The Midas Murders by Pieter Aspe Page A

her handbag.
    Michelangelo’s Madonna , he wanted to say.
    â€œWhat do you think?” Hannelore spread out about a dozen photos on the table.
    â€œA German with a penchant for the polders. So he likes the Belgian lowlands. Should I find that suspicious?”
    Van In clearly recognized the characteristic silhouette of a Flemish farmhouse and the street lamps along the motorway. The motorway in question connects the port of Zeebrugge with the hinterland, cutting through the protected landscape like a carbonized rattlesnake.
    â€œSo?” she asked, curious to hear what he had to say.
    Van In examined the photos. They were recent and seemed to be perfectly innocent.
    â€œTo be honest, Hanne, I can’t see the connection. If you ask me, they’re just souvenirs.”
    â€œWhat about this one?” She produced a yellowing monochrome photo from her handbag.
    â€œAha, the Madonna . Did you also find that in his hotel room?”
    â€œYou know good and well where it came from,” she growled.
    Van In plunged his fork into the baklava once more, and Hannelore waited patiently until his mouth was empty again.
    â€œSo Croos has the file and everything in it?”
    â€œCreytens insisted,” she whispered. “A good thing Leo made a couple of copies on the side. Croos is protecting this file as if his life depends on it. And I don’t like it.”
    â€œCorrect me if I’m wrong, but did the public prosecutor happen to ask you to keep an eye on Creytens?”
    Hannelore nervously fumbled a cigarette from the pack. She was on the verge of blushing.
    â€œYou have the right to remain silent, of course,” Van In grinned when she didn’t answer his question. “But as I said earlier: everyone wins if the Federal Police take over.”
    Hannelore filled her glass and summoned the waiter. Leading Van In down the garden path was proving to be trickier than she’d expected.
    â€œA coffee and another portion of baklava,” she said, slightly irked.
    The Greek smiled and scuttled toward the kitchen.
    â€œThere’s apparently something wrong with the vegetation in the background,” she hinted.
    Van In ran the photo between his thumb and his forefinger.
    â€œIs that so?” he asked naïvely.
    Hannelore took the photo and shook her head. “I can see the cogs turning, Pieter.”
    â€œThen stop beating around the bush, Hannelore.”
    She gulped. Sometimes he caught her off guard. “I had lunch with Leo,” she confessed. “He’d spent the entire morning trying to reach you, just like I had. He told me you’d had questions about the landscape in the background of the photo.”
    â€œOf course he did,” said Van In resignedly. “I presume the photo’s no longer part of the official file.”
    â€œExactly. It’s been removed.” She seemed to take it for granted that he would spontaneously draw the correct conclusion. “Specialists have identified the vegetation in the meantime.”
    â€œThat was fast,” Van In observed sarcastically. “And what’s the verdict?”
    â€œStop pissing about, Pieter.”
    Van In summoned the waiter and ordered a fresh carafe of wine.
    â€œAccording to the experts,” she said, “it’s pokeweed.”
    â€œA very suspicious plant,” Van In smiled derisively. Tears filled his eyes when Hannelore suddenly pinched his nostrils. “Ouch, that hurts … Jesus!”
    The guests in the restaurant were getting their money’s worth. Niko turned up the bouzouki music a tickle louder.
    â€œ Ego te absolvo ,” he groaned when she refused to let go.
    â€œBe happy it was just your nose,” Hannelore hissed. She let go, and he massaged his molested nostrils.
    â€œSay a hundred Our Fathers,” she said sternly. Van In pulled back when she threatened to pinch him a second time.
    â€œI’ll never laugh at pokeweed