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presume you read the papers.”
    â€œYou don’t mean … surely—”
    â€œI do mean, Mr. Vervoort.”
    â€œNothing to do with me,” said Vervoort resolutely.
    â€œWhat has nothing to do with you?” Van In’s curt tone drove Vervoort to abandon his defensiveness.
    â€œThe murder, of course.”
    â€œMurder?”
    â€œWell … I mean … they found a body, didn’t they?”
    â€œA skeleton,” Van In corrected.
    â€œA skeleton. Of course, Commissioner. That’s what I read in the paper.”
    Van In looked Vervoort in the eye. The countryside realtor clasped his hands behind his head and leaned back in his gaudy chair. He clearly wasn’t going to be pressured.
    â€œHappenstance.”
    Now it was Van In’s turn to be caught off guard, an opportunity Vervoort deftly deployed to regain control of the conversation.
    â€œLife is a succession of unexpected events, Commissioner. If you had found the skeleton before the sale, I would have been stuck with a worthless property. Who wants a house with a grave in the garden?”
    Van In puffed on the dry cigar and did his best not to cringe. The thing smelled of rotten wood and dog shit.
    â€œMr. Vermast informed me that the farm was owned by a charity called Helping Our Own,” said Van In as he placed the cigar in an ashtray, hoping it would go out by itself.
    â€œNot exactly, Commissioner. The farm was owned by one of our benefactors. The charity was given free use of it.”
    â€œCan you tell me a little more?”
    â€œDon’t you know the charity?”
    Van In shook his head. “Should I?”
    Vervoort inspected Van In with the air of a student who had just left his first psychoanalysis class. “It was founded in 1986 by a number of idealists determined to improve the quality of life of the country’s less well-off.”
    Van In would have bet his bottom dollar that Vervoort had just quoted from the charity’s brochure, word for word, and all pretty hollow.
    â€œSo if I understand correctly, the charity is about helping people, helping Flemish people … hence the name.”
    Helping Our Own was already beginning to sound a bit paternalistic, with shades of the far right.
    Vervoort didn’t let Van In’s moderate sarcasm throw him off balance.
    â€œHelping Our Own has been collecting funds for years to fight poverty here at home,” he continued unperturbed. “The charity offers financial assistance to people struggling to make ends meet with the crumbs this welfare society of ours throws at them.”
    Vervoort’s words became increasingly emphatic. His fleshy chin quivered like blancmange on a Power Plate.
    â€œWe offer study grants, housing, holidays, cheap loans, legal support—”
    â€œWe?” Van In cut in.
    â€œYes, we,” Vervoort responded enthusiastically. “I’m the charity’s treasurer. Does that surprise you?”
    Van In wasn’t sure what to say—that he’d rather see Mother Teresa strip for Playboy than Vervoort giving twenty francs to a beggar on the street?
    â€œFar from it, Mr. Vervoort. If I haven’t forgotten what they taught us in religion class at school, Jesus also had a soft spot for both whores and Pharisees,” said Van In, slightly taken aback by the impulsiveness of his own reaction. But such statements could also yield remarkable responses at times. He noticed Vervoort’s eyes narrow in a flash.
    â€œâ€˜Love thy neighbor’ is very close to our Christian hearts, Commissioner. It may not seem obvious in a world governed by egoism and self-interest, but perhaps you’d like to get to know our work a little better? You would be more than welcome to visit Care House whenever you have the time.”
    Vervoort paused with the panache of an African president addressing the plenary assembly of the United Nations. “Care House is our most