The Fourth Figure

by Aspe, Pieter; Doyle, Brian;

  Van In sat down at the metal desk and lit a cigarette. Guido remained standing, in case Coleyn tried something he might regret. They had agreed in advance that the commissioner would ask the questions.

  “We can be out of here soon,” said Van In. “It all depends on you. I’ve got all the time in the world.”

  “My father will haul you before the courts,” Coleyn screeched.

  “I thought your father had rejected you.”

  “You have no right to lock me up.”

  Coleyn turned. His entire body was trembling, and the empty look in his eyes reflected the desperation raging through his guts like a wildcat, its razor-sharp teeth biting into every nerve.

  “You told us that already, Mr. Coleyn. I suggest you take a seat. Otherwise I’ll be forced to have you immobilized.”

  Guido produced a pair of handcuffs and dangled them in front of Coleyn like a skilled inquisitor. “The commissioner means it,” he whispered. “He’s capable of leaving you here for a couple of hours if need be. He has time, and so do I.”

  Coleyn stared at Guido in disbelief. “I thought you were the commissioner.”

  Creating confusion was perhaps the most powerful weapon police officers had at their disposal. It could throw a suspect off balance, and like in judo, such were the moments that often determined who won the fight.

  “What makes you say that, Mr. Coleyn? I’m Sergeant Guido and this is Commissioner Van In.”

  “But …”

  “No buts, Mr. Coleyn. Take a seat and let’s not waste any more time on trivial details, for Christ’s sake.”

  Van In pointed at the chair on the opposite side of the desk. He felt like a lion tamer, only without the whip. When Coleyn finally sat down, Guido returned the cuffs to his pocket. He had to admit that the way Van In managed to impose his will on the boy was inspiring.

  They say journalists are a lazy bunch because they don’t always react to every anonymous telephone caller promising them the latest scoop immediately. Bert Vonck had just finished a tedious interview and was treating himself to a well-earned cup of coffee. When the telephone rang, he didn’t budge. When it rang a second time immediately afterward, he answered.

  “Hello, Mr. Vonck?”

  “Speaking,” said the journalist.

  “I think I have a scoop for you.”

  Bert Vonck lit a cigarette, wedged the receiver between his cheek and his shoulder, and pressed the start button on the tape recorder attached to the phone. “I’m all ears.”

  As the conversation proceeded, Vonck puffed at his cigarette with steadily increasing fascination. If what the caller was saying was true, then every newspaper editor in chief—he meant the ones who paid big money for sensational news—would welcome him with open arms. He might even be able to buy that sports car he’d been dreaming of.

  “Are you saying Jonathan Leman killed Trui Andries?” said Van In.

  The limited space and the absence of an easy exit were beginning to serve their purpose. Richard was nervous, sweating like a pig, constantly looking over his shoulder.

  “Isn’t that what you claim, Mr. Coleyn?”

  Richard nodded. The tiny room seemed to be getting smaller by the minute. They couldn’t do this to him. He tried to avoid the commissioner’s steely gaze as he struggled to formulate a response.

  “Jonathan couldn’t stand the idea that Trui and Jasper were planning to get married. He …”

  He stopped breathing as if his lungs had collapsed. His eyes were motionless, like marbles, glassy and vacant. He gasped for air. Guido had seen this situation coming and had brought a paper bag with him, which he held over Richard’s mouth. The boy seemed familiar with the procedure and gulped at the low-oxygen air. Van In waited patiently for the crisis to subside.

  As the instinct to breathe won out over the call of unconsciousness, it had dawned on Coleyn that they weren’t going to let him go until he’d told them what they wanted to hear. “Jonathan is an orphan,” he whispered. “He’s never known true love. Trui felt sorry for him, and when he turned eighteen and was released from the orphanage, she took care of him.”

  Van In nodded. The details squared with the information he had picked up on Jonathan. “And you got to know him through Jasper.”

  Richard crushed the paper bag. “Jasper was obsessed with Satan. He was hunting high and low for adepts, focusing on people who longed for some kind of spiritual anchor. Jonathan was easy prey.”

  “Did Jasper recruit in the Iron Virgin?”

  “Among other places.”

  Van In glanced at Guido. Coleyn’s story sounded logical enough, but it didn’t line up with the version they’d heard from Jasper’s parents. Doctor Coleyn also held a different opinion. According to them, Jasper was an antisatanist, determined to destroy evil in its every incarnation.

  “And was it there that you met?”

  Richard nodded. “Jasper and I went to school together. I bumped into him a couple of years ago in the Iron Virgin. When I told him that my dating service was on the skids, he suggested we join forces.”

  “So you became a member of his satanic fraternity?”

  Richard shook his head. The end of this trial was slowly coming into view. He closed his eyes tight and tried to picture himself walking along an empty beach. “Jasper was a drug dealer, and for two years I was his runner.”

  Van In tried to draw a link between Coleyn’s statement and the information he had gathered the week before. Trui Andries knew Jonathan Leman from the time she worked in the orphanage. Jasper Simons had come up with the idea of starting a satanic sect as a cover for his drug business, and Richard Coleyn had become his sidekick for lack of money.

  “Did Trui Andries know what was going on?”

  Richard blinked. It was time for the most important part of his story. “Trui was madly in love with Jasper. She wanted to save him, whatever the cost.”

  Richard’s speech was getting faster and his breathing more agitated. “She tried to share his delusions at first. Out of love. Then …”

  Anxiety took hold once again. Guido stepped forward and flattened the paper bag with the palm of his hand, but Richard brushed him away.

  “She started to study satanism. She read book after book, determined to convince him how wrong he was. He turned his back on the drug trade three months ago. They were planning to get married, live a normal life, but Jonathan couldn’t deal with it.”

  Richard took a deep breath and looked up at Van In and Guido. The tiny hairs on his cheeks glistened like a cornfield in the sun. “He told whoever would listen that he would enter a monastery if Trui and Jasper got married. Trui was the only girlfriend he’d ever had. It drove him crazy to think he couldn’t be with her.”

  “Just like Jasper.”

  “Jasper’s different,” said Richard. “He was born with problems. Half his family is in psychiatric care. That was his future too, and he knew it.”

  Van In stood, walked to the door, and asked the officer on guard to open it. Guido stroked his mustache, happy the nasty business was finally over.

  The open door had the expected calming effect. Richard even smiled. Van In returned to the desk. If Coleyn was telling the truth, then they were on the wrong track. There was a serious chance that the death of Trui Andries and the bloodbath at Saint Jacob’s Church were unconnected.

  “One more question, Mr. Coleyn.”

  If Trui Andries’s murder and the mass killing had nothing to do with each other, then they had wasted a lot of precious time.

  “You claim that Jasper Simons was a regular at the Iron Virgin. How come nobody there had ever heard of him?”

  Richard didn’t have to search long for an answer. He took a deep breath and stared at the open door. “Jasper used a pseudonym. He called himself Venex.”

  Adjutant Delrue punched in the numbe
r of Prosecutor Beekman. It wasn’t something he did every day. The federal police preferred to manage their own affairs.

  “Beekman speaking.” The public prosecutor had just finished a cheese sandwich and was washing down his frugal lunch with a glass of mineral water.

  “Good afternoon, sir. I’m sorry to disturb you, but …”

  Beekman listened with increasing amazement to the adjutant’s story. “Are you sure your informant is reliable?”

  “Operation Snow White has been running for the best part of six months now, sir. We’ve known our suspect must have been getting help from someone in the police, and the details we received from our informant make perfect sense.”

  Beekman closed his eyes tight. The headlines weren’t difficult to imagine. “Thanks for the call, Adjutant. You did the right thing.”

  Delrue sensed that something wasn’t right. With twenty years of service behind him he could tell when a magistrate was planning a cover-up.

  “If you want us to proceed, we’ll need a search warrant,” said Delrue, his tone formal.

  Beekman fiddled a cigarette from a crushed pack he kept in the top drawer of his desk for emergencies. His wife was a militant member of the antismoking lobby. He knew what the punishment would be if she caught him: two weeks on the sofa and a couple of showers every day until she was sure every trace of the toxin had vanished. Fortunately he had married into money. He expected to inherit a major fortune when his in-laws kicked the bucket. A person had to have something to look forward to.

  “I’ll discuss the matter with the examining magistrate right away, Adjutant. I’ll call you back later today.”

  Beekman hung up the phone, lit his crooked cigarette, and hurried outside. He hated anonymous informants. In the past, he’d paid no attention to them, didn’t have to, but now the public insisted that every clue should be thoroughly investigated, no stone left unturned. In spite of the separation of powers, magistrates were still appointed by politicians, and politicians had to listen to the man in the street.

  The atmosphere in Room 204 was heavy, dejected. Van In was staring at the ceiling, his office chair in relax position, smoking one cigarette after the other. Guido was reading police reports and hoping to discover new evidence. Saartje Maes tapped listlessly at her computer keyboard.

  “Why did that madman leave his car at the station in Blankenberge? That’s what I want to know,” said Van In.

  Beekman had insisted that the police knock on some doors in the neighborhood, but it hadn’t helped. No one remembered the driver of the gray Fiat, and the ticket clerk in the station declared that only four people had taken the five past one train that day: an elderly couple and two teenage girls. The service was reduced in the winter months to a couple of trains per hour, so he couldn’t have been mistaken.

  Guido perched his reading glasses on the tip of his nose. He understood that Van In had released Richard Coleyn against his better judgment, but it wasn’t the end of the world. Detective work could be a painful process, and the disappointments were often more frequent than the moments of euphoria.

  “Maybe he wanted us to believe that he took the train.”

  “I figured that already, Guido. But why Blankenberge?”

  Van In concentrated on the thick cloud of smoke as it changed shape in the neon light. Strange what smoke could do, he thought. “Let me have another look at the names of the victims,” he said after a moment or two.

  Guido searched for the file on his PC and printed it. “They don’t appear to be connected in any way, not at first sight. It looks as if the killer simply shot them at random.”

  “Let’s have a closer look,” said Van In. He studied the names on the list for a second time: Hans Moeyaert, Damien Vereecke, Anne-Marie Hoornaert, Casper Masyn, Agatha Willemyns, Robert Minne, An Beernaert, and Lucienne Debondt.

  “There’s a couple among them,” said Guido. “Casper Masyn and Agatha Willemyns.”

  Van In underlined the names.

  “Masyn is, I mean was, a well-known notary. Some say he was a billionaire.”

  The Trui Andries killing had inclined Van In to focus too closely on satanism, looking for connections that didn’t exist. Now he had to start from scratch. Mass murderers were psychopaths by definition. They didn’t need a motive.

  “But I still think it’s strange that the car used in the attack belonged to a regular at the Iron Virgin.”

  “Statistically speaking, there’s a one in three hundred thousand chance of something like that happening,” said Guido, straight-faced and pointing to his computer. “I did the math this morning.”

  Van In didn’t want to know how Guido came up with his numbers. The man had so many qualities, some of them were best kept to himself.

  “So there might be a connection between the shooting and the Iron Virgin after all,” said Van In.

  “Maybe someone made a copy of Muylle’s key and sneaked the original back into his wallet,” said Saartje out of the blue. “A customer at the Iron Virgin perhaps?”

  Van In looked at Saartje.

  “What do you think, Guido?”

  “I think she deserves a kiss.”

  A persistent ringing roused Hannelore from her afternoon nap. She threw off the comforter and waggled downstairs like a drunken duck. The thermostat read 70 degrees and she was dressed up warm in a stretch wool maternity dress, but she still shivered.

  “Jozef!” she said, taken aback to find Beekman standing on the doorstep. “What a surprise.”

  “I’m not sure if it’s a pleasant one,” said the public prosecutor, looking serious. “Do you mind if I come in?”

  Hannelore stepped back from the door. “Of course. No one died, I hope.”

  She took Beekman’s coat and sensed the chill that accompanied him inside. “Coffee?”

  “If you show me where everything is, I’ll take care of it, Hanne. You should rest.”

  “So it’s bad news then,” said Hannelore. “Don’t tell me something’s happened to Pieter …”

  Beekman opened a cupboard, grabbed a pack of coffee, emptied a substantial amount into the hinged filter basket, and swung it over the glass coffeepot. “Pieter’s alive and kicking, Hanne.” He laughed. “You don’t have to worry about Van In.”

  Hannelore took a seat. “So what’s up?”

  Beekman filled the coffee machine with water and flicked the red tumbler switch. He was about to confront her with an empty accusation and he felt embarrassed.

  “The federal police have been following a drugs gang for some time now. Turns out to be a pretty complex network, and suggestions have been made that a senior police official has been protecting the gang’s leader.”

  Hannelore rested her legs on a chair. She was happy she didn’t have to worry. “Pieter will be delighted to hear it.”

  The coffee machine started to sputter, the first jet-black droplets plopping on the bottom of the pot. Beekman rubbed his hands together and sat down next to Hannelore. There was no point in beating about the bush. “The federal boys suspect Van In is involved.”

  As a little girl, Hannelore had been given a rabbit on her birthday by an uncle who lived on a farm. The fluffy creature stole her heart and she pampered it as if it were a little baby. The fact that the creature chewed everything in sight didn’t bother her. When her mother told her one day that Moussy had escaped from his cage and wasn’t coming back, she had reacted with the same disbelief as now. The unidentified “game” her mother served for dinner the following day only confirmed her suspicions.

  She snorted. “You’re not serious.”

  Beekman grabbed a couple of mugs from the cupboard, one with a handle and one without. “Adjutant Delrue has asked for a search warrant. If I refuse, the shit’ll hit the fan.”

  “A search warrant!” Hannelore leaped from her chair and dragged herself to the ki
tchen counter. Had everyone gone crazy? “On what grounds?”

  Beekman bit his bottom lip. “The federal police received a tip.”

  “Anonymous, I’m guessing.”

  Beekman nodded. He hoped she would understand the position he was in.

  “Sugar?” She grabbed the coffeepot and filled both cups. The last droplets of coffee sizzled on the hotplate. The hissing sound echoed her rage. “Milk?”

  “I’m just trying to prevent an escalation,” he said, almost begging her to understand.

  “Milk?” she snapped.

  “Hannelore. I …”

  She handed Beekman a mug of piping-hot coffee, the one without the handle. Instead of putting it down right away, he drank from it and stifled the excruciating pain. “I don’t need to sign a search warrant if you give permission …”

  “I know the law, Jozef.”

  Hannelore stooped for a bottle of milk in the refrigerator and the abruptness of the movement woke her slumbering baby. When Beekman heard her groan, he placed his mug on the counter. The tips of his fingers were shiny and felt as if they’d been boiled.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Hannelore shook her head stubbornly.

  “Let the bastards come,” she said, ready for a fight. “We’ve nothing to hide.”

  Van In hung up and lit a cigarette. The furrows in his forehead were getting deeper by the hour. “They let Muylle go this afternoon,” he said glumly. “Couldn’t hold him.”

  Guido wasn’t sure how to react to Van In’s apparent disappointment. His boss had been personally responsible for providing the evidence that got the man off the hook. He knit his brows.

  “I know what you’re going to say, Guido. It’s a question of timing. With Muylle in custody it was easier to question him. I don’t think he’ll be granting interviews any time soon.”