Read Online From Bruges with Love by Pieter Aspe - Free Book Online Page B

middle. Every self-respecting human being had one.
    â€œA drink, Commissioner?”
    Van In was tempted but said no. It would be a sign of Roman Catholic hypocrisy if he were to turn a serious sin into a daily one.
    â€œBe a sport, Commissioner. A wee dram never killed anyone.”
    Van In was still tempted but shook his head.
    â€œCoffee then?”
    â€œPlease.”
    Vandaele rested his fat cigar in the ashtray and ordered coffee via the intercom.
    â€œI should make it clear from the outset that my visit is off the record,” said Van In in a formal tone.
    â€œTake a seat, Commissioner.”
    Van In sat down in an imposing chair that almost swallowed him up completely. Vandaele sat opposite, the hefty old man towering over Van In like a golem.
    â€œI presume your visit has to do with the discovery at the farm, Commissioner, at the Love?” He anticipated a potential question from Van In with the air of a modern-day Nostradamus.
    Jesus H. Christ, Van In thought. Vandaele had even given the dilapidated hovel a name. He was reminded of his youth, playing on the beach at Blankenberge with his sister and the local grocer’s daughter. The city’s peeling villas also rejoiced in pompous names like Camelot, Beau Geste, and Manderley. A fancy name was cheaper than a lick of paint.
    â€œPrecisely, Mr. Vandaele. According to the police physician, the murder was committed around the time you owned it. The Love …”—Van In had trouble even pronouncing the ridiculous name—“was still in your ownership back then, wasn’t it?”
    Vandaele stretched his left leg and massaged his knee.
    â€œRheumatism,” he groaned. “My knees have been bothering me for years.”
    The old fox was clearly stalling for time by trying to change the subject, but Van In was onto him.
    â€œDo you mind me asking if you visited the place on a regular basis?” Van In inquired casually.
    â€œAha, Commissioner. My father built the Love with his own hands. I spent most of my summers playing there. Later I liked to paint there from time to time. The house was something of a childhood memory.”
    â€œDid you ever rent out the place?”
    Vandaele roared with laughter.
    â€œMy dear commissioner, I own a slew of houses, villas, and apartments, and I rent them out. The Love is nothing more than a bit of nostalgia. It was our first holiday home, but as far as I can remember, the shed has always been dilapidated. People expect comfort these days, Commissioner. No one would pay rent for such a dump.”
    Van In was happy that they at least agreed on one issue. It also explained why Vandaele had transferred the Love to the charity. Everyone knows that rich people only give away the things that have no value to them or the things they themselves can no longer use.
    â€œSo the Love has been empty all this time?”
    Vandaele puffed vigorously on his cigar. A discreet pale-faced young man appeared with a tray.
    â€œLeave it on the desk, Vincent. We’ll serve ourselves.”
    Vandaele got to his feet, creaking and grousing. In profile he looked a little like President de Gaulle—commanding and unapproachable.
    â€œI used to bring a couple of cousins now and then,” he said cheerfully. “Children love old houses, especially when they can do whatever they want. We even stayed the night at times. Then we would light an enormous campfire. Not allowed these days, but back then no one cared. We drank gallons of cola, sang songs, pretended we were actors in a play. I can remember the summer of 1972 as if it were yesterday. It was so hot we all slept outside. I don’t see myself doing that nowadays either,” said Vandaele, pointing to his knees.
    Van In also had some treasured memories of the same hot summer. August 20, 1972, was the first time he slept with a girl.
    â€œLater, when one of my cousins was a leader with the Scouts, the Love served as a campsite for