Free The Midas Murders by Pieter Aspe Page A

Versavel retorted.
    â€œAll I wanted to know was whether Hannelore had talked to you about the Fiedle case,” said Leo, shaking his head.
    â€œNo, 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.
    â€œThis Fiedle guy seems to be pretty big.” Leo tried desperately to neutralize the tension.
    â€œAccording 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.”
    â€œOld news,” Van In drawled. Vanmaele stopped stirring and emptied his cup.
    â€œAccording to insiders, Kindermann has control of forty-five percent of the tourist sector in Europe,” Versavel offered.
    â€œGood thing I never travel with Rhine monkeys,” Van In grouched.
    â€œLast 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.
    â€œThat 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 .”
    â€œLet’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.
    â€œThe affair has created a serious fuss in Germany. ZDF broadcast a three-minute piece on it yesterday.”
    â€œCreytens 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.
    â€œSo 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.
    â€œOn the bomb?”
    â€œWhat did you say?” Van In’s thoughts were elsewhere.
    â€œDo you want a report about the bomb, or a report about my findings?”
    â€œWhat findings?”
    â€œAbout the bomb, then,” Leo sighed.
    â€œOf course, idiot.”
    â€œThat depends on the bomb squad,” Leo retorted. “Lieutenant Grammens told me the tests could take a couple of days.”
    â€œThat’s open to interpretation, Leo. Don’t forget you’re dealing with professional soldiers.”
    â€œTwo days, Pieter,” said the diminutive court expert resolutely. “And that’s a promise.”
    â€œGood, two days. Otherwise….”
    â€œA crate of Duvel,” Leo brayed.
    â€œTwo,” 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