The Midas Murders by Pieter Aspe Page B

again,” he promised, half-serious. “Talk to me. I’m all ears.”
    Hannelore grabbed his fork and nibbled at the sweet baklava. “Pokeweed only grows in the Southern Hemisphere,” she breezed.
    â€œAnd Michelangelo’s Madonna —”
    â€œHas never been sighted in the Southern Hemisphere, to my knowledge,” said Hannelore self-assuredly.
    Van In stuffed the last piece of baklava into his mouth. “So the question is: why would Creytens remove the photo from the file?”
    â€œPrecisely. That’s what I wanted to discuss with you this evening. Exchange thoughts….”
    Van In furrowed his brow and tried to think clearly. Not an easy task after a liter of house jug.
    â€œWhat do we know about Creytens?”
    â€œCreytens is tainted,” Hannelore whispered. “The public prosecutor’s had his suspicions for quite a while.”
    Under normal circumstances, magistrates never gossip about their colleagues.
    â€œSo you have to keep an eye on him,” Van In said.
    Hannelore bit her bottom lip. She had sworn secrecy.
    â€œDon’t forget that judges are unimpeachable,” said Van In. “They might dole out the dumbest sentences all their lives, but they remain honorable citizens deserving of our respect.”
    â€œDon’t overdo it, Pieter,” she sighed.
    â€œOkay, so Creytens is a corrupt bollocks who manipulates files and withholds evidence. What do you want me to do about it?”
    â€œI admit that we—”
    â€œJesus H. Even if we find truckloads of kiddie porn in his study, he’s still a free man,” Van In retorted. “When you’re talking power, examining magistrates are right up there next to God. In the context of an investigation, he can take whatever measures he sees fit.”
    â€œYou’re right, Pieter. We need to be realistic.”
    Van In divided the remaining contents of the carafe between their glasses.
    â€œI presume you’re not planning to sleep at home tonight?” he inquired unexpectedly. He was much less reserved when he had alcohol in his blood.
    Hannelore looked down, but not out of prudery. “If you’ll light your fire and put on Carmina Burana .”
    â€œI still have a bottle of Cadre Noir in the fridge.”
    â€œWere those the bubbles you served with the shrimp in October?”
    Van In closed his eyes. He was picturing her coming into the bedroom with the ice-cold glasses and the steaming shrimp.
    â€œAn unforgettable evening,” he whispered.
    He kicked off a shoe and searched longingly under the table for her calf.

6
    W HEN V AN I N APPEARED NONE too early at the station on Tuesday morning, it seemed as if all hell had broken loose. Officers raced nervously along the corridors like blue shadows on accelerated film. But he was indifferent to the chaos. He had spent that night in heaven. Disguised as Dante, he had ascended through the spheres, and he had to admit that Hannelore was a much better guide than Beatrice.
    â€œWhat’s this? World War Three?” he asked an inspector as he raced past.
    The man looked at him incredulously and continued on his way, shaking his head.
    â€œPfft,” Van In sighed. “Cheerful Charlies everywhere this morning.”
    â€œHey, Commissioner Van In.”
    Pieter turned his head. He could pick Versavel’s voice out of a thousand.
    â€œGuido! A normal person at last! What the fuck is going on?”
    Versavel walked toward him with a spring in his step. In contrast to the others, he seemed his usual relaxed self. Van In envied him for it.
    â€œSo you haven’t heard.”
    â€œHeard what?” Van In asked, pulling an innocent face.
    â€œSome crazy terrorist blew up the statue of Guido Gezelle last night.”
    â€œYou’re kidding me.”
    â€œScouts’ honor, Commissioner.”
    â€œWhy wasn’t I informed?”
    Van In had forgotten that he had disconnected