The Fourth Figure

by Aspe, Pieter; Doyle, Brian;

  “Maybe I could talk to him,” said Saartje on an whim. “He doesn’t know me and …”

  “You’ve got a better hand of cards,” said Van In without implying anything specific. The girl had something that made men weak, softened them. He could speak from experience.

  Saartje smiled. “I could use my journalist story. Everyone falls for it.”

  Van In liked the idea but was too embarrassed to agree right away. “Let me think about it, Miss Maes.”

  It had finally started to rain outside. A frail sunbeam pierced a hole in the clouds and engulfed Saartje’s face in a delicate halo of light. She seemed fragile all of a sudden, and in reality that’s what she was. Beauty could be a burden and Saartje was sometimes jealous of ordinary people, ugly people. They didn’t have to prove themselves all the time, she thought.

  Although it was forbidden to park in front of the Vette Vispoort, Adjutant Delrue didn’t waste time looking for somewhere legal to leave his vehicle. He stepped out onto the sidewalk and glanced at the flowers that had piled up by the door of the church. Their bright colors had faded and their rotting stems gave off a pungent odor that only served to underline the presence of death and decay.

  He wondered from time to time if there was some kind of plan at work behind all those disasters and killings. What about the florists? he thought. They were the winners in every tragedy. Half a lifetime in the federal police had turned Delrue into a first-class cynic. He presumed that everyone had something to answer for, no matter how well they managed to hide it.

  His footsteps reverberated on the dry cobblestones with which the Vette Vispoort was paved, just like the footsteps of his colleagues behind him.

  The sixteenth-century house Commissioner Van In and Deputy Martens called their home pointed, as far as Delrue was concerned, in the right direction. The restoration must have cost a small fortune, and he knew exactly how much the commissioner and the deputy earned for a living. He was also pretty sure that there was more of the same to be found inside. Rumors had done the rounds that Van In liked to collect antiques.

  He rang the bell, and Hannelore opened the door. “Adjutant Delrue, Bruges Special Detective Division.”

  Neither Beekman nor Hannelore bothered to shake the man’s hand. They returned to the kitchen table and let the detectives do their work.

  12

  On the outside, the police station in Hauwer Street looked like a dull concrete block with a honeycomb of square windows. On the inside, it was a hive of activity; at least, that’s what passersby were led to believe when they observed shapes and shadows scurrying back and forth behind the glass. But the atypical hustle and bustle had nothing to do with the investigation into the mass shooting. It was five o’clock and everyone was hurrying to get home. The illuminated windows looked like colorful compartments in a painting by Mondrian. Then the lights went out one by one, except in Room 204 and two or three other offices on the ground floor. Five minutes later, the building looked like a government ministry: dead and useless.

  “Do we have a deal, Commissioner?”

  Saartje didn’t dare use Van In’s first name since her charm offensive had failed. Now that she’d been unmasked, there was no real reason to continue the charade. Pigheaded superbitch wasn’t her favorite role, and she was happy to shed it. Why did women have to prove themselves more than men? Why wasn’t it enough for them just to get on with their jobs?

  “I’m not sure if I can go along with your suggestion, Miss Maes. And don’t forget, you’re not on the force.”

  Van In considered the heads of State Security to be a bunch of idiots, but he also knew it was better to let sleeping dogs lie. The bozos in Brussels could be quick to take offense, and some of the more senior officials even suffered from a sort of magpie syndrome, bedazzled by shiny objects and inclined to scream blue murder the minute an outsider entered their territory.

  “A little chat with Mr. Muylle fits my mandate, Commissioner. No one can stop me doing my own thing.”

  She couldn’t help treating the commissioner to a cute but innocent smile. Van In, on the other hand, was troubled by it. He started to imagine certain things that should have made him blush with shame. “I have no official grounds to forbid it, but …”

  “But what, Commissioner?”

  Saartje straightened her back and squared her shoulders. Van In turned toward her instinctively, although she hadn’t planned it that way.

  “It’s a question of safety,” he said. “What if Muylle gets violent?”

  Guido had been listening to the conversation in silence and suddenly realized what was happening.

  “I don’t mind going with her, Pieter,” he said, underlining his words with raised eyebrows.

  Van In shook his head. “Muylle already knows you,” he said.

  “Muylle knows both of us, Pieter.”

  “I was thinking of waiting outside … just in case something went wrong.”

  Guido was now certain that Van In had something crazy in mind. “I was thinking the same,” he said.

  Van In ignored the look on Guido’s face. “What will Frank have to say? You’re only just back together, and I know how much he hates it when you work overtime.”

  Guido had to think twice before he answered. “Call Hannelore,” he said. “Then she’ll know at least that you’ll be home late.”

  Van In was playing with fire, and Guido wanted to be sure he was aware of it.

  Jonathan used a soup spoon to warm a triple dose of heroin, the reward he had received from Venex for the key. For his betrayal. A sterile disposable syringe was lying on his nightstand next to an ashtray full of cigarette butts and a half-empty bottle of Coke. The syringe was from Richard. The irony was unmistakable. Who commits suicide with a sterile needle?

  He lit a final cigarette, a John Player Special from the pack he’d swiped from the commissioner. He filled the syringe and placed it on a square of paper towel at his side. He sat on the edge of the bed and watched the plume of smoke wind its way to the ceiling like a whimsical djinn. He was about to relive his life, watch it flash past in an instant, or at least that’s what people said, that it was like a movie. But had anyone ever survived to confirm it?

  Jonathan pulled the smoke deep into his lungs. What if the movie was a fantasy? What if he was about to disappear into a dark, bottomless pit, just another defenseless victim of his habit? No more memories, no more soul. As if he’d never existed. And if the movie was real, how long would it last? Would it be exciting? Probably not. He’d spent the best part of his life in an orphanage, where the sisters had told him he had to behave. They had told him always to sleep with his hands on top of the blankets, that he should thank the Lord with all his heart for the delicious food he received three times a day, that his future wouldn’t amount to much because he was just a minuscule, insignificant fragment of the mystical Body of Christ. He remembered the sour smell in the convent, the bells, the commands, do this, do that, the endless nights, the struggle with desire.

  Jonathan stubbed out the cigarette. He looked at the tourniquet, at the vein he had already selected. Dying was the most incredible adventure he would ever undertake. He lit another cigarette … five left in the pack.

  Trui had caught him masturbating in the kitchen one day. The usual punishment was three days of solitary confinement, a crust of moldy bread, and a bowl of salt water to purify his body of evil. But Trui hadn’t reported his transgression. She had explained everything to him. If humans had been created in the image of God, why was physical pleasure a sin? She talked about love and compassion, tenderness and hope. She even let him see her breasts. You’ll discover the rest later, she’d said with a grin.

  Jonathan lit another cigarette. He had seen Jasper and Trui kiss in the corridor. He remembered the pain. When he spoke to Trui about it, she kissed him too, coyly, chaste. It made him feel good, but when she went
on to say that she and Jasper loved each other in a different way, he had to stifle the prickling sensation he felt at the back of his throat. Some of the older boys told him there was a remedy for his pain and initiated him in alternative pleasures. Venex took him on the moment he left the orphanage and familiarized him with the white powder. Jonathan had become his slave like so many others, and he had remained his slave until the bitter end. That was something Trui hadn’t been able to change.

  Adjutant Delrue and his colleagues searched Van In’s house with the necessary discretion. With a couple of magistrates in the vicinity they had little choice. Hannelore refused to budge from her chair the entire time. While she understood Beekman’s position, and would have granted a warrant herself under the same circumstances, the whole operation was still humiliating to say the least. She kept looking at the clock. Van In could arrive at any moment, and feathers would fly if he did.

  Bart Muylle was getting ready to celebrate his regained freedom at the Iron Virgin when Saartje Maes rang the bell. He had treated himself to a long shower and a change of clothing to get rid of the foul prison smell that had followed him home: a mixture of sweat, urine, reheated coffee, and bleach. He was planning to get drunk and only come home when he was totally legless.

  “Good evening, Mr. Muylle. My name is Saartje Maes. I’m a journalist, and I wondered if I could ask you a couple of questions?”

  Muylle, who hadn’t set foot in a church since his First Communion, murmured a quick prayer of thanksgiving. He had piles of porn magazines next to his bed full of dream babes in the most tempting poses, but this clothed example made him hornier than the two hundred pounds of glossy paper upstairs.

  “May I come in?”

  Muylle couldn’t believe his ears. He stepped back and let her in.

  Van In saw the door close. He looked at his watch and lit a cigarette.

  “Can I offer you something to drink, Miss Maes?”

  Muylle tried to tidy up his thick Bruges accent, determined to make an impression on his hot visitor. Saartje treated him to a smile and looked around the bare room with the enthusiasm of a Japanese tourist.

  “A cozy place you have here, Mr. Muylle.”

  “A beer or a Coke?”

  “Nice stereo.”

  “Four times one-fifty watts,” said Muylle proudly. “Shall I pop in a CD?”

  “Coke would be great, thanks.”

  Saartje headed toward the dilapidated sofa, swaying her hips. A grimy checkered blanket covered a tear in the imitation leather where the foam rubber stuffing was trying to escape. “Do you mind if I sit?”

  The toilet was the only place the team from the Special Detective Division hadn’t checked. A first sergeant unscrewed the lid of the cistern under the watchful eye of Adjutant Delrue. If nothing was found, the adjutant was going to have to come up with a fucking good excuse to explain his actions to the magistrates. Delrue pointed his flashlight into the cistern. “See anything?”

  The first sergeant leaned over and ran his hand over the walls of the cistern. “Negative, Adjutant.”

  Delrue cursed, pushed his subordinate aside, and plunged his hand into the cistern, scraping its rough, chalk-encrusted walls with his nails like a cornered cat. “Fuck!”

  The adjutant explored every inch of the cistern and it was clear from his choice of words that his determination was to no avail. The first sergeant had just stepped backward out of the way when his superior withdrew his hand and started to shake it free of water. In the process, his foot landed on a package of toilet paper sitting in the corner. The plastic wrapper was open and contained five rolls of paper.

  “Are the gentlemen having fun?” Hannelore stood in the doorway with her legs spread and a look on her face that belonged in a toilet. Both Delrue and his first sergeant had no trouble guessing her thoughts. The first sergeant mumbled an apology, bent to the floor, and picked up the pack of toilet paper. He had crushed one of the rolls with his heel, so he removed it from the pack, molded it back into shape, and returned it.

  Inside the bottom of the pack was a transparent plastic bag containing what looked like white powder. Hannelore spotted it only a fraction of a second before Delrue.

  Van In had just stubbed out his third cigarette when Muylle and Saartje emerged from the house. Muylle threw his arm over her shoulder and whispered something in her ear. A peal of laughter echoed down the narrow street. She wriggled her derriere and treated him to a big fat kiss on the neck. Van In tried to suppress an acid belch and ignore the dull gnawing pain under his lower chest. The same pain had been bothering him a lot of late, especially when he was nervous.

  The very thought of the filthy metalworker with his paws under her blouse … or worse … left him in a daze. A lot could happen in half an hour, and Saartje was clearly determined to prove herself.

  Van In followed them along Pepper Street toward the Kruispoort, one of the city’s ancient gates. Anyone who didn’t know better would have thought they were in love.

  “I presume you’ve no idea how this got here,” Delrue said with the air of a Roman general after a triumphal return from battle.

  Hannelore looked at Beekman. The public prosecutor looked away. In the past, he could have used his authority to settle something like this out of court, but nowadays, the law was much stricter. As in the days of the Inquisition, accusations tended to take priority over objective investigations. People were also greedy for tangible facts, the kind of facts you could show on TV. The plastic bag Delrue had in his hand was more important than any statement from the accused.

  “Adjutant Delrue, you surely don’t think I would have agreed to let you search my house if I’d known there was a half a kilo of smack tucked under my toilet rolls.”

  “Of course not, ma’am.” Delrue tried to account for Hannelore’s condition. “I’m not saying you knew anything about it.” Experience had taught him that most women had no idea what their husbands got up to and vice versa.

  Hannelore detested men who based their conclusions on stereotyped patterns of thinking. “So what exactly are you saying, Adjutant?”

  Simple sentences were often a lot more effective than complicated speeches, especially when the context was right. Beekman smiled. Hannelore was holding her own, and he was sure she’d be fine.

  Delrue spotted the sneer on the public prosecutor's lips and did his best to suppress a sudden sense of apprehension. Magistrates scratched each other’s backs. “Was Commissioner Van In aware that we were searching his property?” he asked.

  Beekman had wondered the same thing. He was willing to stick his neck out for Hannelore, but Van In’s reputation complicated things. The commissioner had a turbulent history, and Delrue wasn’t the only one who questioned the man’s integrity.

  Hannelore looked back at Beekman. The possibility that the adjutant was right didn’t bear thinking about. “Let me call him,” she said.

  Delrue nodded. Despite the undeniable evidence he had in his hand, this was still an extremely implausible situation. Who would hide a stash of heroin in a pack of toilet rolls? Maybe his own desire to get a result had clouded his judgment. He suddenly started to doubt the reliability of his informant.

  A taxi pulled up in front of the Iron Virgin at eleven forty-five. Van In lit a cigarette. After hanging around for the best part of three hours, his feet were frozen solid and he was plagued by the shivers. All he could think of was a hot meal and a Duvel. He had spent most of the time ruminating about the events of the last few days. He had tried to disconnect the murder of Trui Andries from the shooting incident but without success. The letter State Security had received from Trui Andries spoke about a horrible crime about to be committed, and her warning had been corroborated. But why slaughter eight innocent people? The only thing that linked the victims was the fact that they had attended the same church service. Van In had checked the Europol database that aft
ernoon and searched for similar crimes. Satanic gangs had burned a couple of churches to the ground and desecrated grave stones in Sweden and Germany, and there were cases of ritual rape and animal sacrifice, but satanists had never executed churchgoers. Were devil worshippers responsible for the mass shooting at the church? The only person who could tell him more was Jonathan.

  The taxi driver got out, disappeared into the Iron Virgin, and emerged again half a minute later with Saartje and Muylle in his wake. The macho metalworker was draped over Saartje’s delicate frame, blustering incomprehensibly and groping at her breasts. Van In was of a mind to grab the pig by the collar and dump him in the taxi, but Saartje managed to fend off his wandering hands by herself. The taxi driver suddenly turned his head and Saartje spoke to him. He nodded, took charge of Muylle, and pushed him onto the backseat of his Mercedes.

  Van In heaved a sigh of relief when he spotted Saartje handing the driver some money and slamming the passenger door. He tossed his half-smoked cigarette into the gutter and hurried toward her.

  “I gave him two thousand francs,” said Saartje, straightening her bra straps and beaming at Van In.

  “Did Muylle keep his hands to himself?” Van In asked. The nauseous sensation in his gut had suddenly disappeared, and the nagging pain in his chest was subsiding. His heart, on the other hand, was beating ten to the dozen. He felt like a valiant knight who had just rescued a damsel from the claws of a dragon.

  “You don’t need to worry, Commissioner. In that state, his hands weren’t going anywhere.”

  They hurried side by side down Long Street like a couple heading home after visiting friends, suddenly realizing how late it was and that they had to get up early the next day. Van In sensed butterflies. “Did he say anything?”

  Saartje nodded and smiled.

  “Fancy a drink somewhere?”

  “Why not,” she said.

  L’Estaminet, Commissioner Van In’s favorite café, was easy to spot on the outside from the rectangular patches of light that illuminated the facade. The yellowish glow was fed by a sober art deco chandelier in the bar. Since the curtains were rarely closed and the street lighting along the side of Astrid Park didn’t amount to much, the patches could be seen from far and wide. For Van In they served as a beacon, like a lighthouse to a ship’s captain. He grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the vending machine in the corridor and headed inside.