Read Online The Midas Murders by Pieter Aspe - Free Book Online

his phone the night before.
    â€œBleyaert sent a patrol to your place at eight. He said there was some kind of problem with your phone.”
    â€œBullshit,” Van In muttered. “Who’s in charge?”
    Versavel stroked his moustache and pointed to the clock on the wall. “Starting at nine, you!” he said, gloating slightly.
    â€œJesus H.”
    â€œYou really don’t have a clue, do you?” Versavel repeated.
    â€œWhat the fuck do you want? A declaration in duplicate?” Van In barked.
    He regretted his words immediately. Versavel deserved better.
    â€œSorry, Guido.”
    â€œYou’re forgiven,” Versavel grinned, unflappable as ever.
    â€œYou certainly know how to wake a person up in a hurry,” Van In growled as they made their way into room 204.
    â€œYou’re not the only one who’s awake all of a sudden,” said Versavel. “Half the city’s on its head. Chief Commissioner Carton has had the mayor on the line three times, no less, and the city council is meeting this evening for an emergency consultation.”
    â€œWas there much damage?”
    â€œIt’s not as bad as it sounds. According to Bleyaert, the statue fell on its back and broke into three pieces.”
    â€œAre there witnesses?”
    â€œTake a guess.”
    â€œSorry. Stupid question.”
    Slow down on the apologies , Versavel wanted to say, but he held his tongue. Van In sat down behind his desk and lit a cigarette.
    â€œIs there coffee?”
    Versavel shook his head and walked over to the windowsill. He shoveled five scoops of coffee into the filter and filled the water reservoir.
    â€œMy first bomb,” Van In mused in the tone of a mother hugging her baby. “That I should live to see the day.”
    â€œYour first what ?” Versavel perched on the windowsill and folded his arms.
    â€œMy first bomb.” Van In stared at the sergeant questioningly.
    â€œWhat about 1967?”
    â€œI was still in school in 1967, Guido.” Van In thought back to the Golden Sixties, the glory years of unbridled freedom.
    â€œBut you lived in Bruges, didn’t you?”
    â€œJesus H. You mean the bomb attack on the courthouse on Burg Square.”
    â€œThe very one,” Versavel nodded. He made his way to his desk and fetched a couple of mugs and a Tupperware box with sugar cubes from the top drawer. “Not a single window survived and they never found the culprits. The public prosecutor interrogated half the province. The press cried shame, which was pretty unusual in those days.”
    â€œNow you’re front-page news if you ask an asylum-seeker for his papers,” Van In smirked.
    Versavel carefully shook the coffee grounds into the wastepaper basket and filled the mugs.
    â€œDo me a favor, Commissioner: don’t start on the asylum-seekers. We’ll be reading about it in the papers next. Headline: police discover evidence that Muslim fundamentalists blew up Gezelle because of a poem he wrote a hundred years ago.”
    â€œWho else can you blame?” asked Van In with a deadpan face. “The communists are gone, and the Africans are butchering each other.”
    â€œAnd the unemployed are probably too lazy to knock a bomb together,” Versavel snorted.
    â€œSo who’s left?”
    â€œThe employers!”
    Versavel held out one of the mugs. “One lump?”
    â€œTwo, Guido. You know I’m watching my figure.”
    Versavel ignored the feeble remark and gave Van In the Tupperware box. “According to Carton, the mayor’s main worry is the impact of the bombing.”
    â€œYou mean he’s scared shitless he’ll lose a bunch of tourists.”
    â€œEveryone knows that business isn’t exactly booming at the moment. No one can afford another bad season,” said Versavel.
    â€œThe self-employed are always complaining. If their turnover is down five percent, they’re screaming