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capital V in the middle of the name already spoke volumes about the branch manager.
    The street was empty, but Van In chose to park his VW Golf in the agency’s parking lot, which, as another sign read, was reserved for clients only.
    The office was located in Benedict Vervoort’s modest parental home. The living room had been transformed into a counter area, little more than a glorified closet, and with no clerk in attendance behind the glass barrier. But Vervoort’s business was multifunctional, and real estate was only one of the many services he had to offer. The average farmer could use it to deposit cash and bonds, as Van In observed from the various handwritten posters that graced the office walls.
    A middle-aged woman—the front office junior clerk—welcomed him. She was the image of Audrey Hepburn but without the makeup.
    â€œMr. Benedict is expecting you,” she said in a formal tone when Van In introduced himself. “Please take a seat.”
    A cock crowed in the distance. Van In wasn’t dreaming. This was the West Flemish countryside, where fortunes were being made behind the walls of banal houses and where a mud-covered­ Mercedes by the front door was the only visible sign of luxury. Benedict Vervoort hadn’t even considered it necessary to replace the floral wallpaper.
    â€œGood morning, Commissioner.” Benedict Vervoort approached Van In with open arms. He was wearing a loud suit, a canary-yellow shirt, and a grass-green tie. The majority of the Mafiosi in Sicily were less ostentatious.
    Van In shook his hand. The young businessman’s chubby, ring-adorned fingers felt sticky. The aftershave with which he had lavishly sprinkled himself smelled of toilet cleaner, a stench Van In could barely stand.
    â€œHow are you, Commissioner?” asked Benedict in polite West Flemish. “And what can I do for you?”
    Benedict eased back into his fake leather office chair. His head seemed to consist of pink lips, puffy cheeks, and little more. Van In had a hard time concealing his opinion of the man opposite him.
    â€œAm I talking to Mr. Vervoort?” he asked with more than a hint of condescension.
    â€œThe man himself,” said the grinning yellow-green harlequin.
    â€œDo you mind if I smoke?” Van In fished a cigarette from his breast pocket. Benedict raised his hand. Shit , Van In thought.
    â€œAllow me to offer you a cigar, Commissioner,” said Vervoort with a gesture of hospitality. He opened one of the drawers in his desk and produced a flat box of Havanas. “They belonged to my late father.”
    Van In was obliged to accept the offer. The cigar crackled like a freshly unrolled sheet of papyrus.
    â€œAny relation to Aloïs Vervoort?” Van In inquired.
    The question seemed to please Benedict.
    â€œAloïs was my father,” he said with undisguised pride.
    â€œReally?”
    Aloïs Vervoort was Flanders’ cycling idol in the 1950s. The plucky Waardammer had managed third place in the Paris-Roubaix race on a couple of occasions and even won a stage during the 1956 Tour de France.
    â€œWoe betide anyone who dared make a noise on Sunday afternoon, when the race was broadcast on TV,” said Van In.
    Benedict laughed like an American presidential candidate in the middle of a campaign.
    â€œLaugh, go on. But I remember getting more than one pasting because of your father.”
    â€œHappy to know it, Commissioner.” His father’s status radiated from Benedict’s face like the sun setting on Mount Fuji. There was also a hint of the Orient in Vervoort junior, the spitting image of a sitting Buddha.
    â€œThe real reason for my visit is the Vermast family and their property in the Bremwegel.”
    Benedict unfolded his hands, placed the tips of his fingers on either side of his nose, and pretended to be deep in thought.
    â€œIs there a problem?” he asked, anxious and curious at once.
    â€œI