Paul Vandevelde, 81, husband, father and grandfather, was found dead in his kitchen yesterday. His daughter Anne, 45, divorced mother of Billie, receives me in her cluttered apartment in the heart of Antwerp, near the Groenplaats.
I come in on people at a low point. I never tell them they are suspects. A perpetrator can also be crushed by grief, guilt clings even more to your heart.
“I’m waiting for a sign from daddy, his soul has gone on a journey,” Anne sobs.
“What happened yesterday afternoon?”
“I wasn’t there.” She blows her nose vigorously.
“You were there, according to your mother.”
“I wasn’t there when my daddy died, I mean, I just saw him alive and then left.” Those abrupt movements, that nervous look that flutters around her own living room.
She’d had a little bit of a fight with Dad, yes, about a gift during his lifetime. He used to think his parents were crazy because they refused, but now he did the same. Papa was such a proud man who insisted he had eternal life until proven otherwise. The only immortal man on Earth. Could never admit his loss, even if his scratch card didn’t give a win. For the past few months he had become obsessed with scratch cards. He had started it during the first lockdown, it was also something to structure his days with. He always bought one after cycling, much to Mom’s growing annoyance. Alessandra gave a bad laugh.
“Who is Alessandra?”
“Don’t you know Alessandra? She has been daddy’s mistress for years. Mama and Alessandra are constantly walking in and out together, that was the case when I was a child. They travel together while daddy stays at home and takes care of the houses, they have had so much fun together for years.”
“But your mother knows about their affair?”
“What does it matter? It has simply always been very nice among us. The fingerprint system was five of us: Dad, Mom, me, Billie and Alessandra. Dad is very strict about that, no more than one person can go in at a time.” “I heard he was nervous?”
„I got one from him, haha, and that seems so suspicious, doesn’t it. Dad could act weird, maybe because of the pandemic, like he became a ghost, always behind that laptop or on his racing bike, like he had no control over his own life anymore. And then wanting to kick me out yesterday, unbelievable… But is it really a murder”, Anne suddenly wonders, “is it not a heart attack, a collapsed lung, an accident? Is he dead?”
“We are now checking the movements on his accounts.” The clouds rearrange. A shadow moves past the five-storey window. “There he is,” she says, pointing, “daddy is signaling, he’s on his way.” “One of you four wives pointed the nail gun at him,” I say, “maybe by accident.” “I’ve always been the crazy of the family,” she says at the door, “that must be suspicious, surely?” I don’t deny it and leave.
Next week: The granddaughter.