“Then you can bet your bottom dollar the press is on its way too,” Van In said, grumbling.
“You should have shaved.” Guido grinned.
Van In shrugged. Journalists were only interested in magistrates these days. As soon as the prosecutor stepped out of his car, the cameras would be all over him. Van In had nothing to fear.
“I wonder who called the federal boys.”
“They were tipped off before us, apparently,” said Guido.
“I don’t get it. Breyne informed the local police, didn’t he?”
Guido didn’t respond. It was a public secret that his boss wasn’t on the best of terms with the federal police. “D’you think it’s a suicide?”
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” said Van In. “Winter gets people down, and if we’re to believe the statistics, some people think that’s reason enough to end it all. Remember the guy who hung himself last year because he didn’t have enough money to buy a computer game for his son?”
Van In bent his knees and slipped under the red-and-white tape that marked off the scene. A sergeant gave him a suspicious look and continued to cordon off the street while an officer Van In recognized as First Sergeant Cuylle was wrapped in animated conversation with a middle-aged woman, probably one of the local residents. Van In ignored the federal gendarmes and headed straight to Leo Vanmaele. The two friends greeted each other with a warm handshake.
“I’ve done my bit,” said the diminutive police photographer. He unclipped the flash from his Nikon and stored his material in a sturdy aluminum case.
“You’re on the ball, Leo. This is the first time you beat us to it.”
“Times are changing, Pieter. Speed and efficiency are the buzzwords these days. Public opinion can be merciless.”
Van In glanced at his watch. “But I still don’t get it. A crime was reported only ten minutes ago. The police station’s just around the corner and we drove here right away.”
Leo lifted his aluminum case and draped its carrying strap over his shoulder. “Ten minutes?” he asked. “That’s strange. They called me on my beeper half an hour ago.”
“Jesus H. Christ.” Van In grimaced, suddenly realizing what was going on. Someone—probably the woman talking to the first sergeant—must have discovered the corpse earlier and called the competition in a moment of madness. “Now we have to work with those federal jerks.”
“Looks like it,” said Guido. He winked at Leo, and they both burst out laughing.
“Commissioner Van In, Special Investigations,” Van In introduced himself. “A word if you don’t mind, First Sergeant.”
In spite of the fact that the police services had been reorganized and the ranks made uniform, Van In still used the old military titles. First Sergeant Cuylle’s official title was Inspector, First Class, and he disliked it as much as Van In did. Cuylle was familiar with the slovenly commissioner’s reputation and he limited himself to a surly nod.
“About the investigation,” Van In added.
“The investigation’s in full swing, Commissioner, as you can see.”
“Of course it is,” said Van In, his irritation level already beginning to rise. “I just wanted a quick word with that woman you were talking to.” He pointed in her direction. “Was she the one who called in the incident?”
Cuylle reacted as a federal gendarme would be expected to react: according to the book. “The official report will be ready by tomorrow.”
While First Sergeant Cuylle savored the taste of victory, Van In had the feeling someone was holding a burning candle under his bare feet. He had to work hard to keep his voice down. “May I remind you, First Sergeant, that I hold the rank of officer in the judicial police? As long as the gentlemen from the public prosecutor’s office are still here, I suggest you behave yourself.”
While Van In vented his gall on the first sergeant, Guido ambled unnoticed to the place where the victim had been found. With all the commotion, just about everyone had forgotten that they had a dead woman on their hands. Even the firemen who had hauled the girl out of the water were having a smoke nearby. They’d done their job, just like the police physician who had filled in all the necessary forms and scurried off in his flashy convertible. Guido gazed at the motionless body and tried to imagine what the young woman had been thinking as the ice-cold water filled her lungs. Had she tried to save herself at the last minute or had she welcomed death like an old friend with open arms? The serene expression on her face, a common enough feature of suicides, suggested the latter. The unbearable lightness of being seemed to be claiming more and more victims with every passing day.
Guido examined the place where he imagined the girl had entered the water. Two men from the forensics team had marked it off and were scouring the canal bank in a rubber dinghy. They had to presume evil intent until the suicide theory had been verified. When the men caught sight of Guido, they waved. They looked like they were freezing. Guido waved back, then turned and inspected the dead girl anew. Not much older than thirty, he figured. Her eyes were closed, supporting the illusion that she had died in peace. She was slim and her face wasn’t unpleasant. He discounted the strings of wet hair clinging to her cheeks, making her less attractive than she must have been when she was alive, and pictured a pair of bright and cheerful eyes behind her closed eyelids. It softened his judgment.
Van In appeared at his side. First Sergeant Cuylle had yielded to his arguments. When the radio announced that the prosecutor wouldn’t be putting in a personal appearance—coincidentally, the local TV camera crew had also decided to call it a day; suicide wasn’t news—the federal police officer consulted with his immediate superior and informed Van In that he had no further objection to the local Bruges police taking over the case. Cooperation at its very best.
“Her name is Trui Andries, and she lived here opposite at number seven,” Van In said to Guido. “They didn’t find keys on her, but I called Tuur. He promised to be here in fifteen minutes.”
Every little victory against the “legion of darkness”—as Van In liked to call the federal police—cheered him immensely. He beamed like a self-satisfied toddler.
Number seven was one of the better maintained houses in the Singel. The copper nameplate next to the bell had been polished, so much that the letters had almost disappeared. Van In had to step back to decipher them. WID. ANDRIES, it read. The woman who had called the feds had told him that Trui Andries’s mother had been taken to the hospital a couple of days earlier with a blood clot in the brain. Widow Andries was completely paralyzed, and the chances that she would ever leave the hospital were extremely slim. According to the neighbor, the elderly woman had been seriously ill for almost ten years. Her devoted daughter had taken care of her all that time. Apparently Trui Andries lived on benefits and her mother’s pension and rarely left the house beyond her daily visits to the hospital.
Van In brought Guido up to date.
“Worth a little praise, if you ask me,” was the sergeant’s spontaneous reaction.
Van In nodded in agreement. Guido had experienced the same thing five years back. His mother had died of a stroke after a long illness, and he had nursed her at home to the very end.
“Maybe that’s why she committed suicide.”
“I don’t think so,” said Guido.
A small Suzuki van rattled across the bridge.
“That’ll be Tuur,” said Van In.
Guido nodded. He had a serious look on his face, worried that the commissioner was moving a little too fast.
Arthur “Tuur” Swartenbroeckx was a burly thirty-year-old. He wore his hair in a ponytail and was dressed, as usual, in spotless overalls. Locks had fascinated him all his life and he had decided to turn his hobby into his profession. His one-man business was flourishing, enough to pay for a couple of assistants, but he preferred to work alone. His motto: You do best what you do yourself. Van I
n liked Tuur’s philosophy, and the two got on like a house on fire.
The locksmith stepped out of his van, waved, and headed to the back to get his tools.
“Tuur. How’s the little one?”
“Teething.”
It was clear from the tiredness in his eyes that Tuur’s infant had cost him a few sleepless nights.
“Another delight to look forward to.” Van In grinned.
Tuur grabbed his electric drill, bored the barrel out of the lock, and replaced it with a new one so Van In could lock up after he had finished checking the apartment. The job only took a couple of minutes, and he charged 2800 Belgian francs for the trouble. He knew doctors who had to get by on less. “Voilà, Commissioner.”
“Thanks, Tuur. Next Friday at l’Estaminet?”
“Depends on the little bugger’s teeth.”
Most Belgian town houses had the same layout: a long corridor with stairs going up and two or three connecting rooms with doors giving out onto the corridor. Widow Andries’s town house was no exception: a floral-pattern rug running the length of the corridor, a wooden chest in the middle holding an “antique” copper pot, and a couple of paintings gracing the wall, the kind they counterfeit in Taiwan by the square meter. A huge oak coat stand with brass hooks was struggling to stay upright under a mountain of winter coats.
Van In opened the first door, which gave access to what the Flemish like to call “the best room.” It usually contained all the good furniture, giving the impression to nosy passersby that the people who lived there were well off.
“Kitsch,” said Van In.
The second room contained a hospital bed that had never been used. The smell of old age and medicine was unmistakable. Paper diapers were stacked in piles on a metal rack, intended for adult use if their size was anything to go by.
The last room was the kitchen: cold, tiled floor; old-fashioned sink; and cheap Formica furniture. A tiny porch led out to a seriously neglected garden.
“Reminds me of my aunt’s place,” said Van In, the summer afternoons he spent in Aunt Clara’s garden flooding his memory. That jungle was a secret paradise back then, a place where he could let his imagination run wild. Most of the time he pretended to be Davy Crockett, whiling away the hours building an improvised camp or keeping a lookout from the branches of an old pear tree. Then he would picture himself as a pirate scanning the horizon from the crow’s nest in search of three-masters loaded with gold and silver. Perhaps Trui Andries had spent the happiest hours of her childhood playing on this abandoned patch of ground.
“What d’you think, Guido?”
Guido shrugged his shoulders and made a move to leave. “I’m not so sure that we need to be here. I feel like I’m trespassing.”
“Understandable,” said Van In. “But a quick look around the rest of the house wouldn’t hurt now that we’re here.”
They returned to the corridor and climbed the narrow oak stairs. The upper floor was completely different. The walls had been painted white and the floor was carpeted from wall to wall in high-quality beige pile. Trui had removed an interior wall and transformed her part of the house into a spacious apartment.
“She had taste, I’ll give her that,” said Guido. He liked simple interiors, and the pine furniture, colorful prints, and copious plants met with his complete approval.
Van In nodded and ran his fingers over the surface of a fine, highly polished refectory table. Trui was clearly well organized. Everything had been neatly tidied, and the plants were in perfect shape. Van In poked his finger into one of the pots. The soil was still moist. Most victims of suicide tended to be depressed when they did the deed and were more inclined to neglect their surroundings. Not so here. He made his way to the window, stopping to examine a framed photograph on the wall. The girl in the photo was Trui’s double, only older and with an aura that made her irresistible.
“Don’t you think it’s strange that she jumped into the water opposite her own house?” Van In asked.
“Doubts, Commissioner?”
Guido had pushed the suicide theory to one side when Van In told him that Trui had spent years looking after her sick mother. People capable of that kind of engagement were generally more sure of themselves.
“Call it a hunch, Guido.”
“You might be right. Your hunches hit the mark often enough,” said Guido. The commissioner could be boorish at times, and inclined to do things he would later regret, but when it came to intuition, he could compete with the most sensitive.
“We can pretty much rule out an accident. If she had gone out in this weather, she’d have put on a coat. And she had no keys with her.”
“Are you suggesting she was murdered?”
“I’m suggesting we should keep our options open.”
“Then the killer must have taken a massive risk,” said Guido.
Van In nodded. There was something about the case he didn’t like, too many things that didn’t seem right. “Maybe one of the neighbors saw something. Either way, I’m calling the police physician when we’re done here.”
“Are you going to ask for an autopsy?”
Van In nodded once again. He fished a pack of John Player Special cigarettes from his inside pocket and lit one. Guido presumed from the way he inhaled the smoke and exhaled it with a vigorous sigh that something was brooding in his boss’s head.
“Shall we check the place out?”
“Without a magistrate’s warrant!”
Van In smiled at Guido’s concern. Everyone was terrified of making procedural errors these days, and everything had to be done by the book. At least you had some kind of answer if you got called on the carpet for negligence.
“We’re inside the house, Guido. And having a poke around doesn’t mean we have to wreck the place. Should we have waited until tomorrow to have the door opened? And if it was suicide, we’d have to check one way or another if Miss Andries left a farewell letter.”
The commissioner’s approach might have been unorthodox, but there was nothing illegal about it. It only just dawned on Guido that the law allowed an officer of the judicial police to assume the functions of a magistrate, albeit provisionally, at the scene of the crime if the latter didn’t consider it necessary to be present in person. But he was pretty sure that the same thought hadn’t dawned on Van In.
Van In and Guido worked quickly and systematically. They checked the cupboards first, and when they found nothing interesting, they turned their attention to the desk and the bookcase. Guido found something curious in one of the desk drawers, a marbled cardboard folder, the type artists use to store their work.
He untied the ribbons and opened the folder with care. “Take a look at this,” he said.
The folder contained dozens of pages of handmade paper in a variety of different sizes. Van In turned and peered sideways at a sheet of frayed paper Guido was holding under his nose. It was full of ornate letters and strange words like meconium, ortolan, pikestaff, caboodle, chatterbox, plaguing, smoldering … “What kind of crap is that?”
“Calligraphy, Pieter, and superior quality if you ask me.”
“Another one of your many interests?”
Guido leafed through a pile of loose pages. As a child, he had spent hours in the workshop of a stonemason. The old man had carefully explained the importance of beautiful letters. He had even told him a story about them that was just as exciting as any other adventure story. Bet was the second letter of the Hebrew alphabet and it meant “house.” That’s where Alef lived and ruled over all the other letters. They were one big family, and each had its own job to do in helping people understand God’s thoughts. You could use the letters to tell the future and discover nature’s deepest secrets. Every letter corresponded to a number, and wise people could solve all the problems of the world by combining numbers in different ways.
“I only wi
sh I could do that,” said Guido.
“Now I know what to get you for Christmas,” Van In said. “A pen and a sketchbook.”
“If only it was that simple. This girl had real talent.”
“Good to know, Guido, but not very helpful under the circumstances.”
Guido nodded, closed the folder, and returned it to the drawer. “Found anything yourself?”
Van In shrugged his shoulders. He was standing by the bookcase and read a few titles out loud: “Les pactes sataniques, The Golden Bough: A Study in Magic and Religion, Liber Aleph vel CXI, The Satanic Bible, Histoire du Christ, The Origin of Satan, The Satanic Rituals … Our Miss Andries apparently had other interests.” Van In passed one of the volumes to Guido. “Most of the stuff here is about the devil. Hmm, to each his own I suppose. Satan seems to be in vogue these days.”
“And paper is patient,” said Guido as he opened the book. A scrap of paper folded in quarters fell out.
Van In lit a cigarette, his fingers blue from the cold, while Guido unfolded the scrap of paper.
“This might be something.” He showed the note to Van In.
Dear Trui, it read. I submitted your request to join our Church to the High Priest, and I’m delighted to say his response was more than positive. If everything goes according to plan, we can organize an initiation ceremony before the end of the year. Warm regards, Jasper Simons. P.S. Don’t forget to transfer your contribution. It was dated June 22.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” asked Guido.
“A satanic sect,” said Van In. “That’s all we need.”
Guido closed the book in his hand and read the spine: “Self-Alienation and Self-Belief by Leopold Flam.”
If they were dealing with the followers of Satan, he figured it made sense to get acquainted with the subject.
“I think I’ll take a couple of these books home with me, if you have no objection, that is.”
“Up to you,” said Van In.
This was typical Guido. He grouched about rules and procedures, but if he bumped into rare or interesting books, he was the first to junk the formalities. Van In was also partial to a good book, but compared to Guido’s passion for the written word, he was an amateur.
The Fourth Figure Page 2
