From Bruges with Love by Pieter Aspe Read Free Book Online Page B

nowhere.”
    Versavel popped a filter into the machine, switched it on, and returned to his desk. Baert rolled his chair a little closer. This wasn’t the kind of detective work he had expected.
    â€œI wonder if Van In’s made any progress.”
    The first drops of boiling water exploded in the coffee filter.
    â€œIs he as good as they say?”
    The tone of Baert’s question was halfway between hesitation and admiration.
    â€œVan In is the best,” Versavel answered, sure of his words. He wasn’t in the mood to pick a fight with the chief inspector. The man had a bad reputation. He tried to sow dissension wherever he went. A few colleagues were even convinced he had a couple of bats in his belfry. For a moment, the drip - drip of the coffee machine was all that broke the silence.
    â€œI’ve heard,” Baert whispered with a feigned smile, “that—”
    â€œI don’t give a shit what you’ve heard, Chief Inspector.”
    Baert was taken aback by Versavel’s reaction. His nostrils started to quiver as he readied himself to read him the riot act.
    â€œSpeak of the devil,” said Versavel, relieved at the sight of Van In in the doorway. “Any luck?”
    Van In popped a chocolate toffee into his mouth hoping no one would notice. He was starving. Versavel served coffee as Van In delivered his report, ending with the name of the benefactor who’d previously owned the property. Baert listened eagerly.
    â€œI think I need to have a word with our friend Vandaele. It may be sheer coincidence, of course, but according to the coroner, Herbert was killed between 1985 and 1986 …”
    â€œAnd Vandaele donated the farm to the charity in 1986,” Versavel finished his sentence. They could read each other’s thoughts after so many years of intensive teamwork.
    â€œSomething like that, Guido. And it bugs me for some reason.”
    Versavel stirred his coffee. The name Vandaele brought him back in time to a period full of good memories. “Perhaps Jonathan can help us.”
    Who the fuck is Jonathan? Van In wanted to ask.
    â€œIf I’m not mistaken, Jonathan worked for Vandaele back then. He was his accountant for years.”
    â€œOne of your ‘buddies’?”
    â€œLong ago,” said Versavel with a twinkle in his eye. “Shall I give him a call?”
    â€œPoor Guido. You’d do just about anything for king and country.”
    Dirk Baert stared at the two like a pygmy looking up at the Eiffel Tower for the first time.
    â€œIt’s a deal.” Versavel beamed. “I’ll call him right away.”
    Every Tuesday evening, Van In and Hannelore headed to their favorite restaurant, the Heer Halewijn, on Wal Square. Diet or no diet, Tuesdays were sacrosanct. Hannelore was nuts about their grilled sirloin, and it gave Van In a valid excuse to down a bottle of Medoc with impunity.
    The small idyllic square, one of the most romantic locations in Bruges according to those in the know, was a hive of activity. Waiters in long aprons did their professional thing with flair, and the tourists nodded approvingly. Strangers are inclined to feel at home in Bruges. They’re served hand and foot, and even when they’re difficult, tireless waiters are ready to engage them in their native language. And if the occasional expletive slips out in the local dialect, the tourists just laugh along good-humoredly. A little local color is vital if you want to cultivate that sense of being abroad.
    The terrace in front of the Heer Halewijn was packed. In contrast to the other bars and restaurants on the square, most of the customers had a Bruges accent and spoke the local dialect—no beer-swilling Germans, cackling French, English Chunnel trippers, loud Americans, or equally loud Hollanders hunting the smell of food. There was actually something Dantesque about the place. You could ascend from hell into heaven in a