Free From Bruges with Love by Pieter Aspe

a number of youth associations.”
    Vandaele poured the coffees. “Sugar?”
    Van In shook his head.
    â€œSo no one ever lived in the place,” he insisted.
    â€œCorrect, Commissioner. Several years ago I handed it over to a charitable organization. The youth groups weren’t interested anymore. They only set up camp if there are showers and microwaves nearby.”
    Vandaele laughed. “Young people these days are too demanding. Romance is dead, Commissioner. The only thing that still interests them is starting a career and making money, and preferably sooner than later.”
    Van In didn’t think Vandaele was the man to be making such observations, but he nodded nonetheless and sipped his coffee.
    â€œI know a thing or two about that myself, Mr. Vandaele,” he said diplomatically. “It all has to be fast and automatic. Imagine the panic if we were to ban remote controls starting tomorrow.”
    Vandaele nodded his head to every word. He put his cup on a side table and said: “We would be totally helpless, Commissioner. Most people would be up in arms, call a technician, insist they come and fix what they presumed to be broken.”
    Van In played along, making a clumsy attempt to imitate the gloating building contractor. Was it too obvious, or did Vandaele realize that he had walked into Van In’s trap like an inexperienced cub?
    â€œOf course, we shouldn’t blame the youth of today for all the sins of humanity,” said Van In in an unexpectedly serious tone.
    â€œGo on, Commissioner. Luxury can be an addiction, even for us grown-ups. Those gadgets can come in mighty handy at times,” said Vandaele, ostentatiously massaging his stiff knees. “I’m not averse to a bit of modern technology now and again, Commissioner, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. The garage door at home is fitted with a remote. It saves me the hassle and pain of getting in and out of the car. It’s easy to get used to such comforts, then—”
    â€œDo you have remotes installed everywhere, Mr. Vandaele?”
    The elderly contractor’s signature jovial grin seemed to freeze for an instant. He sipped at his coffee, pretended it had gone down the wrong way, and feigned a coughing fit. The theatricals gave him a few seconds’ respite.
    â€œI presume you’re referring to the gate at the Love, Commissioner.”
    Van In nodded.
    â€œThat wasn’t a question of laziness or of stiff knees,” said Vandaele. He tried to sound dramatic. “The installation of the electric gate was a direct consequence of the bend in the road.”
    Van In listened to his story. The entrance to the Love was immediately behind a sharp bend, and there had been an accident in 1979 in which someone had almost died. A motorcyclist had crashed into Vandaele’s parked car while he was opening the gate. The road was narrow, and Vandaele’s Mercedes took up most of it. The victim had survived the crash, but Vandaele had sworn it would never happen again.
    â€œThat’s why I had a remote installed on the spot,” Vandaele concluded his story. “Prevention is still better than a cure, eh, Commissioner?”
    Vandaele’s account was plausible, and Van In thought it a shame. He would have Baert check it out. Anything to keep the irritating chief inspector busy and out of his hair.
    â€œIt’s probably a redundant question, Mr. Vandaele, but my job requires me to ask it.”
    The old man puffed long and hard at his half-smoked Davidoff. He was happy that Van In didn’t want to press him on the gate story. “Please, Commissioner, feel free.”
    â€œHas anyone ever drawn your attention to digging going on at your property?”
    Vandaele had been expecting a totally different question. “No, Commissioner, absolutely not.”
    â€œAnd you’ve never found traces of an attempted break-in?”
    Vandaele shook his head. He