The Public Prosecutor (5 page)

Authors: Jef Geeraerts

BOOK: The Public Prosecutor

3.65Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

In 1991, after roughly six months in office as public prosecutor, the Court of First Instance was presented with a delicate case, which carried such political baggage that he decided it was appropriate to get involved, much to the relief of the then district prosecutor. He went on “retreat” for a couple of days to an apartment on the Zeedijk in Knokke, which his wife had acquired by deed of gift, free of inheritance tax. He studied the paperwork to the last detail. It was a sordid business about the reallocation of fifty-seven acres of wood and heath for building purposes in a protected Green Belt Zone in Brecht near Sint-Job-in-’t-Goor by a well-known Antwerp property broker. In partnership with a notary public and two local mayors, one of whom was the father-in-law of the Flemish Minister for Environmental Planning, the firm in question had set up a system whereby the “fraud” was buried to such an extent under what appeared to be watertight legal arguments and the texts of a series of Royal Decrees which no one remembered, that only a legal expert such as Albert had the brains to detect it.

For a variety of reasons, he decided to approach the case with discretion. In the first instance, the Minister for Environmental Planning was a good friend of the professor who had succeeded his father-in-law at the Catholic University of Leuven, and in the second, Albert was familiar with the broker in question from the fortnightly meetings of the Antwerp Central Rotary Club. He was not sure which of the circumstances was the weightiest. Instead of the customary initial meeting in the chambers of the Court of Appeal, an “exploratory discussion” was organized in a restaurant near Brussels known for the privacy and tranquillity of its
salons
. The meeting started with champagne and a sumptuous lunch offered by the property broker, Walter de Ceuleneer from Roeselare in West Flanders, who arrived in a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow. The other guests were the notary and the two mayors. It was deemed inopportune to involve the minister at this stage in the proceedings.

Although Walter de Ceuleneer - well-upholstered, cheerful, with man-of-the-world appeal - only enjoyed a superficial acquaintance with Albert as his Rotary brother, he succeeded in winning him over in less than an hour. It turned out that both men shared an obsession with hunting and riding. The broker had his own stable and castle in Scotland’s grouse country at his disposal the year round. He travelled in his own Lear Jet and rode a genuine Connemara horse after the hunt. To cap it all, he was the type of person who could talk about wine and haute cuisine, who enjoyed a joke, and, as he said himself with an ostentatious wink, was not averse to the occasional bit of skirt. Albert immensely enjoyed the encounter, mainly because his judgement of character in everyday life left a great deal to be desired.

The problem at hand was more delicate than Albert had first imagined, but still relatively easy to solve, with the necessary courage of course. It had been exposed four years earlier by an environmental association of “guys in clogs and mohair socks” who had halted proceedings after the sudden death of their chief negotiator. The affair had been left to simmer at the Court of First Instance during that time, held up by so-called procedural errors discovered at the last minute by one of the big guns at a renowned Brussels legal firm. Another seven months and the case was due to lapse (de Ceuleneer’s reasoning was inaccurate. In every instance of forgery, the case in question did not lapse after the usual five years). That was the essence of the matter and the rest was bullshit, de Ceuleneer concluded with a meaningful glance in Albert’s direction. He had evidently been informed that Albert did not have a blank record when it came to sweeping “delicate cases” under the carpet. He dropped a few hints to this end with characteristic shrewdness. In 1983 (Albert was still first substitute to the public prosecutor at the time), the Antwerp CID announced an important drugs haul. The street value of thirty-five kilos of pure heroin was little short of spectacular in the early Eighties, more than one-hundred million Belgian francs. The press had had a field day and Albert had even appeared on television in front of a table with thirty-five sacks of white powder. But when the matter finally came to court, all hell broke loose: the heroin appeared to have changed all of a sudden into talcum powder. A month earlier, the “secure space” in the cellars of the Court of Justice, where the heroin was stored awaiting destruction after the publication of the court verdict, had been broken into. According to the public prosecutor’s spokesman, only a couple of files had disappeared from the cellar. The man was telling the truth, of course, and since the heroin appeared to have been left untouched, little fuss was made of the apparent document theft. New locks were placed on the doors and that was that. But sparks began to fly when the court was in session and demanded a supplementary expert’s report. It then became clear that the heroin had been stolen and the sacks had been filled with talc. Albert had been given charge of the inquiry, together with an examining magistrate who now worked as a legal advisor to a multinational. He could smell the smoke hanging over his head and he reacted accordingly by removing the dangerous statements provided by the accused, two Albanians from Antwerp’s criminal underworld, who had confessed that the plastic bags actually contained heroin. Records of the tests done by the forensic police, which supported the confession, also appeared to have vanished. Since the lack of concrete evidence had now robbed the case of much of its vigour, Albert had been particularly clement in his closing speech. The chairman of the Third Correctional Court, a thick-headed old man whose only interests were his stamp collection and his pension, followed First Substitute Savelkoul’s remarkable closing speech without question. The two Albanians were acquitted. Where was the heroin? It remained a mystery. An internal inquiry tried to solve the talcum powder issue but to no avail. The Public Prosecutor’s Office intervened and the affair was transferred to the Court of Appeal, where it died an inconspicuous death.

The Albanians’ renowned defence lawyer, who had pleaded their case with remarkable reserve and just the right amount of indignation, was naturally aware of the ins and outs of the affair. He didn’t breath a word about the break-in at the court house, but he told his clients what had happened to the paperwork. They were good listeners. A little more than a week later, Albert received a telephone call at home during which a man with a German accent invited him to call a certain number in Geneva, identify himself with the code name Beaver and submit an account number. Albert took note. The next day he decided out of curiosity to do what the voice had asked. The people in Geneva informed him that the account was in credit to the sum of one million Swiss francs, the entire amount at Beaver’s disposal.
Twenty-five million Belgian francs!
His relationship with Louise was rich with passionate infatuation. In those days he earned eighty-eight thousand francs after deductions, most of which Amandine pocketed for “household expenses”. He had to manage as best he could with the rest and with the income from a small parental inheritance, which produced the princely sum of eighteen thousand francs per month. He had just bought a bracelet worth ninety thousand francs for Louise, money he borrowed from a bank. After the telephone call from Switzerland, he did what anyone else in his position would do. He pretended nothing was out of the ordinary and withdrew occasional sums from the account. He had in fact invested fifteen million in stocks and shares, which earned him an average of twelve per cent a year. The sense of independence from Amandine, who had discovered by this time he had a mistress, was incredible. A few days after the money was deposited in the Swiss account, one of the Albanians telephoned him, thanked him in cryptic terms and a deep husky voice for the inestimable service he had provided, and informed him in exotic Flemish that he could count on the Albanian community “for eternity”. He heard nothing more after that.

Walter de Ceuleneer happened to have an acquaintance in the Albanian underworld, the owner of an antiques and curios shop in the old part of the city, where he would drop in from time to time.

The Albanian’s name was Ramiz Shehu. The man had invested a couple of million, via the property firm WDC, in land with planning permission on Antwerp’s Left Bank, which he had purchased at an excellent price and which had quadrupled in value after a few years due to the construction of a supermarket. He had also paid part of the purchase price in cash under the table, a method de Ceuleneer employed to perfection. Since then, Shehu had sold him carpets, antiques, caviar and a second-hand Ferrari Testarossa at such favourable prices they had to have been stolen property. As with Albert, de Ceuleneer had managed to win over the Albanian without much effort and to such a degree that they now embraced each other when they met. One fine day, the man had made it clear to his “Belgian brother” that he was prepared to bring in
specialists
to take care of certain “chores”, but de Ceuleneer had wisely ignored the offer. His relationship with Albert was much more intimate. After the miraculous settlement of a case related to greenbelt land in the eastern part of the province of Antwerp (the minister for Environmental Planning intervened and granted building permission), he had invited him to the castle in Scotland, in his Lear Jet no less. The grouse were plentiful and the shooting was exceptionally good. They even stalked deer on another occasion. Louise had accompanied him, but she didn’t like killing animals. She spent much of her time with de Ceuleneer’s daughter Patricia, enjoying long horse rides in the unsullied countryside.

After the holiday the two became “the Scottish Sisters”. He later offered Albert the farmhouse in Sint-Job, which he first had renovated, adding stables and a corral. The notary, who was in on the scheme, drew up the deed of sale in Louise’s name. Not a single word was said about settling accounts. And they had continued to be friends, calling one another for a chat on a regular basis, going to dinner with their respective girlfriends and, in the winter, hunting for wild boar in the Ardennes, where de Ceuleneer had a “bit” of land. After the favourable outcome of the case, de Ceuleneer no longer called on Albert’s services. He pretended nothing had happened and Albert found their gentleman’s agreement just fine.

He drove through the centre of Sint-Job towards the dirt track that had been referred to as the Oude Baan since Napoleonic times. With the exception of Louise’s farmhouse, there were no other houses in sight and this suited them down to the ground. The paddock for the horses was surrounded by pine trees, which gave him a positive sense of security mixed with a nostalgic longing for years gone by. He was certain that no one in the village knew who he was. The farmhouse had a whitewashed façade, small windows with blinds and a chimney with a weathercock on a rustic tiled roof.

He stopped at the garage adjacent to the house, which used to be a barn, and tooted the horn. The door was half open. A brown Labrador galloped outside and raced in the direction of his BMW. When Albert opened the passenger door, the dog barked and turned in circles. He grabbed him by the head and shook him back and forth.

“Igor! Good boy! Where’s the boss?”

The dog raced into the garage and returned in seconds accompanied by a tall, slender woman in khaki riding breeches, a silk blouse and boots with brown greaves. She had long black hair, small breasts, slanting grey eyes and tanned skin.

When Albert caught sight of her he closed his eyes and held his breath. Dear God, make this last, he murmured to himself. He had recently fallen prey to escalating moments of anxiety, but when she nestled up to him, warm and muscular, and her youthful fragrance reached him from what seemed so far away, he would open his eyes in amazement and inhale the scent of the pine trees. It’s spring, he thought, and this beautiful young woman is all mine. What could be better? A different sensation coursed through his veins, which reminded him of being young and carefree.

“You smell like ground rusks,” he whispered in her ear.

“Nut case!”

They pursed their lips and kissed, the tip of his tongue caressing her teeth. He had learned the technique years before from a whore. The suggestion of tobacco in her mouth gave him goose bumps and he put his arm around her waist. He sensed a shiver run from her lower back to her shoulders. He thought about the Third Woman according to Buddha.

“I brought some goodies,” he said, burying his nose in her hair.

“Mmm…”

“Caviar… crayfish… smoked salmon.”

“Weren’t we planning to go for a ride first?

“Sure. Is Yamma OK?”

“The vet says it’s not colic after all. She must have eaten too much spring grass. Thoroughbreds can’t handle it, he says.”

“Did you pay him?”

“Yes, fifteen hundred.”

“So she’s fine?”

“Sure, she’s
fine
.”

He had to laugh at her Boston accent, which she had picked up from him.

They made their way to the car, Igor turning in circles around them.