Normal Lives

The following morning he received the location of the grave. He told his wife he was going to a meeting in Maastricht, put a spade and gardening boots in his car and drove to the Ardennes Forest. He was not worried about interfering with the crime scene or destroying forensic evidence. Lieke was his only daughter, his only child and he did not care in those desperate moments, whether her killers were ever caught. The directions were to a layby some five kilometres south east of Marche-en-Famenne on a country road connecting Namur and Bastogne. It was a dull, grey morning with a damp mist hanging at tree top level. He drove with grim determination noticing very little around him. He located the parking area easily and a sick feeling began to stir in his stomach as he stopped the engine. It was a pull-in for cars and trucks with a semi-circular gravel track, a litter bin and wooden picnic table. He got out of the car and looked around. A red Renault with Luxembourg licence plates was pulling away. As the sound of the car faded, he heard the dripping of water from trees and the rustle of wildlife in the fallen leaves lining the forest floor. He felt very lonely and frightened. His first task was to find a large stone sprayed with a green spot of paint. It was supposed to be about thirty paces into the forest. The instruction was to walk at ninety degrees to the road. He walked slowly, counting his paces. Ten paces and he was in long grass, ferns and other undergrowth and entering the forest. Twenty paces and he was ducking under the branches of trees. He looked back. He could not see his car, the foliage was dense and he was completely hidden from the road. Thirty two paces and he found the stone. He stopped and inspected the ground. Nothing. He started to circle the stone. His feet sunk in softer ground and he realised the piece of earth where he was standing had been dug and covered in branches and twigs. He was violently sick. As he wiped his mouth, the thought crossed his mind that it could still be a hoax. He hoped someone would emerge from the woods and taunt him - thank him for the money and run off. But there was complete silence apart from the chatter of birds and the sound of his feet on leaves as he trudged back to the car and collected the spade. He forgot to change his shoes. He pulled away the crude camouflage and dug a small hole in the centre of the disturbed area. The ground was soft and after a few minutes his spade met resistance. He stopped digging. He didn’t want to damage his beautiful daughter. He put the spade to one side and enlarged the hole with his hands, bending down low and carefully removing handfuls of soil. He felt something cool, smooth and pliable. It was thick, industrial grade polythene. He was sweating, more from anxiety than from the effort of digging. He stopped, stood up and gathered his thoughts. There were no doubts now. Common sense took over. It was time to seek help. With his sight blurred with tears and his hands, shoes and knees covered in dirt from the grave, he drove to Namur, found the police station and told the duty officer his story. The policeman was doubtful and hesitant at first but the mud on Bauke Dekker’s shoes, trousers and hands convinced him, and he phoned his boss for advice. An inspector met Bauke in his office, listened and took notes. He then followed Bauke back to the burial site, took one look, and nodded. Using his mobile he called for specialist assistance and led Bauke away from the grave. He waited in his car, the engine running to keep warm. A police officer brought him a coffee in a plastic cup. He drank it slowly cradling the warm container and staring in the direction of the grave. Eventually her body was extracted from the damp earth and he volunteered to make a preliminary identification. When the pathologist gently pulled back the shroud from her face, he stared for a moment and then fell to his knees and wept.