From Bruges with Love by Pieter Aspe

heartbeat.
    The owner, Suzanne, came to welcome them personally. Van In had known the boss at the Heer Halewijn for years. She kissed him fleetingly on the cheek. There had been a time when she would have lingered. A card on their favorite table read reserved .
    â€œI’m guessing an extra portion of pickles?” said Suzanne with a wink.
    Hannelore nodded eagerly. Van In gallantly pulled back her chair. She sat and fixed her dress.
    â€œYou look like a girl of eighteen,” said Suzanne.
    â€œDon’t overdo it, Sue.”
    â€œI’m not overdoing it.” She meant it. Hannelore was truly breathtaking. Her dress concealed a body that Pythias would have killed for. Although Hannelore appeared to dismiss the compliment, she clearly wasn’t indifferent to it.
    â€œCome. Put your hand here. He’s been kicking all day long.”
    Hannelore smoothed her dress as Suzanne leaned over and rested her hand on the elegant bulge.
    â€œUnbelievable,” said Suzanne.
    Van In sat upright and pushed out his belly.
    â€œAnd what about mine?”
    Suzanne turned. You could see from the wrinkles in the corners of her eyes that she had a snappy remark at the ready.
    â€œEight months. Or am I mistaken?”
    â€œBut the poor soul is really doing his best,” said Hannelore. “Before long he’ll weigh less than me.” It was impossible to tell from her tone whether she was jesting or not.
    â€œIn your case the extra pounds are only temporary, thank God. He’s stuck with them for a good twenty years.” Suzanne grinned.
    Everyone on the terrace who had been listening to the conversation burst into laughter. Van In looked like a naughty puppy. Hannelore leaned forward, caressed his neck, and gave him a resounding kiss. Plenty of the men present would happily have cut off their little finger to be in his place.
    Served on a plate to share, the grilled sirloin, a good twelve ounces and more than an inch thick, was warm, juicy, and tender. Van In put a generous amount of butter on his baked potato. He then washed it all down with a glass of 1989 Château Corconnac. Hannelore gobbled the gherkins and the salad drenched in vinaigrette. Only a tiny morsel of beef remained on the plate.
    â€œSo, any news from the front?” She pushed the plate in Van In’s direction, and he didn’t hesitate to accept her generous offer.
    â€œNot much. Without Herbert’s identity we’re groping in the dark. But it became clear to me this morning that this world of ours is being overrun by little brats, and one of them goes by the name of Tine.” Van In told her about his visit with the Vermast family.
    â€œOK, then we can scratch the name from our list. If it’s a girl, we’ll call her Godelieve. Happy?”
    Van In poured himself another glass of wine.
    â€œDon’t the experts say that children turn into their parents when they grow up?” Hannelore teased.
    â€œIf that’s the case, then I hope she turns into you. Perish the thought that—”
    â€œDon’t go there, Pieter Van In. I was winding you up. You’re certainly not the worst of them. The same experts insist with the same vigor that the fathers of most geniuses were over thirty at conception. If you don’t believe me, check it out in the encyclopedia.”
    â€œI’m one step ahead of you,” said Van In sullenly. “Herr Hitler wasn’t the youngest either when little Adolf was born.”
    â€œHere we go.” She sighed. “Time for a cigarette. At least then I’ll be spared your grousing for ten minutes.”
    Van In lit up without missing a beat.
    â€œBack to the question, Pieter: Is there any news about our skeleton?”
    The “our” part gave her the creeps.
    â€œI thought the public prosecutor’s office was in charge of the case,” Van In stalled.
    Hannelore smiled engagingly as her foot shot forward. Van In was too slow