Free The Square of Revenge by Pieter Aspe

in search of his best suit.
    He selected the floweriest tie of the three he owned and knotted it around his neck. Valentine’s Day 1984, a somber memory. His last candlelight dinner with Sonja. She had reserved a table at De Zevende Hemel, an intimate little place on Wal Square with a very appropriate name. That night, he really was in seventh heaven.
    The restaurant went bankrupt a couple of months later, as did his marriage. Sonja got the furniture and what was left of their savings. Van In borrowed a couple of million francs to compensate her for the house. The loan cost him twenty-four thousand francs a month on top of his mortgage payments. In total, he had to pay almost thirty-five thousand francs a month to be able to keep the house. But it was worth it.
    It was his dream house. He had played in it countless times as a child, as he lived in the neighborhood nearby. Back then, an elderly spinster had lived in it, and she made him pancakes nearly every Wednesday. He had fallen in love with the Vette Vispoort, and the house at the end of Moer Street, with the upstairs room where he whiled away the hours reading. He loved the solid oak table by the window, the spiral staircase leading to the garden on the banks of the canal, the dark vaulted cellar full of cobwebs, the creaking wooden floor on the upper level. The house’s tangible tranquility, combined with the light filtered through green windowpanes, never left him.
    He made up his mind to live in the place when he was older.
    The house went up for sale in 1978, when he and Sonja had been married for four years. Van In accepted the exorbitant asking price. Like him, Sonja was wildly enthusiastic. In their youthful naïveté, they took out a very expensive loan. She worked day and night to pay for their dream house. She was chef in an exclusive Bruges restaurant and earned a good deal more than he did as a rookie policeman. She worked herself to the bone.
    But in 1984, when the worst seemed to be behind them, their marriage disintegrated.
    Long evenings alone left Van In lonely and despondent. He had fallen for the charms of a young colleague and had enjoyed a short if passionate relationship with her. She was nineteen and seemed insatiable, until she realized that Van In couldn’t do much for her career. He had just been promoted to the rank of inspector. She dumped him like a piece of dirt, and Sonja got wind of it precisely one day later. Any hopes of reconciliation were dashed.
    Van In never figured out who had turned him in. Their marriage could have been saved, been beautiful, but now it was too late. And self-pity was nobody’s friend.
    His dark suit made him appear thinner, and that cheered him more than a little. He walked to the corner of Moer Street and made his way to the police station on Beurs Square.
    Today you could tell where the real Flemish nationalists lived. The lion flag fluttered here and there throughout the city. Flanders was celebrating its annual feast, but it wasn’t a Belgian public holiday. It was business as usual.
    Van In marched into the station and asked at reception if a car was free. Officer Cardon, a pock-faced beanpole, handed him the keys to the Volkswagen Golf Van In usually drove.
    “Thanks, Robert,” said Van In.
    “At your command, Commissioner,” Cardon replied.
    He briefly considered bolting upstairs to his office, but changed his mind when he caught sight of the clock in the corridor. It was almost eight forty-five. Radio Contact was scheduled to broadcast the appeal every half hour. He had tuned in quickly before leaving the house, and he was sure Versavel would be at his desk fielding any calls that came in. If there was news, it could wait until the afternoon.
    He drove down Smede Street and took the main road out of the city in the direction of Gistel. Degroof lived in Varsenare, a small town between Bruges and Jabbeke.
    Van In was familiar with the Grote Thems, the exclusive neighborhood where Degroof kept his