The Fourth Figure

by Aspe, Pieter; Doyle, Brian;

  Van In turned abruptly when he felt a hand on his shoulder and was visibly taken aback at the sight of her. Saartje smiled when she noticed the surprise in his eyes. She threw her arm over his shoulder and pulled him to her cheek. He didn’t resist. Alarm bells started to go off in Guido’s head.

  “I figured you’d show up sooner or later,” she roared in his ear.

  Her breath gave him goose bumps. They were standing pelvis to pelvis, and he could feel the heat of her thighs through his pants. There was nothing special about the situation and he could have ended it with a single gesture, but he didn’t. Were the marijuana fumes responsible for his weakness or did the black widow finally have him where she wanted him?

  Van In pressed his lips against her ear. It looked like a kiss. At least that’s what Guido thought.

  “Is there somewhere we can have a quiet word?”

  Saartje nodded, raised her hand, and gestured to El Shit that she wanted to ask him something.

  The bar had a little hall at the back where obscure metal groups regularly raised the roof. After months of complaints from the neighbors, the mayor had threatened to serve the Iron Virgin with a closure notice if nothing was done about the excessive noise. El Shit struck a deal and brought in a firm of specialists to soundproof both the bar and the hall. Van In heaved a sigh of relief when El Shit closed the door behind him and left them alone in an oasis of silence.

  “You’re probably wondering what I’m doing here,” said Saartje as she sat down on the stage and dangled her legs over the edge. Guido installed himself at one of the tables with his coffee, curious to hear what kind of story she would come up with this time around. Van In paced up and down, not really sure what to do with himself. Sitting next to her wasn’t an option with Guido watching.

  “You read my thoughts.”

  Saartje smiled. “A friend told me that a satanist group met here, and with everything that’s happened in the last couple of days I was curious and …”

  Van In wondered for a second where she’d picked up on the satanism link, but quickly put two and two together. The police report on Trui Andries was in the top drawer of his desk and the drawer wasn’t locked. “So you decided to start your own little investigation …”

  “Something like that.”

  “Results?”

  “Most of the people here think the killing spree in front of the church was cool. Everyone’s talking about it.”

  Van In shook his head. If the Iron Virgin was home base for a satanic sect and both Jonathan and Muylle were regulars, then it figured that …

  “Is that why you’re here?” Saartje slipped from the stage to the floor and straightened her skirt. Van In tried not to look. “You promised you’d keep me up to date, Commissioner.”

  She added a friendly smile to her reproach, leaving Van In more or less powerless. He told her what they had discovered in the last forty-eight hours, without going into too much detail.

  “What do we do now?” asked Guido.

  Van In wasn’t sure. Everything had happened so fast that he was having a hard time analyzing all the information at a normal pace.

  “I suggest we call the public prosecutor. Let him decide.”

  “Isn’t that a bit premature, Commissioner?” said Saartje. “The satanists who meet here aren’t the people you’re looking for.”

  “Let me be the judge of that,” Van In snapped.

  Saartje nodded, then turned and walked away. He better not say I didn’t warn him, she thought.

  There were no records of the Bruges police ever having been ordered out en masse twice in the space of twenty-four hours, but the assistance they received from the federal police was no longer unusual. On paper, both forces worked together in perfect harmony, especially when the public prosecutor twisted the arms of both superintendents. Beekman was a man of his word. He had promised Van In he would make available whatever the Bruges police needed and he kept that promise. This was also an intervention that was likely to score highly with the general public. Everyone knew that the Iron Virgin sold drugs. Even if Van In had the wrong end of the stick, no one would blame him for ordering the raid.

  At precisely one forty-five a.m., thirty-five law enforcers in combat dress burst through the doors of the Iron Virgin. Everyone present was taken to the police station for questioning, no excuses. The intensity of the raid—the federal boys were armed with machine guns—left the impression that it was all over in half an hour.

  “So that’s that,” said Van In from behind the bar. He served himself a Duvel.

  El Shit was sitting on the toilet seat surveying the mayhem. It looked as if a tornado had ripped through his bar. Chairs and tables were piled up against the wall, and there was glass all over the floor. “Can someone tell me what the fuck is going on?” he rasped.

  “You’ll save yourself and us a great deal of effort if you supply us with the names of the sect members,” said Beekman as he lit a cigarette. Van In had known the man for at least two years and had never seen him smoke.

  “Sect members? Don’t make me laugh.”

  “So you deny that satanists frequent your bar?” Van In asked.

  El Shit shook his head. “If you’re talking about the Sons of Asmodeus, then I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.”

  “So they have a name.”

  “Of course they have a name. Every club has a name.”

  Van In gulped at his Duvel. He was so tired that the beer gave him a lift. A bad omen, he thought. He could expect to pay for his excesses, big-time.

  “Was Bart Muylle a member?”

  “Another disappointment, Commissioner. Bart Muylle hated all that business. He only came for the music and the women. The rest didn’t interest him.”

  Van In had a nasty premonition. El Shit seemed to be telling the truth. “Tell us more about the Sons of Asmodeus.”

  “No problem. I can even show you their temple.” He got to his feet and walked behind the bar.

  “Excuse me, Commissioner.” He bent down to the floor, and Van In stepped out of his way. It was only then that he realized he’d been standing on a wooden trapdoor.

  Like most of the buildings in Bruges, the Iron Virgin had a reasonably spacious cellar. El Shit led the way, descending the steep stairs and switching on the light.

  “This is their clubhouse,” he said.

  The walls of the cellar—five by eight, vaulted ceiling—had been painted black, and a pentagram had been etched on the floor. An improvised altar with a battered chalice and a pair of candlesticks with black candles graced the middle of the room. Guido, Beekman, and Saartje followed closely behind Van In and El Shit.

  “Some bars have bridge clubs, we have a satanic sect. And if I’m not mistaken, they have a constitutional right to do what they do.”

  “Don’t push it, Mr. Baels,” said Beekman.

  So El Shit has a name, thought Van In. Beekman had done his homework.

  “I’m still trying to work out what I did wrong,” said the bar owner. “You can see for yourselves that this is innocent stuff. Okay, there’s a bit of monkey business now and again, but if they spill anything, it certainly isn’t blood.”

  Van In nodded. He glanced at Saartje, who smiled as if she knew exactly what El Shit was talking about. The cellar inspection was over in a couple of minutes.

  “Is that the founder of the sect?” Van In asked, pointing to a grainy photo of an elderly man with a fuzzy white beard.

  Baels shook his head. “That’s Father Van Haecke,” he said. “Never heard of him?”

  The name rang a bell with Guido, but the context eluded him.

  “Lodewijk Van Haecke was chaplain to the Basilica of the Holy Blood for the best part of half a century,” said Baels. “Most of the sources say he was a pious, God-fearing man, a bit eccentric perhaps but an undeniably decent pri
est.” The sarcasm in his voice was loud and clear. “Others claim that Van Haecke was a notorious satanist, a demon worshipper, the lowest of the low. That’s how J. K. Huysmans described him in one of his books. According to Huysmans, Van Haecke celebrated black masses in Paris and mixed with the upper echelons of society, mostly women. Huysmans was also convinced that Bruges was a hotbed of satanism. And history proved him right. At this moment in time there are at least four or five satanist associations in the city.”

  “Are you a satanist, Mr. Baels?” Beekman asked.

  El Shit brushed off the question with a wave of his hand. “I’m a self-employed bar owner, Prosecutor Beekman. People expect me to know my merchandise, that’s all.”

  Van In lit a cigarette. Smoking in a temple dedicated to Satan wasn’t sacrilegious, was it? “Continue, Mr. Baels.”

  El Shit had studied law in a previous life, and he knew the power of a passionate plea. “Even the Old Testament talks about the fallen angel who was jealous of God’s creation. Like Prometheus, Lucifer stole fire from heaven and used it to win favor on earth. He re-created the world in his own image, a world in which greed and lust for power are considered the ultimate virtues.”

  “A familiar story,” said Van In.

  “The Sons of Asmodeus are actually descendants of the Cathars. They tried to outwit the demiurge and—”

  “If you could provide us with the names of the Sons of Asmodeus, Mr. Baels, that would be much appreciated. We can check the rest at the public library.”

  El Shit was smart enough to realize that Van In wasn’t interested in the rest of his story, but he still made a final effort to get his companions off the hook. “If you’re looking for real satanists, Commissioner, you’re in the wrong place. The real ones are discreet about what they do. They don’t flaunt their symbols and they don’t have temples in bar cellars. I’m afraid you’re making a big mistake. …”

  “The names, Mr. Baels.”

  El Shit was exceptionally cooperative. He scribbled the names of the Sons of Asmodeus on the back of a couple of beer coasters. He listed nineteen Sons, but neither Jonathan nor Bart Muylle were among them.

  “What they get up to in the cellar is meaningless,” said El Shit, tired but sure of himself. “It goes with the image of the bar. You didn’t expect a bridge club, did you?” He was starting to repeat himself.

  “Let us be the judge of that,” said Beekman.

  10

  Van In rarely watched breakfast television, but this morning was a professional exception. Prosecutor Beekman had managed to convince the producer of the morning news program to broadcast a description of Jonathan. The item occupied a serious chunk of time between the adverts and the rehashed news from the day before.

  “Do you think anything will come from it?” asked Hannelore as she waddled from the kitchen table to the stove. Her legs were swollen, and a varicose vein slumbered on her left calf. The pregnancy was beginning to exhaust her, and she was counting the days until it was over.

  “He can’t hide forever,” said Van In. “Someone has to spot him sooner or later.”

  He had just been on the phone to the station. The Iron Virgin’s clients had been interrogated through the night, but the results were meager, to say the least. Even the Sons of Asmodeus—Beekman had had each of them brought in in the early hours—swore by all that was holy that Bart Muylle wasn’t a member of their little fraternity. They were aware that Jonathan belonged to another satanic sect, but only because he was always going on about it. The most interesting detail to emerge from their interrogation was the fact that a couple of the Sons knew Richard Coleyn. They described him as a loner, born into money but now in the gutter, convinced he was going to be stinking rich one day soon. Van In sighed. It was going to take a while to verify all the statements, so he decided to have the duty officer get Richard Coleyn out of bed in the meantime. This time he wasn’t going to let the little bastard slip through his fingers.

  “Unless he’s watching breakfast TV himself,” Hannelore sneered.

  Van In was lost in thought, and her remark made him jump.

  “Who?” he asked.

  “Jonathan, of course.” She cracked a couple of eggs into a pan.

  Van In understood what she meant. The media liked to brag about the number of crimes they helped to solve, but publicity cut both ways. It was easy to forget that the enemy might also be listening.

  The eggs sizzled in the hot pan as the whites set neatly around the yolks.

  “All’s fair in love and war,” said Van In. “The public expects action. If Beekman had done nothing, they’d be down his neck screaming bloody murder. I wouldn’t like to be in his shoes right now, let me tell you.”

  A crispy black border formed around the egg whites. Hannelore grabbed a plate. She didn’t mind playing the housewife, although she had been sure from the outset that she would hate it. It was a temporary state of affairs, of course. After the pregnancy, she was planning to give Van In a crash course in home economics. Young fathers usually fell for that kind of thing; at least, that’s what her mother had told her.

  “What’s the next step?” Hannelore placed the plate with the fried eggs in front of Van In and joined him at the table. The thought of food turned her stomach. She had looked at herself in the mirror that morning and was convinced the sight had ruined her appetite. If the baby weighed nine pounds—which was more than reasonable—that meant she still had to lose another thirty. And what was going to happen to her breasts? What once were melons were now balloons and she had the feeling they were about to explode. She thought of pictures she had seen of African women, saddled with a pair of loose flaps for the rest of their lives after a string of pregnancies. She shuddered inside.

  “First a word or two with Richard Coleyn,” said Van In. “For the moment, he’s the only one who can provide more information about Jasper, Trui, and Jonathan.”

  He prodded one of the eggs with his fork and dipped a chunk of bread into the runny yellow yolk. He had to admit that he was having trouble digesting all the information. The killing of Trui Andries raised more questions than he could answer, and the file on the mass shooting was swelling so fast that no one would have time to read all the reports and statements it contained, let alone its conclusions. He had tried without success to connect the two cases. He could put more people on the case, of course, but experience had taught him that more people meant more chaos.

  “Do you still think that the killing of Trui Andries and the mass shooting have something to do with that mysterious sect?”

  Van In wiped his plate clean with a crust of bread. He hadn’t enjoyed breakfast this much in years. “I’m not sure, Hanne. Sherlock Holmes always had something relevant to go on, but in this case I’m struggling to separate the wheat from the chaff. If only I’d been born a hundred years ago.”

  Hannelore put her arm around his shoulder and gave him a kiss. “I’ve asked myself so many times why I fell in love with you, Van In,” she said.

  Van In was taken aback. He still didn’t understand the female mind. “And have you found the answer?” he asked.

  “Because you’re an incorrigible romantic, Pieter.”

  Van In lit a cigarette and tried to conceal his nerves. Did women have a sixth sense when faced with potential competition, or was he just imagining things?

  “Please accept my condolences, Mr. Frederik. The staff also wish to express their deepest sympathies.”

  Frederik’s father’s senior clerk was dressed in a black suit and black tie and was clearly very shaken. “Everyone here had enormous respect and affection for your father and mother. This brutal mass killing has shocked us profoundly. We are all praying that the man responsible will be brought to justice without delay.”

  Frederik was a little hungover. He and Master Venex had dispatched three bottles of the best Margaux the evening before, and th
e heavy Bordeaux was still playing tricks on him. The roof of his mouth was as dry as cork, and the excess of alcohol had left him with a blocked nose. The latter was somewhat to his advantage, however, since it gave the impression that he had spent the night in tears.

  “Thank you. Your words of sympathy are a great support.” Frederik stumbled, and the senior clerk rushed to help him.

  “Shall I call a doctor, sir?” he asked, clearly concerned.

  “No, no, no need. I didn’t get much sleep last night, that’s all. I’ll be fine.”

  “But Mr. Frederik!” The elderly clerk had been in Frederik’s father’s employ when Frederick was born and had watched him grow up.

  “I’m already feeling better,” said Frederik, grabbing the handrail along the stairs. The Margaux had left him in a pretty bad way. Three bottles. 1982. If his father had known, he would’ve wrung his neck.

  “Are you sure?”

  Frederik buttoned his bathrobe. There was a box of beluga caviar in the fridge, fifty ounces of pure pleasure, ninety-five thousand francs’ worth of the stuff. His parents had been planning to celebrate their silver wedding anniversary next week, a party that naturally had to be canceled given the circumstances. His father had always maintained that caviar was the best remedy for a hangover, and Frederick now had the chance to put his father’s motto to the test.

  “I suggest you all take the rest of the day off,” he said.

  “But sir …”

  “That’s what my late father would have wanted.”

  The clerk nodded. “I’m sure the staff will appreciate your gesture, Mr. Frederik.”

  Room 204 was a hive of activity, and atypically so. Police officers scurried in and out, depositing large piles of paper on Commissioner Van In’s desk. Guido watched the desk fill and knew what came next. While paperwork was an inseparable part of police work, most detectives hated the administrative side of the job with a vengeance. Guido was no exception. He sat down at his desk, ignored the papers, and punched in the telephone number he had looked up the night before.