The Public Prosecutor (39 page)

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Authors: Jef Geeraerts

BOOK: The Public Prosecutor
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“I’ll never forgive you for those words,” she snapped. “God will punish you. You have dishonoured the name of my eldest son and that of my family!” Her eyes glistened with hatred.
She’s never looked so real in her life, Albert thought. “I don’t give a damn about the title and that Opus Dei nonsense,” he said, mimicking her aristocratic flick of the wrist, “but one thing is sure: no one has the right to change a family name to that of the mother without mutual consent. And God can go to hell!”
She pretended not to hear his final words and started to sneer.
“
Sa Majesté
has the right. Pierre van Peers
confirmed
it.”
“Oh, that…”
“They’ll never give you a title. A man who cheats on his wife with the maid… Bah!”
“People of your sort have been cheating on their wives with the maid for centuries and I wouldn’t give them the light of day. But none of that’s important. I demand to know where
Maria
is!”
“On her way to
la Pologne
.”
“Do you know what you remind me of?”
“Pff.”
“A fat ugly spider in its web, waiting to suck the blood of the next defenceless fly.”
She brushed off his remark with her customary flick of the wrist.
Slowly but surely he started to feel better. Now he was certain and there was no stopping him. “Do you think for one minute you can get the better of me?” he sneered. He balled his fists and recovered control of his muscles.
She stared at him, beady-eyed.
He leaned over and said with his face inches from hers: “I’m bringing Maria back, and she’s staying with
me
, goddamnit!” prodding his chest with his finger.
“Not in this house!”
“What did you think? That I would let her play the slave for the pittance you gave her? People like you think the
ancien régime
is still in business. But those days are gone for ever,
madame la baronne
.”
“The whore,” she sneered. Saliva appeared at the corner of her lips. She was bright red. She quickly produced a handkerchief and blew her nose.
He threw back his chair, grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her to her feet. She squealed and tried to break free. He had never realized how limp her muscles were. He pushed her hard and she fell to the floor. Her legs flew into the air, exposing her pale pantyhose and white slip. He stared at her stubby white thighs and could barely stop himself from laughing as he marched out of the room, ignoring her whimpers. He slammed the door so hard it sounded like a rifle going off and raced upstairs. He opened a drawer in the art deco table in his office, removed an envelope containing 200,000 Swiss francs and tried unsuccessfully to stuff it into his inside breast pocket. He grabbed an attaché case from under his desk, opened it, popped the envelope inside, adjusted the numerical code, snatched the leather gun case leaning against the wall by the gun cabinet and hung it over his shoulder, glanced around the room, took the framed photo of the little boy on the Shetland pony and stuffed it in his pocket.
He stopped and thought for a moment. He looked at his watch, grabbed his mobile and called the number of his official car. It was ten past eight.
“Chauffeur?”
“Public Prosecutor?”
“Can you bring the car…”
“I’m on my way, Public Prosecutor.”
He hung up, but his telephone started to beep.
“Hello?”
“Mr Albert!” a woman’s voice squealed.
“
Kochanie!
”
The gun case slipped to the floor and he sat down.
“Oh Mr Albert, I’m so happy to hear your voice…” She started to sob.
“I know everything, Maria, everything. Where are you?”
“Central station in Antwerp.”
“
Pozadku
. Wait there. In the buffet upstairs. I’m coming to get you. You’re staying with me!”
“Do you mean it, Albert?”
“
Kochanie
. I can’t live without you for another day. Come with me to Scotland. Let’s go
hunting
. Stay with me
for ever
.”
“Albert,
ich liebe dich
so…”
“I’m on my way,
kochanie
.”
He hung up, draped the strap of the leather gun case over his shoulder, grabbed the attaché case and ran downstairs.
There was silence in the dining room. He made his way to the vestibule, opened the door, stood outside on the pavement and looked up and down the street. Traffic whizzed by. The clear liquid of morning, in which passers-by swim like goldfish in a bowl, enveloped him. He clenched his teeth and stretched his back. I am the Public Prosecutor of Antwerp, he thought, they can’t touch me. I’ve finally made a decision that’s going to make life worth living. I have Soliman and I have Maria. I’m taking her with me to Scotland. In a private Lear Jet. Walter will understand my situation. This time tomorrow, we’ll be wandering across the Scottish moors in the company of John Cummings, my shadow.
Albert gazed at the busy traffic on Amerikalei. He enjoyed it. His chauffeur was on his way. He was reminded once again of John Edgar Hoover, who had terrorized his chauffeur in the most refined manner. He promised himself to be nice to everyone from then on. He wanted to live life to the full for years to come. I’m one of the five most important men in the country, he thought. I have power. I have my health. And I have a
woman
.
The black Opel Omega stopped in front of his neighbour’s garage. The chauffeur got out and leered at the gun case.
“Good morning, Public Prosecutor.”
“Good morning, how are you?” Albert enquired with a broad smile.
The chauffeur almost collapsed with surprise. “Eh… v…very well, thank you,” he babbled.
“The Kaai, as usual,” said Albert after settling into the back seat. He took pleasure in the luxury of such a short journey. He thought about Jokke, who would have considered it absurd to take the car. He would call him later and cancel the appointment.
Prostate is all in the mind!
He gazed at the traffic, which was bumper to bumper at that hour.
The chauffeur stopped in the car park of the Court of Appeal. Albert let himself out. “Would you mind waiting for me?” he asked.
“Of course not, Public Prosecutor,” the chauffeur replied, and he drove to the main entrance of the building. Albert made his way to Cockerill Kaai, humming ‘Dark Eyes’ and paying little attention to what was going on around him. He fished the key from his pocket, stopped in front of the rusty metal door, opened it and stepped inside.
What happened next was compressed into a couple of crystal-clear seconds, unrelated to biological time, which faltered and stood still.
A tall, athletic, dark-haired man, smelling of aftershave, with a neatly trimmed Balkan moustache, gleaming white teeth surrounded by a cinnamon-coloured face, gloved and dressed in a dark tracksuit, appeared from nowhere, grabbed Albert’s shoulder, forced him to turn around on the spot, pushed him down the concrete corridor, produced a heavy pistol with silencer attachment in the blink of an eye, pushed the barrel to his chest and pulled the trigger. There was a sort of hissing sound, like air being released from a tyre. Albert opened his eyes wide and shouted what sounded like “
Wahoo!
” but the man fired again, this time lower. Albert fell forward, his lungs rattling, grabbed his throat, but was unable to speak. The man grabbed him by the hair, yanked him to his knees, pressed the barrel against his right eye and fired. Blood spattered everywhere. He then did exactly the same with the other eye.
He let Albert fall to the floor. A pool of blood formed and quickly spread across the concrete.
The man, whose name was Nazim Tahir, tossed the nickel-plated Colt .45 with rubber grip on the ground next to Albert, turned, and carefully closed the metal door. Without looking back, he swaggered like a cowboy towards a bicycle leaning against a house on the corner of Cockerill Kaai. He opened the lock, took off his gloves, put them in his pocket, threw one leg over the saddle and cycled at his leisure towards the old town.
 
 
Baarle aan de Leie, 5 July 1998.
BACK TO THE COAST
 
Saskia Noort
 
Maria is a young singer with money problems, two children from failed relationships and a depressive ex-boyfriend. Faced with another pregnancy, she decides not to keep the baby, but after the abortion, threatening letters start to arrive. She flees from Amsterdam to her sister’s house by the coast, a place redolent with memories of a childhood she does not want to revisit. But when the death threats follow her to her hiding place, Maria begins to fear not only for her life, but also for her sanity.
 
Saskia Noort is a bestselling author of literary thrillers. She has sold over a million copies of her first three novels.
 
 
PRAISE FOR SASKIA NOORT
AND
THE DINNER CLUB
 
“A mystery writer of the heart as much as of the mind, a bal-
ance that marks her work with a flesh-and-blood humanity.”
Andrew Pyper, author of
The Wildfire Season
 
 
“Affairs, deceit, manipulation, tax dodges and murder
- there’s nothing Noort shies away from stirring into the mix,
nicely showing off the sinister side of the suburbs.”
Time Out
 
 
“While there are echoes of Desperate Housewives here, this is
closer to Mary Higgins Clark and is a good bet for her fans.”
Library Journal Review
 
 
 
 
£8.99/$14.95/C$16.50
CRIME PAPERBACK ORIGINAL
ISBN 978-1-904738-37-4
www.bitterlemonpress.com
 
THE VAMPIRE OF ROPRAZ
 
Jacques Chessex
 
Jacques Chessex, winner of the prestigious Prix Goncourt,
takes this true story and weaves it into a lyrical tale of
fear and cruelty.
 
 
1903, Ropraz, a small village in the Jura Mountains of Switzerland. On a howling December day, a lone walker discovers a recently opened tomb, the body of a young woman violated, her left hand cut off, genitals mutilated and heart carved out. There is horror in the nearby villages: the return of atavistic superstitions and mutual suspicions. Then two more bodies are violated. A suspect must be found. Favez, a stable-boy with blood-shot eyes, is arrested, convicted, placed into psychiatric care. In 1915, he vanishes.
 
PRAISE FOR JACQUES CHESSEX
AND
THE VAMPIRE OF ROPRAZ
 
“A superb novel, hard as a winter in these landscapes of
dark forests, where an atmosphere of prejudice and
violence envelops the reader”
L’Express
 
 
“An admirable story-teller, Chessex surprises again with this
terrifying portrait of a region, of an era and of a man with an
extraordinary destiny.”
Livres Hebdo
 
 
“Stark, wintry prose… disconcerting novella that alternately
seduces and appals.”
The List
 
 
“Packs visceral punch and unlikely to be quickly forgotten.”
Crime Time
 
 
£6.99/$12.95/C$14.50
CRIME PAPERBACK ORIGINAL
ISBN 978-1-904738-33-6
www.bitterlemonpress.com
 
A NOT SO PERFECT CRIME
 
Teresa Solana
 
MURDER AND MAYHEM IN BARCELONA
 
Another day in Barcelona, another politician’s wife is suspected of infidelity. A portrait of his wife in an exhibition leads Lluís Font to conclude he is being cuckolded by the artist. Concerned only about the potential political fallout, he hires twins Eduard and Borja, private detectives with a knack for helping the wealthy with their “dirty laundry”. Their office is adorned with false doors leading to non-existent private rooms and a mysterious secretary who is always away. The case turns ugly when Font’s wife is found poisoned by a marron glacé from a box of sweets delivered anonymously.
 
 
PRAISE FOR
A NOT SO PERFECT CRIME
 

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