Free The Midas Murders by Pieter Aspe Page B

their paperwork in two days.
    â€œExcellent,” Van In beamed.
    The diversion helped him forget the misery surrounding the potentially imminent auction of his house, albeit only for a while.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œGuido, 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.”
    â€œOver and out, Sergeant. Save the poetical outpourings for your new word processor. I’ll stop by this afternoon to check on your progress.”
    â€œAt 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.
    The Villa was closed, as he had expected. It made no sense to knock, so he found the nearest telephone box and punched in the nightclub’s number. It rang for more than two minutes.
    â€œAllo, Villa Italiana,” a stifled voice said. Van In exulted in silence.
    â€œHello, Jacques.” He recognized the voice of the longest-serving waiter. Jacques had been born in Limburg, on the other side of the country, and in spite of more than fifteen years in West Flanders he could barely conceal his Limburg accent.
    â€œCommissioner Van In here. Is Véronique there?”
    Silence. Under normal circumstances, Jacques would already have bitten the caller’s head off.
    â€œNot at the moment, Commissioner. She’s gone shopping.”
    â€œIn Bruges?”
    Jacques had to think. He had no