The Midas Murders (6 page)

W
HEN
V
AN
I
N APPEARED NONE
too early at the station on Tuesday morning, it seemed as if all hell had broken loose. Officers raced nervously along the corridors like blue shadows on accelerated film. But he was indifferent to the chaos. He had spent that night in heaven. Disguised as Dante, he had ascended through the spheres, and he had to admit that Hannelore was a much better guide than Beatrice.

“What's this? World War Three?” he asked an inspector as he raced past.

The man looked at him incredulously and continued on his way, shaking his head.

“Pfft,” Van In sighed. “Cheerful Charlies everywhere this morning.”

“Hey, Commissioner Van In.”

Pieter turned his head. He could pick Versavel's voice out of a thousand.

“Guido! A normal person at last! What the fuck is going on?”

Versavel walked toward him with a spring in his step. In contrast to the others, he seemed his usual relaxed self. Van In envied him for it.

“So you haven't heard.”

“Heard what?” Van In asked, pulling an innocent face.

“Some crazy terrorist blew up the statue of Guido Gezelle last night.”

“You're kidding me.”

“Scouts' honor, Commissioner.”

“Why wasn't I informed?”

Van In had forgotten that he had disconnected his phone the night before.

“Bleyaert sent a patrol to your place at eight. He said there was some kind of problem with your phone.”

“Bullshit,” Van In muttered. “Who's in charge?”

Versavel stroked his moustache and pointed to the clock on the wall. “Starting at nine, you!” he said, gloating slightly.

“Jesus H.”

“You really don't have a clue, do you?” Versavel repeated.

“What the fuck do you want? A declaration in duplicate?” Van In barked.

He regretted his words immediately. Versavel deserved better.

“Sorry, Guido.”

“You're forgiven,” Versavel grinned, unflappable as ever.

“You certainly know how to wake a person up in a hurry,” Van In growled as they made their way into room 204.

“You're not the only one who's awake all of a sudden,” said Versavel. “Half the city's on its head. Chief Commissioner Carton has had the mayor on the line three times, no less, and the city council is meeting this evening for an emergency consultation.”

“Was there much damage?”

“It's not as bad as it sounds. According to Bleyaert, the statue fell on its back and broke into three pieces.”

“Are there witnesses?”

“Take a guess.”

“Sorry. Stupid question.”

Slow down on the apologies
, Versavel wanted to say, but he held his tongue. Van In sat down behind his desk and lit a cigarette.

“Is there coffee?”

Versavel shook his head and walked over to the windowsill. He shoveled five scoops of coffee into the filter and filled the water reservoir.

“My first bomb,” Van In mused in the tone of a mother hugging her baby. “That I should live to see the day.”

“Your first
what
?” Versavel perched on the windowsill and folded his arms.

“My first bomb.” Van In stared at the sergeant questioningly.

“What about 1967?”

“I was still in school in 1967, Guido.” Van In thought back to the Golden Sixties, the glory years of unbridled freedom.

“But you lived in Bruges, didn't you?”

“Jesus H. You mean the bomb attack on the courthouse on Burg Square.”

“The very one,” Versavel nodded. He made his way to his desk and fetched a couple of mugs and a Tupperware box with sugar cubes from the top drawer. “Not a single window survived and they never found the culprits. The public prosecutor interrogated half the province. The press cried shame, which was pretty unusual in those days.”

“Now you're front-page news if you ask an asylum-seeker for his papers,” Van In smirked.

Versavel carefully shook the coffee grounds into the wastepaper basket and filled the mugs.

“Do me a favor, Commissioner: don't start on the asylum-seekers. We'll be reading about it in the papers next. Headline: police discover evidence that Muslim fundamentalists blew up Gezelle because of a poem he wrote a hundred years ago.”

“Who else can you blame?” asked Van In with a deadpan face. “The communists are gone, and the Africans are butchering each other.”

“And the unemployed are probably too lazy to knock a bomb together,” Versavel snorted.

“So who's left?”

“The employers!”

Versavel held out one of the mugs. “One lump?”

“Two, Guido. You know I'm watching my figure.”

Versavel ignored the feeble remark and gave Van In the Tupperware box. “According to Carton, the mayor's main worry is the impact of the bombing.”

“You mean he's scared shitless he'll lose a bunch of tourists.”

“Everyone knows that business isn't exactly booming at the moment. No one can afford another bad season,” said Versavel.

“The self-employed are always complaining. If their turnover is down five percent, they're screaming blue murder. They'll be selling Gezelle statues in three pieces next week, mark my words.”

“Mayor Moens apparently doesn't share your opinion,” said Versavel matter-of-factly. “Don't forget that the business community put him where he is.”

“Did Carton tell you all this?” asked Van In, amused.

Versavel sipped his coffee, unruffled. He was long used to the commissioner's sarcasm. “Moens wants a discreet investigation, come what may,” he said resolutely.

“If they spotted a man-eating shark off the coast of Zeebrugge, he'd still try to keep it under wraps,” Van In scoffed.

“The politicians are calling it an ‘incident.' For the time being, at least.”

Versavel stroked his moustache. Van In was always going to be an awkward customer, he thought to himself.

“Has anyone claimed responsibility?” Van In asked.

“Not so far.”

“Even better,” Van In sighed. He got to his feet, walked to the windowsill, and poured himself a second mug of coffee.

“They'll probably pin it on a bunch of schoolkids.”

Van In sniffed and imitated a tearful voice: “Mommy, I flunked my Dutch exam, so I stuck a bomb under Guido Gezelle.”

“It might have been vandals,” said Versavel.

“Vandals, my ass,” Van In grunted.

“That's what the Federal Police are saying, their working hypothesis.”

“Ditto Croos, I suppose,” Van In flared up. “Don't they have enough on their plate with the dead Hun?”

“The bomb attack is for us, Commissioner. Moens is insisting that we handle the investigation.”

“Is that a fact?”

Versavel's words seemed to calm Van In. The sergeant stood at the window and did some abdominal exercises on the sly.

“Did you visit the scene?”

Versavel turned and shook his head. “Bomb disposal has just arrived. I'm expecting more details any minute.”

“So why do you think they chose Gezelle?” asked Van In out of the blue. “If I was given the chance to blow up a statue, I'd pick someone else.”

“Surely not Michelangelo's
Madonna
?”

Van In froze. The photo of the
Madonna
with the pokeweed in the background had been following him around in his mind since the day before.

“Shit. Why didn't I think of that earlier? Two statues in the same number of days. That can't be a coincidence.”

“No such thing, Commissioner.”

“Exactly. It's high time we checked out the scene of the crime.”

Van In gulped down the remains of his coffee, lurched energetically toward the coat stand, and put on his jacket.

“Let's go,” he said impatiently.

As the two descended the stairs, Versavel couldn't stop himself from teasing his boss a little.

“Everything hunky-dory with the pretty Hannelore?”

Van In gave him a withering look.

“Or did you have a visit from your elderly auntie from Oostende last night?”

Van In slowed down and held out a threatening finger. “I happen to know that you go to see the Chippendales of a Thursday,” he said affably. “A little birdie told me where you keep the tickets in your jacket. If I were you, I'd mind my words, Versavel, buddy.”

“Sorry, Commissioner. If I'd known you wanted to join me, I'd have ordered two tickets.”

“Laugh. Go ahead,” Van In snapped.

“At your command, Commissioner.”

A couple of young junior officers climbing the stairs pretended not to have heard the conversation.

“Is that Van In?” whispered the younger of the two when they had disappeared from view.

“Think so,” the other whispered.

“Is it true that he's a bit… ?” The younger man tapped his temple with his forefinger.

“So they say,” said the other timidly.

“And Versavel?” He made another knowing gesture, a flap of the hand.

“One hundred percent,” the older of the two nodded resolutely.

T
HE ONCE-IMPOSING BRONZE STATUE OF
Guido Gezelle was in a sorry state. The largest chunk had landed on a Mazda parked in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Japanese tin can had taken the culture shock badly. The car's roof was no more than a couple of inches above its wheels.

“Poor Guido.”

“Sorry?”

“Not
you
, Versavel. Look at the poor statue. Our greatest poet, smashed to smithereens.”

“There's no need to be condescending,” Versavel snorted. “Get rid of iconoclasts? A pointless endeavor. But Guido's work will endure forever.”

“Bravo, Sergeant. But that kind of verse is a little too amateur for my taste.”

“At least I respect the man,” Versavel sulked. “I love Gezelle, heart and soul.”

“I can picture it.”

“Priests had their feelings, even back then,” said Versavel proudly. “Nobody would bat an eyelid nowadays.”

“And bishops?” Van In smirked. Versavel sucked the cold winter air into his lungs, still indignant.

“I've many, many an hour with you been living and been loving, and never has an hour with you been for one instant irking.

“I've many, many a flower to you elected and devoted, and like a bee with you, with you the honey from it looted.
”
*

Versavel recited the poem in a warm baritone voice. Van In had to admit that the languid, gentle West Flemish tones moved him.

“I didn't know you were such a fan,” he said with undisguised admiration.

Versavel looked up at the leaden sky.
Snow does strange things to a person,
he thought to himself pensively.

“Gezelle was a monument,” he mused. “And now the monument's in pieces.”

The police had hermetically sealed Guido Gezelle Square. In spite of its being mid-March, tourists had gathered behind the barriers and had elbowed their way to the front like privileged spectators.

“Thank God we don't have to put up with mosquitoes in the winter,” Van In growled as he weaved his way through the stubborn, chattering mini-mob, Versavel in his wake.

One of the officers inside the cordon fortunately caught sight of them, saluted, and pulled back the barrier to let them in.

Leo Vanmaele also caught sight of them and scurried in their direction on his short legs.

“No rest for the wicked, eh?” he chirped. The public prosecutor's diminutive expert was almost always in a good mood. “The guy who runs the Gezelle Inn right over there is serving up free coffee with cognac,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

Van In took a look around. Everyone else seemed to be hard at work. He had no reason not to accept the offer of a French coffee.

“So, tell me what you know,” he said in a jovial tone. “If we hang around here, we'll just get cold.”

In less than thirty seconds, the three men were buddied up to the nearby bar.

“Did no one else hear about the French coffee?” asked Van In, smelling a rat. Apart from the usual locals, the pub was empty.

“Surely you don't think I'd pass on valuable information like that to just anybody,” Leo Vanmaele chuckled. “If the bomb squad gets to hear about it, our friendly barkeeper here will be cleaned out in no time, eh, Ronald?”

The manager of the Gezelle Inn, a wiry bloke in his forties, gave Leo a friendly slap on the back. “You know Leo. Always in for a joke.” His voice resounded through the bar. Ronald spent his free time in a local gym. His voice and his chest capacity were in perfect harmony.

“We know Leo, all right,” Van In concurred.

Vanmaele was clearly having a whale of a time. “But I can always rely on you to walk right
in
to it, eh, Van
In
?” he said, rubbing his hands together.

“You've had your fun, Vanmaele.”

Leo grinned like a runaway chimpanzee. “Don't panic, Pieter. I'll take care of the cognac,” he assured him.

“Just the coffee for me,” Versavel shouted to the athletic barkeeper's chiseled back.

“Cookie with that, or fudge?”

Ronald stopped for a second, but even Leo didn't laugh at the tasteless allusion.

“Make it a cappuccino,” said Versavel, ever the sport.

They found a table by the window. The bomb squad still had plenty to keep them busy. There wasn't a war on, so there was no need to rush.

Was Ronald trying to redeem himself, or was he always so generous? The ample snifters of cognac almost sloshed over the rim, and the aroma of the cappuccino was close to authentic.

“Semtex is in fashion,” said Leo. “Lieutenant Grammens heads the bomb squad, and we're both certain it was Semtex.”

Leo almost burned his tongue on the coffee.

“A professional job?” asked Van In.

“Maybe,” Leo answered cautiously.

He tried to soothe his singed tongue with a swig of cognac, which wasn't exactly smart of him.

“Some water?” Van In asked when he saw the tortured expression on Vanmaele's face.

“Or a Duvel?” Versavel sneered.

A hefty top-loader and a tow truck arrived outside at the same time. Six laborers consulted one another on how to tackle the job. The foreman stared with envy through the window of the Gezelle Inn, but Ronald deliberately ignored him.

“According to Lieutenant Grammens, the bomber didn't set out to destroy the statue. He rolled the explosives into a long sausage and stuffed it between the pedestal and the foot.”

“So it
was
professional,” Versavel concluded.

“Or someone who knew absolutely nothing about explosives,” Leo suggested.

“How much does that thing weigh?”

“No idea,” said Leo.

“If the car hadn't been there, the statue would have smashed to smithereens,” said Van In. “In other words, whether the culprit wanted to destroy the statue or just knock it over is irrelevant. Is there news from the door-to-door?”

“Everyone in the neighborhood heard the bang.” Versavel had checked before they left the station. “Four teams questioned residents within a half-mile radius, but they didn't come up with much. And not a single eyewitness.”

“Miracles are rare,” Van In sighed.

“But the bomber carefully timed the explosion,” Versavel continued unperturbed. “At three in the morning, Bruges is about as busy as the top of Mount Everest.”

“
Bruges la Morte
,” said Leo theatrically. “Yesterday somebody snuffs a German and last night some crazy guy blows up Gezelle? Bruges is alive and kicking, if you ask me.”

“Has Croos made any progress in the Fiedle case?” Van In asked, out of the blue.

“I suspect you know more than I do,” Leo grinned.

Both Van In and Versavel stared at the portly court expert in bewilderment.

“Didn't Hannelore whisper anything in your ear last night?” said Leo, feigning innocence.

“Not you too, Leo!”

“But she called me yesterday,” Vanmaele protested. “She insisted on talking to you, so I figured….”

Versavel buried his nose in his half-empty coffee, his shoulders shuddering from bottled-up laughter. Van In blushed, and Leo stared at the pair in confusion.

“Sergeant Versavel just threw away his ticket to the Chippendales,” Van In growled.

“Sorry, Pieter, but I'm afraid you've lost me.”

“Never mind,” said Van In with a wave of the hand. “Ignore Versavel. When the police reports start to pour in later, he'll be singing a different tune.”

“Excellent image, Commissioner, honestly. But beware of hidden agendas,” Versavel retorted.

“All I wanted to know was whether Hannelore had talked to you about the Fiedle case,” said Leo, shaking his head.

“No, Leo, she didn't. We went to bed early.”

Vanmaele pigheadedly stirred the dregs of his coffee. “Timperman promised we'd have the results of the autopsy by tomorrow,” he said apologetically. “I thought you knew.”

Van In took a healthy mouthful of cognac. “We haven't been talking work much,” he said flatly.

“This Fiedle guy seems to be pretty big.” Leo tried desperately to neutralize the tension.

“According to Commissioner Croos, he is, or rather was, one of the bigwigs at Kindermann's. You've heard of them: the tour operator with a heart for your wallet.”

“Old news,” Van In drawled. Vanmaele stopped stirring and emptied his cup.

“According to insiders, Kindermann has control of forty-five percent of the tourist sector in Europe,” Versavel offered.

“Good thing I never travel with Rhine monkeys,” Van In grouched.

“Last time I was on holiday in Lanzarote, there was a rumor doing the rounds that Kindermann had bought up the neighboring island, Fuerteventura—or most of it, at least,” said Versavel.

“That wouldn't surprise me,” Van In pitched eagerly in. “Fifty or sixty years ago they made a pact with the devil, and all for a bit of
Lebensraum
.”

“Let's not get distracted,” said Leo in despair.

He made circles with his hands like a pope greeting the masses. If Van In got on his German hobbyhorse, they would be stuck here for the rest of the day.

“The affair has created a serious fuss in Germany. ZDF broadcast a three-minute piece on it yesterday.”

“Creytens will piss his pants,” Van In jeered. “And he might even enjoy it.”

As he vented his gall about the investigating magistrate, a fleeting image flashed through his head. Just as he was about to figure out what it was, all three men were shaken by the piercing sound of grating metal. Van In tried to concentrate, but the image had vanished, just like a dream right before you wake.

A heavy-duty crane was carefully lifting the largest chunk of the statue: the poet's head and torso. The flattened Mazda squeaked like a skidding steam train. The tow truck swung immediately into action and hauled the wreckage away.

The six laborers, clearly on the local authority payroll or there wouldn't have been so many of them, followed the colossus with resigned interest.

Four other “civil servants” had positioned themselves in the back of the ten-tonner. They were responsible for loosening the chains.

“So when can I expect your report, Leo?” Van In inquired as the statue, or what was left of it, was finally secured in the back of the truck.

“On the bomb?”

“What did you say?” Van In's thoughts were elsewhere.

“Do you want a report about the bomb, or a report about my findings?”

“What findings?”

“About the bomb, then,” Leo sighed.

“Of course, idiot.”

“That depends on the bomb squad,” Leo retorted. “Lieutenant Grammens told me the tests could take a couple of days.”

“That's open to interpretation, Leo. Don't forget you're dealing with professional soldiers.”

“Two days, Pieter,” said the diminutive court expert resolutely. “And that's a promise.”

“Good, two days. Otherwise….”

“A crate of Duvel,” Leo brayed.

“Two,” Van In insisted impassively.

Leo Vanmaele accepted the verdict without complaint. He had won a bet only the week before. It only seemed fair to let Van In win now and again. But he wasn't certain he was going to lose. Grammens was the conscientious type. With a bit of luck, the military boys might just manage to sort out their paperwork in two days.

“Excellent,” Van In beamed.

The diversion helped him forget the misery surrounding the potentially imminent auction of his house, albeit only for a while.

“I'm afraid there isn't much more we can do for the time being,” he said when Ronald didn't give the impression he was planning to refill the glasses.

“Guido, will you collect the reports from the door-to-door? Then we can conclude the first phase of the investigation.”

Versavel emptied his cup and wiped an imaginary smear of cream from his moustache. “Life is a battle standard,” he lamented. “Torn by days both good and bad, stained, let slip almost, valiantly borne forward.”

“Over and out, Sergeant. Save the poetical outpourings for your new word processor. I'll stop by this afternoon to check on your progress.”

“At your command, Commissioner.” Versavel jumped to attention and saluted. Ronald gaped at both policemen with a mixture of amazement and disbelief.
Is that why I pay taxes?
he wondered.

Leo shrugged his shoulders. He knew the pair. It was time they came up with something more original.

Van In spent ten minutes or so walking around Guido Gezelle Square, as if he wanted to give the onlookers the impression that the police were particularly concerned about the case. He let the cutting, frosty cold penetrate to the very fibers of his body and enjoyed the pain.

Van In hated bureaucracy. He had had his bellyful of the grind and the Kafka-esque treadmill. Suffering seemed to him an attractive alternative. But the real fun only came when he screwed up big-time.

Middle-aged men often get philosophical, he mused. Hannelore had done her best the night before, no question, but the euphoria had been short-lived and the memory fleeting. He felt old and past it. His life was a mess. The intelligent investigative work his superiors had congratulated him on only eight months earlier now seemed so trivial. Perhaps there was solace to be found in the fact that they were still dumber than he was, and still weren't aware of it.

Van In ambled along the Dyver Canal under a line of pruned and pared trees. The sound of the snow crunching under his feet was pleasingly familiar.

He knew that the Villa didn't open its doors until seven, but he walked automatically in that direction. When he crossed Burg Square, it suddenly dawned on him that he was about to do something stupid.

Van In increased his pace. The prestigious square was immaculate. The private parking lot belonging to the mayor and his council was full of cars. He recognized Decorte's gaudy BMW and Mayor Moens's more modest Honda. The whitewashed city hall stood out in sharp relief against the dark snow-filled sky. Leaden light engulfed the adjacent gothic Basilica of the Holy Blood like an ominous toxic cloud. There was a storm brewing above the city, but all Van In could think about was the Villa's lissome wenches. There wasn't a tourist to be seen on the square, and that in itself was creepy. Burg Square without a crowd was as unreal as a pop concert without decibels.