The Public Prosecutor Read online

  V - Your answer is correct. Don’t forget to meditate on the virtue of humility. Sleep on the floor tonight.

  A - Pax.

  V - You said that your father invited him to the house?

  A - Yes.

  V - And?

  A - We got to know one another.

  V - Intimately?

  A - No. Daddy found him a scholarship to study at Harvard after he finished his five years in Leuven.

  V - So you didn’t see much of one another.

  A - Precisely.

  V - My insinuating question seems to have served your purpose.

  A - We married late, after a very short engagement.

  V - What does late mean?

  A - My husband was thirty and I was twenty-nine.

  V - And the period of engagement?

  A - What do you mean?

  V - We ask the questions! Let me put it differently: was your engagement a chaste experience?

  A - Absolutely. Daddy kept a very close eye on my social activities.

  V - Did you touch each other?

  A - We kissed when we met and said goodbye. Nothing more.

  V - A French kiss?

  A - Never! That was strictly forbidden by my confessor.

  V - Who was he?

  A - A Dominican.

  V - Were there sins against chastity?

  A - No. He tried to touch my breasts once but I managed to prevent it.

  V - Did you confess the matter?

  A - Yes.

  V - Did you experience sinful desires when he touched you?

  A - I have never been troubled by such desires.

  V - Were you pure when you married?

  A - Certainly. Daddy arranged a week of retreat for us in a monastery after the wedding, as advised by the pre-marital counselling book Yes, I Do.

  V - Did you sleep in separate rooms in the monastery?

  A - Of course! We were only together for the meditations and the sermons.

  V - When was your first sexual contact?

  A - Two months later.

  V - Did you give your full consent?

  A - Yes and no. My husband insisted so much I was afraid and I gave in to him. I wasn’t even aware such things happened in married life.

  V - Had you never received sex education?

  A - People of our status did not talk about such things in those days.

  V - What was the first contact like?

  A - I prefer not to talk about it, Father.

  V - Did you enjoy it so much?

  A - Enjoy it? I never enjoyed it. I always found it unpleasant and only submitted myself because of his conjugal rights.

  V - How many times did you have intercourse on the first night?

  A - He was insatiable. He wouldn’t stop!

  V - So you never really took pleasure in it?

  A - No. I considered the deed necessary for procreation and nothing more.

  V - The nobility of procreation?

  A - Precisely.

  V - Why then did you only have two children?

  A - Because he stopped insisting at a certain moment.

  V - Were you happy with the situation?

  A - He refused to share the nobility of procreation with me.

  V - Did you ever try to change his mind?

  A - No.

  V - Why not?

  A - Because he no longer paid any attention to me.

  V - Did you ever have intercourse using a condom?

  A - He asked once, but no.

  V - And the pill?

  A - It was no longer necessary.

  V - Coitus interruptus?

  A - Once. I was so outraged we never had intercourse again.

  V - So your last intercourse was a mortal sin?

  A - No. I didn’t give my consent.

  V - You clearly did!

  A - I confessed everything, Father.

  V - You see. Did you ever commit a sin against nature?

  A - I’m not sure I understand.

  V - Anal intercourse?

  A - I didn’t know such things existed.

  V - Everything exists in the kingdom of Satan.

  A - Indeed.

  V - What did you do when you learned he had a mistress?

  A - Nothing. What could I do?

  V - Were you happy with it?

  A - Of course not!

  V - Do your sons know?

  A - No.

  V - Your father?

  A - No.

  V - How have you managed to keep it a secret so long?

  A - Such things are not talked about in our circles.

  V - How did you learn he had a mistress?

  A - Someone I know had seen them together.

  V - Do you and your husband sleep in the same bed?

  A - Not for the last thirty years.

  V - Do you ever give in to unchaste touching when you are alone?

  A - Never. I wouldn’t even know how.

  V - So you have lived a life of abstinence for thirty years?

  A - When you resolve firmly to lead a clean life, chastity will not be a burden for you: it will be a triumphal crown.

  V - Saying 123. Let me respond with Saying 129: without holy purity one cannot persevere in the apostolate.

  A - Impurity cleaves harder than pitch.

  V - When one seeks the company of sensual gratification… what loneliness follows!

  A - To defend his purity, Saint Francis of Assisi rolled in the snow, Saint Benedict threw himself into a thorn bush, Saint Bernard plunged into an icy pond…

  V - You… what have you done? blessed Josemaría asks himself in Saying 143. Let us pray together, my daughter. Before you go to sleep pray twenty Ave Marias in front of the portrait of blessed Josemaría. In the dark. And as I said, sleep on the floor. You are excused from the cilice. It is no longer necessary for women of your age. The cilice and the discipline are a male privilege.

  9

  On their way back to brigade headquarters in Brecht, Chief Sergeant Verhaert and Sergeant Ramael, gendarmerie on night shift, spent the entire time talking about the “shoddy affair” they had just witnessed and the handwritten report they had put together on the scene. They parked their Pontiac estate car in the garage and went inside, where they took off their uniform jackets and belts. They each poured a mug of coffee from a thermos, settled down next to a metal desk buried under piles of documents and folders and each lit a cigarette.

  “Bineco, Sanitary Installations in Vilvoorde,” said Verhaert, a tall, broad-shouldered character with a handsome ruddy complexion and a neat moustache, the prototypical gendarme.

  “None of our business, Charley,” Ramael replied. “That’s one for the Public Prosecutor.” Ramael was the same height as Verhaert, but wiry, pale and prematurely bald.

  “I read somewhere that a pit bull never lets go, even if you thump it with a chunk of railway track.”

  “Possible, but the timing doesn’t make any sense either.”

  “Miss Dubois claims she called D’Hoog, the vet, around ten thirty for a horse with colic. And a few minutes after he arrives, at ten forty-five, her Labrador is attacked by a pit bull. They note down the company’s name from the side of the van, call us, we arrive fifteen minutes later, and there’s the vet with a bloody nose and a ruptured lip. Doesn’t waste time, does he?”

  “Wasn’t it a kick from a cow?”

  “So he claimed.”

  “We should’ve asked the name of the farmer.”

  “Leave it, man.”

  “But everything seemed to have happened by accident, like some American cop movie.”

  “The pit bull’s history. The culprits: two guys in dark-green overalls, one tall and blond, the other short and thin with a big moustache and sideburns.”

  “They want to press charges against persons unknown.”

  “And they were nervous as hell.”

  “Come on, how would you feel?”

  “But there was somethin
g else…”

  “What?”

  “I heard from one of the guys at Antwerp CID that she receives regular visits from a senior Antwerp magistrate.”

  “Is the CID chasing magistrates these days?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “And do I get to know the guy’s name?”

  “The cream of the crop.”

  “The Prosecutor’s Office on the Waalse Kaai?”

  “You didn’t hear it from me.”

  “And there’s another thing…”

  “Mmm?”

  “Everybody knows that D’Hoog doesn’t always charge for his visits, especially if it’s worth his while.”

  “A wise man, if you ask me. Jesus, did you get a look at the food?”

  “We’re small fry, my friend. Don’t forget the Flemish proverb.”

  “What Flemish proverb?”

  “It’s dangerous to eat cherries with gentlemen.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?’

  “Gentlemen pick out the ripest cherries and spit the pits in your eye, get it?”

  “More or less. What do we do?”

  “We type up the report, send it to the Public Prosecutor’s Office and keep our mouths shut.”

  “You’re absolutely right.”

  “I’d rather do something else.”

  “What?”

  “Treat myself to a good whisky.”

  “Not a bad idea.”

  Chief Sergeant Verhaert opened a metal cabinet and produced a bottle of cheap whisky. Ramael had already found a couple of glasses.

  After the gendarmes had left, Louise sat down on the sofa, lit a cigarette, her fingers still trembling, and stared wide-eyed and anxious into space. She had pulled a blanket over her shoulders. She was still wearing her negligee.

  Johan D’Hoog appeared with his instrument bag and knelt down in front of Igor, who was stretched out on the floor, stock-still and clearly terrified. There were bite marks in the scruff of his neck. D’Hoog quickly filled a syringe and gave Igor an injection of local anaesthetic. He disinfected the wound, opened it, rinsed it thoroughly with antiseptic and pinched the frayed edges of the wound together with a couple of clamps.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he said.

  Louise lit another cigarette and stifled a shiver.

  “Are you cold?”

  “No, Johan, I’m frightened,” she said timidly. He wiped his throbbing nose and bleeding lip.

  “I only wish I’d treated them both to a bullet in the knee,” he said. “Come on my baby girl, don’t let it get to you. We’re both OK.”

  “I think he sent those bastards. He was jealous as hell in Brussels earlier with some English guy who was trying it on with me.”

  “You’re not serious.”

  “Just to spy on us. He’s in with the mafia!”

  “Flemish-speaking mafia taking pictures?…”

  “Why d’you think they were taking pictures?”

  “No idea.” He furrowed his eyebrows, trying to figure it all out.

  “You have to get out of here right away. If he catches us together… Jesus, it doesn’t bear thinking about…” she said.

  “No, I’m staying here. You can always use Igor as an excuse.”

  “I just took a Seconal in the bathroom.”

  “But you have to call him first, just to be sure he doesn’t smell a rat.”

  “You’re a sweet, courageous man, do you know that?”

  “I know, I know,” he laughed and passed her the cordless phone.

  She punched in Albert’s number.

  He made his way to the cupboard, found a bottle of whisky and poured himself a sturdy glass.

  Albert woke with a start to the sound of his mobile, which he had stuffed under his pillow. He opened his eyes and looked around, still a little groggy. His nose was blocked and he had a pounding headache. His bed heaved like a ship at sea. The mobile was still ringing. He switched on his bedside lamp and looked at his watch: 2.25 a.m. He picked up his mobile and answered.

  “Hello,” he said, his voice hoarse and dry.

  “Albert?” It was Louise.

  “Mmm. Is something wrong?”

  “It’s Igor.”

  “What about Igor?” He leaned up on one elbow.

  “I just got back from the vet. He was attacked by another dog, outside…”

  “I don’t get it. Were you with him?”

  “It all happened so fast. I was reading and Igor started to bark all of a sudden. I let him out and then I heard what sounded like a dogfight. I switched on the floodlights and saw a van in front of the house. Another dog had Igor by the scruff of the neck and two guys dressed in overalls were watching. When I started to scream, they grabbed their dog by the collar and drove off.”

  “Did you get the licence number?”

  “No, I couldn’t make it out. I was too nervous.”

  “Did you call the police?”

  “Yes. A couple of gendarmes from Brecht put together a report then I called the vet and took him over. Igor needed stitches.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “His neck was one open wound, but he’s asleep now. Everything is OK.” The word OK made her giggle nervously.

  “I’ll be right there,” he said.

  “No, there’s no need, really. Come early tomorrow. I’ve just taken a Seconal and I’m starting to feel it.”

  He tried to think. Didn’t he have an appointment with Jokke and Saint Joseph’s? “I’ll let you know what time. Try to get some sleep. Are you sure you don’t want me to come?”

  “You sound strange. What’s the matter?”

  “Headache.”

  “Take an Optalidon.”

  “I’m about to do just that. Sleep well, Louise. Are you sure you—”

  “Night, night. The Seconal’s beginning to work.”

  He hung up, fell back onto the bed and stared vacantly at the ceiling for a few minutes. He slipped out from under the blankets and hobbled towards the toilet, suddenly aware of his body. The pressure around his anus had completely disappeared and, much to his relief, his urine bubbled triumphantly in the WC. He forced the last drop from his bladder and finished his business with a leap in the air, like a soldier heading to the front, and a muffled “hurrah”. “They won’t be seeing me tomorrow at Saint Joseph’s.” His headache was suddenly a lot better.

  He tottered downstairs to his office, where the bottle of Puligny-Montrachet 1975 from his father-in-law’s wine cellar was still on the floor beside the chair, half full. He had opened it after several glasses of whisky, but the combination didn’t work. Reason enough for his headache, he thought. A hangover and nothing more.

  He half-filled a glass and savoured the burgundy’s excellent nose. He then took a generous sip and pretended to rinse his mouth with it as if he were brushing his teeth, a wine-tasting tradition that made him laugh.

  “Thank you, Baron de Vreux, a connoisseur if ever there was one,” he said. He sat at his desk and tried to piece together what had happened to Igor.

  “Well, well, well, gendarmes from Brecht,” he said to himself. His eyes narrowed.

  He mulled over how best to get his hands on the report. Call the local chief officer or have someone from the Public Prosecutor’s Office intercept it? He was still too drunk to concentrate. He emptied his glass in one swig, but the wine didn’t impress him. That whole prostate business must have been a false alarm, he thought. Jokke was right. Savelkoul was still a tough nut to crack. The best thing he could do was to grab some sleep. He had to hold on to the banister as he climbed the stairs.

  She put down the cordless.

  “He hasn’t a clue,” she said, lighting yet another cigarette. “He’s coming over tomorrow.”

  “You see!”

  “Carry me to my bed. The pill’s really working.”

  “I’m staying here tonight.”

  “You’re the sweetest man I know.”

  He lifted her off th
e sofa and carried her to the bedroom. She crawled, shivering, under the duvet, turned on her side and closed her eyes. He sat beside her on the bed, kissed her gently on the forehead, caressed her glorious hair and gazed at her without budging. After a few minutes her breathing became deep and regular. He got to his feet, switched out the light and made his way to the living room. He knelt down beside Igor and petted his head. He didn’t react.

  “Everyone’s asleep,” he said to himself and couldn’t resist a short laugh. He rubbed his still-hurting nose, thought for a moment and decided to take a look outside to be sure everything was as it should be. The butt of the rifle had a deep scratch. He took it with him to the back door, removed the key, went outside and locked the door behind him. He switched on the lights in the stables. Soliman turned around. Yamma flattened her ears.

  “Fancy a bit of a walk?” he asked, rubbing Soliman’s flank.

  Soliman stretched his neck, sniffed, cocked his ears and snorted.

  Johan D’Hoog made his way to the saddle shed, rested the rifle against the wall, grabbed a bridle, returned to the stables, propped the bit in the horse’s mouth and pulled the bridle over his head. Soliman accepted the bit, chewed at it for a moment, and allowed D’Hoog to fasten the bridle. He returned to the saddle shed and selected Albert’s saddle. Before removing it from the rack, he tugged the stirrups a couple of holes shorter.

  “His legs might be longer than mine,” he muttered, “but that’s the only thing!” Once again, he couldn’t resist a laugh.

  10

  Wednesday 16 May 1999 promised to be yet another sunny day with temperatures around seventy-five degrees.

  8.30, the start of a new working day.

  The dark-blue Mercedes van was parked on the eastbound carriageway of Amerikalei, not far from where it had been parked the evening before. The morning traffic was making slow but steady progress towards the city centre, hindered by the perpetually desynchronized traffic lights. Joost Voorhout kept a close eye on house number 124A through the one-way glass. Half an hour earlier, he had faxed an observation report to Marlowe & Co.’s headquarters in Brussels. In addition to Albert’s unanswered calls to Louise and the conversation between Louise and D’Hoog, reference was also made to Louise’s late-night conversation with Albert. The van was in permanent radio contact with Jean Materne, who was parked a little further up the street in a Volkswagen Passat, waiting for a signal to start shadowing Albert. Materne was still enraged about the death of his pit bull, which he had dumped in the Albert Canal on the way from Sint-Job-in-’t-Goor to Antwerp. Joost Voorhout, the team leader, had submitted a false report, aware that Materne would otherwise have been dismissed on the spot. It was against his better judgement, but collegiality and his conviction that Materne was an excellent worker got the better of him. No reference was made to the pit bull. Voorhout had also run the digital camera through the computer and wiped out every trace of the compromising snapshots. Three of the photos were particularly useful: the rear of the Volvo hatchback (Johan D’Hoog’s number plate), together with two suggestive shots of Louise Dubois holding D’Hoog in her arms, she wearing a see-through negligee and he stripped to the waist. There was no trace of the rifle or the dead dog. He had submitted the three relevant shots to Marlowe & Co. over the Internet.