nly a handful of passengers checked in for the scheduled flight to Rome, but that didnât mean Brussels National Airport was quiet. The charter flights to the Canary Islands attracted their usual stampede. Pretanned retirees dragged overfilled baggage to their assigned departure desks. These days, sun and sea was available on prescription. There was nothing more inspiring than the thought of succumbing to a heart attack on a subtropical beach.
William Aerts passed though passport control without a hitch. He looked like the average businessman: casual suit, lightweight Delsey carry-on, and a copy of the Financial Times under his arm.
Aerts had been looking forward to this moment for more than fifteen years. He had finally found the excuse he needed to flee the shit-heap country that sired him. No more Linda ⦠whining fucking hippo. And the pedophile? No more humiliation ⦠the fucker couldnât touch him anymore. Today he was a free man. The timing wasnât perfect, but what the fuck. Real men follow the path chosen for them by fate.
The thrust of four screaming jet engines pushed him back into the soft upholstery of his ample seat. A minute later he was in the clouds. Rain had been forecast, and the Belgians were welcome to it, every last one of them.
âWould you like something to drink, sir?â A freshly scented flight attendant leaned toward him. This was the life, he thought. He was flying first class and was sharing the compartment with no more than six other passengers.
âCampari, please.â
Aerts stretched out his legs. He had dreamed of this sort of luxury all his life and had paid a pretty penny for the extra space. After three decades he had finally managed to defeat his adversaries. He was on his way south, and his erstwhile buddies were up to their ears in shit.
âYour Campari, sir.â
The flight attendant smiled affably, or so it appeared. Or was she smiling because she thought he was stinking rich?
Aerts sipped at his aperitif and closed his eyes in contentment. The corpse had earned him more than he could ever have imagined.
âMr. Vandaele can see you in a few moments, Commissioner Van In.â
Vandaele had retired, officially, but he still spent the best part of his day at the office. The old bugger liked to keep a firm eye on things.
The secretary accompanied Van In to a small waiting room looking out onto an empty concrete courtyard, the companyâs trademark. Yellowing photos graced the walls, probably the work of an overzealous office clerk. The pictures portrayed bridges and roads, with men dressed in black in the foreground, one of them invariably cutting a ribbon.
Louis Vandaele, Lodewijkâs father, had earned a fortune in his day from public contracts. In the 1960s, he had blacktopped half of Flandersâ roads.
Van In thanked the bespectacled secretary with a smile.
âCoffee, Commissioner?â the gray-suited creature inquired.
âNo, thank you.â
She was the image of Audrey Hepburn, just like Benedict Vervoortâs assistant.
âI demand to speak to the manager this instant,â Linda Aerts snorted.
Marc, the counter clerk, tried to calm her down. There were three other clients behind her. One of them was Mr. Ostijn, and Mr. Ostijn wasnât fond of disturbances. Hilaire Ostijn was the chairman of the local businessmanâs association and one of the branchâs best clients.
âNo need to get upset, Mrs. Aerts. Mr. Albert will be here in five minutes. Iâm sure heâll agree that there must have been some mistake.â
âIf you give me ten thousand francs, you can tell Mr. Albert to stay where he is,â Linda roared.
The counter clerk looked back and forth between Mrs. Aertsâs red face and Mr. Ostijnâs tight lips. In the past he could have solved the problem without thinking. He would simply have handed over the ten thousand francs. But minor counter clerks didnât have
William Aerts passed though passport control without a hitch. He looked like the average businessman: casual suit, lightweight Delsey carry-on, and a copy of the Financial Times under his arm.
Aerts had been looking forward to this moment for more than fifteen years. He had finally found the excuse he needed to flee the shit-heap country that sired him. No more Linda ⦠whining fucking hippo. And the pedophile? No more humiliation ⦠the fucker couldnât touch him anymore. Today he was a free man. The timing wasnât perfect, but what the fuck. Real men follow the path chosen for them by fate.
The thrust of four screaming jet engines pushed him back into the soft upholstery of his ample seat. A minute later he was in the clouds. Rain had been forecast, and the Belgians were welcome to it, every last one of them.
âWould you like something to drink, sir?â A freshly scented flight attendant leaned toward him. This was the life, he thought. He was flying first class and was sharing the compartment with no more than six other passengers.
âCampari, please.â
Aerts stretched out his legs. He had dreamed of this sort of luxury all his life and had paid a pretty penny for the extra space. After three decades he had finally managed to defeat his adversaries. He was on his way south, and his erstwhile buddies were up to their ears in shit.
âYour Campari, sir.â
The flight attendant smiled affably, or so it appeared. Or was she smiling because she thought he was stinking rich?
Aerts sipped at his aperitif and closed his eyes in contentment. The corpse had earned him more than he could ever have imagined.
âMr. Vandaele can see you in a few moments, Commissioner Van In.â
Vandaele had retired, officially, but he still spent the best part of his day at the office. The old bugger liked to keep a firm eye on things.
The secretary accompanied Van In to a small waiting room looking out onto an empty concrete courtyard, the companyâs trademark. Yellowing photos graced the walls, probably the work of an overzealous office clerk. The pictures portrayed bridges and roads, with men dressed in black in the foreground, one of them invariably cutting a ribbon.
Louis Vandaele, Lodewijkâs father, had earned a fortune in his day from public contracts. In the 1960s, he had blacktopped half of Flandersâ roads.
Van In thanked the bespectacled secretary with a smile.
âCoffee, Commissioner?â the gray-suited creature inquired.
âNo, thank you.â
She was the image of Audrey Hepburn, just like Benedict Vervoortâs assistant.
âI demand to speak to the manager this instant,â Linda Aerts snorted.
Marc, the counter clerk, tried to calm her down. There were three other clients behind her. One of them was Mr. Ostijn, and Mr. Ostijn wasnât fond of disturbances. Hilaire Ostijn was the chairman of the local businessmanâs association and one of the branchâs best clients.
âNo need to get upset, Mrs. Aerts. Mr. Albert will be here in five minutes. Iâm sure heâll agree that there must have been some mistake.â
âIf you give me ten thousand francs, you can tell Mr. Albert to stay where he is,â Linda roared.
The counter clerk looked back and forth between Mrs. Aertsâs red face and Mr. Ostijnâs tight lips. In the past he could have solved the problem without thinking. He would simply have handed over the ten thousand francs. But minor counter clerks didnât have
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