Free From Bruges with Love by Pieter Aspe Page B

the ministry of foreign affairs.
    Johan Brys was at his desk when the phone rang. The minister had landed at the airport in Zaventem only an hour earlier. His working visit to Rwanda had yielded precious little. The country was a mess, and the hundred million francs in emergency relief he had promised to his Rwandan colleague—a substantial sum in those days—wasn’t likely to make much of a difference. If they wanted to bring those guilty of genocide to justice, the country’s legal apparatus had to get back on its feet, and that was going to cost a great deal more than a hundred million. It was also by no means certain that Rwanda would ever see the promised support. Brys wasn’t really interested. The TV news appearance later that evening, in which he was to announce that the Belgian government (i.e., himself) was intent on doing whatever it took to help the Rwandan judiciary trace and try those responsible for mass murder, was more important for his career. Parliamentary elections were only a couple of months away, and the more he appeared on TV the more likely he was to score.
    â€œI have a Mr. Lodewijk Vandaele on line one, Minister. He says it’s urgent,” his secretary announced apologetically.
    â€œNo problem, Sonja. I know Mr. Vandaele,” said Brys. “Put him through.”
    â€œHello, Counselor Lodewijk.”
    â€œHello, Johan. How was Burundi?”
    â€œRwanda,” Brys corrected him gingerly.
    â€œRwanda, Burundi. What difference does it make?” Vandaele laughed.
    He took a sip from his glass. The fact that he could get through to the minister of foreign affairs without the least resistance had a relaxing effect.
    Van In arrived in Room 204 at two thirty to find Dirk Baert busy on the phone.
    â€œStill no results?” he asked with more than a hint of condescension when Baert hung up.
    â€œI’ve covered Bruges and the surrounding area. There isn’t a single dentist who remembers a patient with twenty-four false teeth, so now I’m focusing on hospitals and orthodontists.”
    â€œReasons to be cheerful?”
    â€œNegative, Commissioner. What about you?”
    Van In turned away, irked by the question. Nosey bastard , he thought.
    â€œIs Versavel back?”
    â€œNo, Commissioner. He left around eleven. He should have been back by now.”
    â€œLet me be the judge of that, Chief Inspector.”
    Baert pressed his fingernails into the palm of his hand. Why did no one like him? He grabbed the telephone book and checked off the next number. When Van In realized he was about to continue his odyssey, he stopped him, sensing a handy opportunity to get the nuisance out of his hair for a while.
    â€œI’d like you to check the records for me, Baert. Vandaele claims there was an accident back in the summer of 1978. He’s not sure of the exact date, but he remembers a motorcyclist driving into his parked car. Find out if he’s telling the truth.”
    Baert slammed the telephone book shut and left the room.
    With the chief inspector gone, Van In planted himself in front of Versavel’s old-fashioned Brother typewriter. There was paperwork to be done, and someone had to do it.
    Sergeant Versavel arrived at three forty-five. “Now that’s a sight for sore eyes,” he said, chuckling at the sight of his boss sweating over the keyboard.
    Van In stopped halfway through a sentence full of typos. “Finally,” he jeered. “Looks like Mr. Versavel’s been having a good time. Was Jonathan worth the visit?”
    â€œUn-be-liev-able,” said Versavel, parking himself on the edge of the typewriter desk and still clearly radiant from the encounter. “He treated me to lunch at the Karmeliet. Jonathan is a connoisseur, always has been. We started with roast breast of duck on a bed of raspberry preserve with lukewarm artichoke mousse, then moved on to monkfish tartlets with stuffed endive and trout