Free The Public Prosecutor by Jef Geeraerts Page B

conversation only lasted a few minutes.
    All he did was note down a telephone number and address in Antwerp in cursive convent school handwriting and conclude the conversation with a formal “ Pax ”, something without meaning for either party, given their status, to be ascribed to his obsession for decorum and nothing more.
    A rigid grin appeared on his face as he hung up the receiver. He placed the index finger of his right hand on his left wrist and took his pulse in silence without referring to his watch. He waited until his heartbeat had reached what he considered an appropriate number of beats per minute and called a number in Brussels.
    “Belgacom?”
    “ Oui .”
    “I would like to speak to the director general for International Communications.” While his French was correct, he had a marked guttural accent, once described in the Paris gossip rag Le Canard Enchaîné as a sickness caused by too much cold air passing through an open stable door.
    “With whom do I have the pleasure?”
    “A friend…”
    “I’ll put you through.”
    “Hello,” a neutral male voice introduced itself.
    “Ernst Jacobi from Zürich speaking.”
    “Aha! How is life in Switzerland, my dear Mr Jacobi?” The man’s tone of voice changed pitch.
    “ Pax .”
    “ In aeternum . How can I be of assistance?”
    “We have a technical problem…”
    “Continue.”
    “I have a Belgian telephone number here. We would like to have access to the international call statements for, let’s say, the last year.”
    “Is there an ongoing judicial inquiry into this number?”
    “Not that I’m aware of.”
    “Then what you ask is illegal.”
    “I’m asking on behalf of Hervé van Reyn.”
    “Hmm… I see… Can I fax the information?”
    “Thank you, my dear director general.” Ernst Jacobi hung up without saying goodbye and returned immediately to the file on the desk in front of him as if nothing had happened.
     
    Albert uncorked a bottle of champagne with a loud bang, something Amandine considered evidence of a lack of style, much to his enjoyment. An open tin of caviar with two mother-of-pearl spoons awaited them on a plate. He considered eating caviar from the tin as the height of decadence. They sat on the floor in riding breeches at a squat coffee table, their boots left by the door, both stinking of horse sweat. Igor lay stretched out on a blanket, sound asleep.
    As he was about to pour the champagne, Louise lit a cigarette and said casually: “I’m not really in the mood for caviar and champagne.”
    “What do you fancy then?” he asked light-heartedly, hiding his disappointment.
    “Gin and tonic and cheese crackers.”
    “OK, then I’ll have a whisky.”
    She nodded, puffed at her cigarette and inspected the varnish on her toenails, slowly wriggling her toes in the process.
    He closed the tin of caviar with an expressionless face, popped a bottle stop in the champagne and brought both to the kitchen.
    “Large or small?” he shouted after cursing under his breath.
    “Whatever.”
    He returned to the living room with a smile a few minutes later, carrying two glasses and a bowl of cheese crackers on a tray.
    “ Madame est servie .”
    “Ha, not a bad race, eh?” she said, stretching her back, the contour of her breasts filling her silk blouse.
    “Until you lost control of Yamma.”
    She shrugged her shoulders.
    “Chin.”
    “Chin.”
    “Louise…”
    “Mmm?”
    “Do you still love me?”
    “Of course, idiot,” she said with a chuckle, gazing at him with her shallow, lance-shaped eyes. He felt relieved. Her tone was like the old days, the best days, but when he looked in her eyes she turned away.
    “There’s something different about you,” he said. He took a gulp of whisky and held it in his mouth. He suddenly felt like an old man. The ride had tired him. His legs felt like lead.
    She pinched his hand and threw him a kiss.
    He swallowed his whisky. “Come, let’s talk about something else,” he said