The House with Nine Locks, page 29
‘You want to know about Verlinden?’
‘I need to find his wife.’
‘Liesbeth?’
‘Do you know where she lives?’
The workman shook his head. ‘They used to live in Danseart, on the Rue des Fabriques, but that was before. I heard she moved out to the Quartier Brabant, after she had the baby. It might have been the Rue des Palais.’ He picked up a box from his trolley and handed it to the man in the back of the truck. ‘Don’t work for a lawyer, do you?’
‘No.’
‘Pity. They never gave her a penny after the fire, and her with two kids. Said he shouldn’t have been there or something. I reckon she had a case, but lawyers cost money.’
‘They never caught the arsonists, did they?’
The man in the truck laughed. ‘Not a chance.’
The director appeared in the doorway. He fixed Adelais with a stare and came marching over. Adelais did not wait to be interrogated. She crossed the yard to the taxi as fast she could.
‘Excuse me! Just a moment!’
Adelais did not stop. She climbed into the taxi and told the driver to go.
The Quartier Brabant was a French-speaking district north of the city centre, where the streets were narrow and straight, and the housefronts caked in soot. The Rue des Palais began at a busy junction of roads and tramlines and ran north for five hundred metres before passing beneath the main railway. The houses grew shabbier as they went. Some of the windows were blocked up with cardboard. The air had a charred, sulphurous smell.
‘What’s the number?’ the driver said.
Adelais did not have a number. ‘Just take me to the end.’
At intervals, she saw women dressed in evening clothes, wandering aimlessly along the pavements. They leaned over to peer inside the taxi as it went past, before straightening up again. One of them smoked ostentatiously, like a teenager at a party, another carried a red umbrella. Beyond the railway lines, the road continued for another four hundred metres, before reaching a canal. Adelais saw no children. It was not the kind of place where children belonged. The worst parts of Ghent were not as grim.
The taxi driver pulled over. ‘This is it. You getting out here?’ He was becoming impatient. Adelais had been in his cab for three-quarters of an hour.
At a corner, one street over, was a stall selling flowers. The old woman behind it had a shawl over her head.
‘One more stop,’ Adelais said.
The taxi took her south and east along avenues lined with trees and flanked by parkland. On the Boulevard Léopold III they turned into a narrower road where the apartment buildings were finished in a blank, modern style. The cemetery lay behind grey walls, with a cobbled forecourt just inside the gates. A rusty sign on one of the gateposts set out a long list of what was prohibited, which included singing and the removal of flowers. Adelais had bought white and yellow chrysanthemums. They were the only blooms that looked fresh.
She paid the driver and climbed out of the taxi. The rain was holding off, but the wind was strong. It tugged at the flowers, as if intent on tearing them from her hands. A path wound its way past a stone colonnade and clusters of yews to a grid of old stone tombs. At the far end was an area of open ground, dotted with newer graves, with here and there a pile of freshly turned earth.
A caretaker was at work on the verges, cutting back the ragged grass with a pair of shears. Adelais walked over. ‘Can you help me? I’m looking for Pauwel Verlinden.’
‘Verlinden?’
‘His grave.’
The caretaker tossed a clump of grass into a wheelbarrow. ‘What is it, his birthday?’ He nodded towards a corner of the cemetery, where three people stood in front of a headstone: a woman and two children.
The woman wore a scarf and an old-fashioned brown coat. The boy, maybe ten years old, wore short trousers and a sweater that was much too big for him. The girl, older, was thin and pale. She clung to the woman’s arm, as if afraid of losing her.
The woman was holding a bouquet of flowers no bigger than her hand. She stooped down and placed it against the headstone. Adelais saw the hardship in her face, in the drawn cheeks and the lines come too soon. Their eyes met, but even then it was hard to look away.
Adelais left the cemetery still carrying the chrysanthemums. She would go back when Mrs Verlinden and her children had left. She dared not explain to them who she was.
Fifty metres further up the road stood a cafe. Adelais took a table by the window and ordered a coffee. As she waited, she wondered what would happen if Liesbeth Verlinden came into the cafe too. Would they talk? Would Adelais ask about her husband’s death and what had happened since? Or would she sit in silence, as if there were no connection whatever between them, nothing of importance that they shared?
Adelais had not noticed the name of the street before. It was displayed on a small blue sign on the building opposite: Rue Henri Chomé. She had never been to this part of Brussels before and yet the name was familiar. It took her a few moments to remember: it was to the Rue Henri Chomé that her mother had gone, the day Saskia followed her. It was on the Rue Henri Chomé that she had disappeared.
It had been Saskia’s belief that Odilie de Wolf had a friend, or a lover, living on that street. She had bought them a gift of flowers outside the station. Adelais knew now that Saskia had been wrong: her mother had been visiting the cemetery. She had travelled to Brussels to put flowers on Pauwel Verlinden’s grave.
FORTY-FOUR
October gave way to November and Adelais heard nothing more from Uncle Cornelis. She began to wonder if he was ever coming back. The hotel was less busy than it had been, but work continued on the stable block. It looked like the new rooms might be ready in time for Christmas.
Adelais watched the progress from behind the desk in the office, workmen coming and going, carrying piping, boards, spools of wire, followed by tiles and porcelain. In a week or two it would be time for painting, for the curtains and furniture. The Astrid Christyn was on the cusp of viability. She had often imagined this moment, the feelings of happiness, satisfaction, of pride. She had taken a childhood fantasy and made it real. How many people could say as much? She stood before the window, day after day, but the feelings refused to arrive. All she could think about was the nightwatchman and the family he had left behind.
She was sorting mail behind the front desk when Uncle Cornelis finally telephoned. It was a Tuesday morning. The line was crackly and he sounded far away.
‘Are you alone?’ he said.
‘For the moment. Where are you?’
Adelais’s words echoed around the hotel lobby.
‘I’ll be visiting in a week or so. I have good news.’ The tone of Uncle Cornelis’s voice was cheerful, but forced, as if he were selling something.
‘Perhaps I should take this in the office, Mr … Hartman.’
‘It won’t take a minute. Just listen.’
Adelais leaned across the counter. One table was still occupied in the dining room: Mr and Mrs Briggs, a middle-aged British couple touring Flemish culture in low season, eating their devilled eggs in silence.
‘Go on then.’
‘I’ve found a buyer.’
‘For what? The hotel?’
In the dining room Hendryck was sweeping crumbs from the tables into a polished metal pan, watching Adelais out of the corner of his eye. She had never dared to confide in him, not completely, and now the chance was gone.
‘First things first,’ Uncle Cornelis said. ‘I’m talking about our other line of business. They’ll take whatever we can supply, provided there’s enough of it.’
Adelais did not like the idea of strangers getting involved. It felt dangerous. ‘I’m not sure. We’ve never—’
‘I know. But times have changed. This time next year, remember?’
‘You always said—’
‘I’ll keep you out of it. How many items can you make over the next couple of weeks? They need three hundred, give or take.’
‘They? Who’s they?’
Uncle Cornelis didn’t answer. It was a stupid question to be asking over the telephone.
‘Can you do it?’
‘Maybe. How do I explain being away all that time?’
‘You’ll think of something.’ Uncle Cornelis’s breath pushed against the mouthpiece. Adelais sensed an unfamiliar urgency. In the past, he had always been calm. ‘It’ll be worth it. I told you, Adelais: new opportunities. This’ll get us started.’
Adelais wanted Uncle Cornelis to spell out what the opportunities were, where they would lead, and who they would be doing business with, but now was not the time.
Saskia was coming up the drive on her Lambretta. Adelais could hear the familiar buzz of the engine.
‘What are they paying?’ Adelais did not want to know. She wanted to make her uncle tell her something, to concede something. They were partners.
Adelais heard a click on the line, a faint cacophony of a hundred voices talking at once, then silence.
‘It isn’t so much a sale as an exchange,’ Uncle Cornelis said.
‘An exchange?’
‘There are other currencies besides money. I’ll contact you in ten days or so and tell you where to go.’ Outside, the Lambretta’s engine cut out. ‘I’ll explain everything when I see you. We’re almost there, little wolf. Almost there.’
‘Wait,’ Adelais said. ‘I need to know about—’
But Uncle Cornelis had already hung up.
Saskia came through the front door, her helmet under her arm. ‘Anything wrong?’ she said, running her fingers through her hair.
Adelais worked by night. At the weaver’s house she turned all the locks behind her and laboured at the presses until her body ached and her vision became too blurred to see. Without anyone to help her, the printing went slowly to begin with, but she had learned to anticipate every problem, every possible mistake, and soon she found herself slipping into a routine, operating with the efficiency of a machine and with as little need for reflection. Every drying line in the house was soon full, every surface covered with the notes her uncle needed. As she worked through them, adding layer after layer of pattern and colour, she thought of herself on the handcycle he had given her for her eleventh birthday, and the challenge he had set her: to reach the Devil’s House and return without stopping. The wheels of the presses became the wheels of the invalid tricycle, and the pressure they brought down on the paper reminded her of her struggle with the pedals, the effort it had taken to make them move. She had built up strength on that machine, strength that had enabled her to save a life, Sebastian’s life. She refused to think of it as anything other than a gift of love – a gift she was honour-bound to return.
After the third night, Saskia found her asleep at the desk in the hotel office. ‘My God, you look terrible. Are you coming down with something?’
Even in her addled state, Adelais saw her chance. ‘A touch of flu. Maybe I should go home for a bit.’
‘Yes, go home,’ Saskia said, ‘or we’ll all catch it. Christmas is coming. We can’t afford an epidemic.’
With a show of reluctance, Adelais removed herself to Schoolstraat. Every morning for the next six days, she telephoned the hotel to say she was not coming in, before returning to Patershol. There was a danger that Saskia would turn up at the weaver’s house and realise she had been lied to, but it was a small danger. She had no obvious reason to go there and, with Adelais away, she would be busier than usual at the Astrid Christyn.
On the sixth day Adelais added the letterpress numbers and stored the finished notes in one of the last empty boxes in the cellar. As she gathered the counterfeits into bundles of fifty, she felt a familiar glow of pride. There had never been anything like them, de Smet had told her. They’re the work of a perfectionist, a craftsman of exceptional dedication. It was something, after all, to reach the pinnacle of your craft, to be the best of the best.
When the notes were stowed away, she cleaned off the plates and put them back in the safe. The Beretta was where it had always been, on the bottom shelf. For the first time in years, she picked it up, weighing it in her hand. It felt heavy. She was sure she would need both hands to fire it. She eased down the latch with her thumb and released the magazine. She wanted to be sure that it was loaded.
FORTY-FIVE
Major de Smet went up to the top floor of Federal Police Headquarters to find his operations room stripped bare. One of his filing cabinets was out in the corridor, the other had vanished completely. The maps had been torn down from the walls, leaving only a couple of scraps still clinging to the pushpins that nobody had bothered to take out. The desk and chair were gone. The telephone lay on the floor, disconnected, the wire wrapped around it. A civilian in blue overalls was measuring the walls with a sprung-metal tape measure.
‘What is this?’ de Smet demanded. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘Colonel’s orders.’ The civilian was making notes in a notebook. He did not look up. ‘Whole floor’s been reallocated.’
‘To what?’
The civilian tucked his pencil behind his ear and retracted the tape measure with a noise like a falling guillotine. ‘They told me, but I’ve forgotten. It’s all got to be clear by three o’clock.’ He looked at de Smet and frowned. ‘News to you, is it?’
De Smet recalled a memorandum some weeks past, something about a new trafficking section to be established on the top floor. He had not paid much attention at the time. He had assumed it was a formative idea, that he would be consulted before any important decisions were made. ‘You can start putting it all back,’ he said.
‘What?’ The civilian laughed. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Deadly.’
‘Well, I’d have to hear that from Colonel Delhaye, I’m afraid.’
‘You will. Now get started.’
The civilian looked like he was going to argue some more, but something in de Smet’s demeanour made him change his mind.
The meeting lasted seven minutes and Colonel Delhaye smiled throughout. His smile was supposed to be infectious, to infuse the encounter with good humour, acceptance and comradery: two old soldiers, following orders – even orders they did not like – because that was the lot of old soldiers. It was all de Smet could do not to strike him, to wipe the stupid grin off his shiny, dissembling face.
De Smet’s section was to be folded into a larger team, encompassing financial crime, trafficking and narcotics. A Major Briyon from the customs service had been appointed to head the operation.
‘Of course, I’d have preferred to see one of our own in there,’ Delhaye said, ‘but the word from above, you know. They want a fresh start, new perspectives.’
‘My investigations are being disrupted. I’m close to a breakthrough.’
Colonel Delhaye’s smile became radiant. ‘Oh, good.’
‘Criminals aren’t going to wait while we reorganise our … perspectives.’
‘Oh, indeed.’ Colonel Delhaye offered de Smet a cigarette and lit one for himself. ‘But I’d let the new man sort that out. His problem. It’s time you moved on. You’ve done your bit – and done it well, I might add.’
There had been talk for some time about early retirement. A couple of senior officers had already left. It was not clear if they had been given a choice.
Colonel Delhaye leaned back in his chair. ‘I think you’ll be pretty happy with the terms I’ve negotiated on your behalf. It wasn’t easy. You know what the bean counters are like. But I wrung it out of them in the end.’ He took an envelope from his desk and passed it over.
‘I have cases to clear up. I’m not going anywhere.’
Colonel Delhaye shook his head. ‘You don’t want to be answering to Major Briyon. These young Turks, they love to throw their weight around. It’d be … humiliating.’
‘If he doesn’t get in my way, I shouldn’t—’
‘I think the danger is, you might get in his way. The whole counterfeiting business, it’s not really a priority any more. And we wouldn’t want a situation: old guards versus new brooms. The truth is, I don’t think we’d come out on top of that one.’
‘We?’
Colonel Delhaye’s smile briefly faltered. ‘You.’
De Smet opened the envelope. He found it hard to read what was inside, hard to focus on the words or the numbers. They meant nothing.
Colonel Delhaye’s smile had returned. ‘We’ll give you a proper send-off in the new year. You know, you’re still something of a legend around here. Past glories and all that. It would be a shame to leave under a cloud.’
Toussaint was on the telephone when de Smet arrived back at his office. The captain covered the mouthpiece, and offered him the receiver.
De Smet did not feel like talking to anyone. ‘Who is it?’
‘Monsieur Meunier, from the Federal Engraving Bureau? He says—’
De Smet took the receiver. ‘This is de Smet.’
‘Ah, Major, you’re keeping well, I trust?’
‘Well enough.’
‘Good. It’s probably nothing, but as I was explaining to your colleague, I thought I should call it in, just in case.’
‘Go on.’
Meunier cleared his throat. ‘We’re moving out of our existing premises, as you know. That is to say, the bureau is setting up elsewhere – at the bank, in fact. Centralisation.’
‘I’d heard. So?’
‘Well, not that it’s relevant, but in the middle of it all, someone turned up asking about Pauwel Verlinden. You remember the case? Tragic business.’
‘I remember it.’
‘Normally I wouldn’t trouble you but you never did make an arrest, did you? I mean, the federal police. The case remains unsolved. I thought perhaps she might be connected in some way—’
‘So who was it?’ De Smet took a paper and pencil from the desk.
‘A young woman, early twenties, I’d say. Blonde, well dressed. She was wearing a red raincoat. It struck me right away as a statement.’
