices in every corner of the house. You should know that I was never allowed to be part of anything. If we had visitors, I was always banished to my room. The listening devices gave me the feeling that I was joining in somehow. That's how I discovered Thule,” he said with a weary smile.

“Does the name Thule have anything to do with Fiedle?” asked Hannelore.

“It certainly does, ma'am. You should know that the Thule Society is almost a hundred years old. It started off as a pan-German order of knights with branches in the business world and politics. Dietrich Eckhart, one of the order's founders, is said to have confided in one of his friends in 1919: ‘We need a man who can bear the sound of a machine gun. Those bastards'—he meant the Jews and the communists—‘need the fear of God put into them. We don't need a gentleman officer, we need working class with a loud mouth. He has to be vain and unmarried; then we'll get the support of the women.'”

“Well, I'll be damned,” Van In grumbled. “It sounds as if Mr. Eckhart and his cronies got what they wanted.”

Vandekerckhove's son concurred with an alert glance.

“According to reports, Eckhart was an adviser to Hitler for a time. He inspired him to write
Mein Kampf
and helped organize the Wannsee Conference when the Nazis adopted the Endlösing—the ‘Final Solution.'”

“A jolly little club,” Van In snorted.