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Versavel?” He made another knowing gesture, a flap of the hand.
    â€œOne hundred percent,” the older of the two nodded resolutely.

7
    T HE ONCE-IMPOSING BRONZE STATUE OF Guido Gezelle was in a sorry state. The largest chunk had landed on a Mazda parked in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Japanese tin can had taken the culture shock badly. The car’s roof was no more than a couple of inches above its wheels.
    â€œPoor Guido.”
    â€œSorry?”
    â€œNot you , Versavel. Look at the poor statue. Our greatest poet, smashed to smithereens.”
    â€œThere’s no need to be condescending,” Versavel snorted. “Get rid of iconoclasts? A pointless endeavor. But Guido’s work will endure forever.”
    â€œBravo, Sergeant. But that kind of verse is a little too amateur for my taste.”
    â€œAt least I respect the man,” Versavel sulked. “I love Gezelle, heart and soul.”
    â€œI can picture it.”
    â€œPriests had their feelings, even back then,” said Versavel proudly. “Nobody would bat an eyelid nowadays.”
    â€œAnd bishops?” Van In smirked. Versavel sucked the cold winter air into his lungs, still indignant.
    â€œI’ve many, many an hour with you been living and been loving, and never has an hour with you been for one instant irking.
    â€œI’ve many, many a flower to you elected and devoted, and like a bee with you, with you the honey from it looted. ” *
    Versavel recited the poem in a warm baritone voice. Van In had to admit that the languid, gentle West Flemish tones moved him.
    â€œI didn’t know you were such a fan,” he said with undisguised admiration.
    Versavel looked up at the leaden sky. Snow does strange things to a person, he thought to himself pensively.
    â€œGezelle was a monument,” he mused. “And now the monument’s in pieces.”
    The police had hermetically sealed Guido Gezelle Square. In spite of its being mid-March, tourists had gathered behind the barriers and had elbowed their way to the front like privileged spectators.
    â€œThank God we don’t have to put up with mosquitoes in the winter,” Van In growled as he weaved his way through the stubborn, chattering mini-mob, Versavel in his wake.
    One of the officers inside the cordon fortunately caught sight of them, saluted, and pulled back the barrier to let them in.
    Leo Vanmaele also caught sight of them and scurried in their direction on his short legs.
    â€œNo rest for the wicked, eh?” he chirped. The public prosecutor’s diminutive expert was almost always in a good mood. “The guy who runs the Gezelle Inn right over there is serving up free coffee with cognac,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.
    Van In took a look around. Everyone else seemed to be hard at work. He had no reason not to accept the offer of a French coffee.
    â€œSo, tell me what you know,” he said in a jovial tone. “If we hang around here, we’ll just get cold.”
    In less than thirty seconds, the three men were buddied up to the nearby bar.
    â€œDid no one else hear about the French coffee?” asked Van In, smelling a rat. Apart from the usual locals, the pub was empty.
    â€œSurely you don’t think I’d pass on valuable information like that to just anybody,” Leo Vanmaele chuckled. “If the bomb squad gets to hear about it, our friendly barkeeper here will be cleaned out in no time, eh, Ronald?”
    The manager of the Gezelle Inn, a wiry bloke in his forties, gave Leo a friendly slap on the back. “You know Leo. Always in for a joke.” His voice resounded through the bar. Ronald spent his free time in a local gym. His voice and his chest capacity were in perfect harmony.
    â€œWe know Leo, all right,” Van In concurred.
    Vanmaele was clearly having a whale of a time. “But I can always rely on you to walk right in to it, eh, Van In ?” he said, rubbing his