without betraying the contents of the van.
The first observer, Joost Voorhout (thirty-two years old) was from the Netherlands, although he had studied electronics in Belgium. His theoretical skills were surpassed by his ability to exploit every imaginable practical application of modern photography and electronics and solve associated problems. He was tall and blond with an athletic build. He came across as a little slow, but his reflexes were sharp as a cat’s. His team mate, Jean Materne, was an Antwerp-born twenty-eight-year-old who lived in Brussels and had served for ten years as a first battalion para. He was short and thin with a crew-cut, a large moustache and sideburns, which made him look like a Hell’s Angel. He was a bodybuilder, skilled in burglary with counterfeit keys, and an expert in aggressive driving and karate. He had applied for a job with the police Intervention Squad, but psychological tests had correctly revealed his personality to be imbalanced. He considered life to be a permanent challenge, facing and conquering dangers of every sort, and he took pride in the fact that he was genuinely afraid of nothing.
That evening, he had infringed one of his firm’s strict regulations: he had brought along his pit bull Rambo, white with brown flecks and pared ears, which lay motionless beside his chair, its bulky head resting on its front paws, its eyes narrow slits. Materne called him “my unlicensed revolver”.
At 21.45, they observed a tall, well-dressed elderly gentleman emerge from a side street opposite and make his way towards house 124A. Voorhout fixed on him with the camera’s Albada viewfinder and zoomed in.
“We’re onto a winner here, Jean,” he whispered.
Materne grabbed his infrared binoculars and focused in on the man, who appeared indeed to have stopped at 124A, produced a key and gone inside. Everything had been captured on camera.
“I fancy a cigarette,” said Materne resolutely.
Voorhout switched on the van’s ventilation system and they lit their cigarettes without losing sight of the house. After a few minutes they observed a second-floor light go on. The camera hummed.
“He’s hitting the sack.”
“Let’s do the same.”
“No. Best wait. What if he makes a phone call?”
Voorhout had barely finished his sentence when the ENI 421 started to beep.
“He’s using his mobile,” said Materne, “but it’s not connecting.”
“Why would anyone use their mobile when it’s cheaper and easier to use the ordinary phone?”
“Yeah… right… Why?”
They laughed. They had a habit of asking each other questions with obvious answers.
“Call information,” said Voorhout, without letting the house “out of his sights” for a second.
Materne dialled information and, given the late hour, was connected to an operator almost immediately. “I’m looking for the name and address linked with number 03-6364044 please.” He waited with the cigarette between his lips and the smoke billowing from his nostrils.
He noted the information. “Thank you.”
Voorhout looked at him.
“A certain Louise Dubois. Oude Baan 2, Sint-Job-in-’t Goor.”
The ENI 242 started to beep a second time. The same number. No connection.
“Something’s winding him up,” said Voorhout and grinned.
“Louise. Nice name, eh?”
“Is this the one?”
“Who knows?”
“What do we do?”
“We wait an hour, then we take a peek in Sint-Job-in-’t Goor.”
“Shouldn’t we input the number? You never know.”
“Good idea.”
“Better check if Louise called anyone else earlier.”
Voorhout punched in the number and pressed a couple of buttons. A number appeared with the same initial figures 636. “She called someone with a similar number at 21.12. The call lasted 190 seconds.”
“Someone she knew.”
“Possible.”
“Try information.”
One minute later, Materne noted the name and address: “Johan D’Hoog, Veterinary Surgeon. Address blah blah blah in
The first observer, Joost Voorhout (thirty-two years old) was from the Netherlands, although he had studied electronics in Belgium. His theoretical skills were surpassed by his ability to exploit every imaginable practical application of modern photography and electronics and solve associated problems. He was tall and blond with an athletic build. He came across as a little slow, but his reflexes were sharp as a cat’s. His team mate, Jean Materne, was an Antwerp-born twenty-eight-year-old who lived in Brussels and had served for ten years as a first battalion para. He was short and thin with a crew-cut, a large moustache and sideburns, which made him look like a Hell’s Angel. He was a bodybuilder, skilled in burglary with counterfeit keys, and an expert in aggressive driving and karate. He had applied for a job with the police Intervention Squad, but psychological tests had correctly revealed his personality to be imbalanced. He considered life to be a permanent challenge, facing and conquering dangers of every sort, and he took pride in the fact that he was genuinely afraid of nothing.
That evening, he had infringed one of his firm’s strict regulations: he had brought along his pit bull Rambo, white with brown flecks and pared ears, which lay motionless beside his chair, its bulky head resting on its front paws, its eyes narrow slits. Materne called him “my unlicensed revolver”.
At 21.45, they observed a tall, well-dressed elderly gentleman emerge from a side street opposite and make his way towards house 124A. Voorhout fixed on him with the camera’s Albada viewfinder and zoomed in.
“We’re onto a winner here, Jean,” he whispered.
Materne grabbed his infrared binoculars and focused in on the man, who appeared indeed to have stopped at 124A, produced a key and gone inside. Everything had been captured on camera.
“I fancy a cigarette,” said Materne resolutely.
Voorhout switched on the van’s ventilation system and they lit their cigarettes without losing sight of the house. After a few minutes they observed a second-floor light go on. The camera hummed.
“He’s hitting the sack.”
“Let’s do the same.”
“No. Best wait. What if he makes a phone call?”
Voorhout had barely finished his sentence when the ENI 421 started to beep.
“He’s using his mobile,” said Materne, “but it’s not connecting.”
“Why would anyone use their mobile when it’s cheaper and easier to use the ordinary phone?”
“Yeah… right… Why?”
They laughed. They had a habit of asking each other questions with obvious answers.
“Call information,” said Voorhout, without letting the house “out of his sights” for a second.
Materne dialled information and, given the late hour, was connected to an operator almost immediately. “I’m looking for the name and address linked with number 03-6364044 please.” He waited with the cigarette between his lips and the smoke billowing from his nostrils.
He noted the information. “Thank you.”
Voorhout looked at him.
“A certain Louise Dubois. Oude Baan 2, Sint-Job-in-’t Goor.”
The ENI 242 started to beep a second time. The same number. No connection.
“Something’s winding him up,” said Voorhout and grinned.
“Louise. Nice name, eh?”
“Is this the one?”
“Who knows?”
“What do we do?”
“We wait an hour, then we take a peek in Sint-Job-in-’t Goor.”
“Shouldn’t we input the number? You never know.”
“Good idea.”
“Better check if Louise called anyone else earlier.”
Voorhout punched in the number and pressed a couple of buttons. A number appeared with the same initial figures 636. “She called someone with a similar number at 21.12. The call lasted 190 seconds.”
“Someone she knew.”
“Possible.”
“Try information.”
One minute later, Materne noted the name and address: “Johan D’Hoog, Veterinary Surgeon. Address blah blah blah in
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