Free From Bruges with Love by Pieter Aspe Page A

didn’t even have to lie. “As I said, Commissioner, I was only there on the rare occasion. I suspect whoever buried the body was aware of that.”
    â€œI think so too,” said Van In. “There are plenty of similar cases in the police literature. Perpetrators usually pick remote places to dump their victims, but such places are pretty few and far between in Flanders. That allows us to conclude, give or take, that the killer was familiar with the area in general and with your property in particular.”
    â€œSounds like a plausible hypothesis, Commissioner. I wish there was some other way that I could be of assistance.”
    Van In finished his coffee and got to his feet. Now he was looking down on Vandaele for once.
    â€œDon’t worry, Mr. Vandaele,” he said with a smile. “You’ve helped me a great deal.”
    It was an old trick he had learned at the police academy. Always give the impression you know more than the person you’re interrogating thinks you know. Doubt is a seed that can germinate in no time at all, urging suspects to be rash. “I’ll keep you up-to-date on the evolution of the case,” Van In promised.
    â€œI’ll be waiting with bated breath, Commissioner.”
    The old man struggled to his feet and accompanied Van In to the door. He seemed a lot less self-assured than he had an hour earlier. Or was Van In imagining things?
    Most tourist guides advise unwary visitors not to wander around alone when they’re in Naples. William Aerts heeded it and took a taxi to the port. The wallet in his trouser pocket was stuffed with fifty one-hundred-dollar bills and four million lire in large denominations. In spite of the unbearable heat, he had kept his hand in his pocket for the entire length of the train journey from Rome to Naples. This was Mafia territory, where throats were cut for a fraction of the amount he was carrying.
    Once an exotic destination, the Bay of Naples now looked like the gray armpit of a dying organism called a city. A crazily honking taxi driver piloted Aerts through the chaos with genuine disregard for his own safety. He paid no attention to the traffic lights, carving his way through the congested streets with a curse for every obstacle. The fact that he managed to deliver his client safely to his destination was nothing short of a miracle.
    Ports always stink, but the more acceptable smell of fuel and tar was nothing compared to the stench of rotting fish and urine Naples had to offer. Aerts took the inconvenience in stride. If everything went according to plan, he would be onboard within the hour.
    The ferry to Palermo was packed. Aerts had to settle for a place on the forward deck out of the shade. He didn’t give a damn. He’d have traveled in a coffin if he’d had to.
    â€œAdieu, Linda; adieu, bastards,” he said under his breath as the grinding engines churned the grimy water. Half an hour later, the wind massaged his sweating face. The distant horizon beckoned. A boyhood dream was about to be fulfilled.
    Lodewijk Vandaele left his office five minutes after Van In’s visit.
    â€œI’ll be away for the rest of the afternoon.”
    His secretary fetched his straw hat and cane.
    â€œFine, Mr. Vandaele. See you tomorrow.”
    â€œSee you tomorrow, Liesbeth.”
    Liesbeth held open the door for him and then returned to her duties.
    Vandaele was in the habit of lunching in an exclusive restaurant on the outskirts of the city, but today he drove straight to his villa on the Damme Canal. The conversation with Van In still bugged him—not so much the content but the subtle way the commissioner had introduced the question of the gate. The man was dangerous, and something had to be done about it.
    Vandaele grabbed a bottle of Exshaw from the liquor cabinet in the lounge and poured himself a generous glass of the twenty-year-old cognac. He then consulted his diary and punched in the number of