The Public Prosecutor (14 page)

Read The Public Prosecutor Online

Authors: Jef Geeraerts

BOOK: The Public Prosecutor
4.19Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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 something 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 the 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.

Other books

I'm With Cupid by Anna Staniszewski
An Evening at Joe's by Gillian Horvath, Bill Panzer, Jim Byrnes, Laura Brennan, Peter Hudson, Donna Lettow, Anthony De Longis, Roger Bellon, Don Anderson, Stan Kirsch, Ken Gord, Valentine Pelka, F. Braun McAsh, Peter Wingfield, Dennis Berry, Darla Kershner
Ice Dreams Part 2 by Melissa Johns
Dray by Tess Oliver
Surprise Package by Henke, Shirl
Her Only Desire by Gaelen Foley
Eliza's Child by Maggie Hope
Full Assault Mode by Dalton Fury