The Fourth Figure (4 page)

“Can someone tell me what this is all about?”

The batons were returned one by one to their owners' belts. Guido was reminded of a passage from one of the gospels, in which a crowd of people is about to stone a woman caught in adultery and Jesus says: “Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.”

“You saw it yourself,” Pattyn groaned.

The zealous inspector scrambled to his feet, making sure he was well out of the manacled prisoner's reach.

“All I saw was six grown men struggling to get the better of a helpless teenager,” said Van In.

“Don't make me laugh, Commissioner. You should take a look at his file. What you call a helpless teenager is a notorious drug dealer, a client at the Iron Virgin. He admitted it himself.”

The Iron Virgin was a bar with a reputation for drug dealing—but Van In was conscious of his reputation and didn't want to lose face in front of his men.

“Let me be the judge of that, Pattyn,” he said. “Everybody back to work. We'll talk about the rest in my office.”

The officers headed back down the corridor as Van In leaned down to the boy and helped him to his feet. “What's your name, son?”

The boy couldn't be a day more than twenty. He looked pretty neglected too, with his sweater full of holes and his jeans so threadbare you could almost see through them in places. His eyes darted nervously from side to side as if he was expecting another attack any second.

“His name's Jonathan Leman,” said Pattyn, handing Van In a dog-eared identity card. “And he was carrying drugs.”

“Pounds or ounces?” Van In inquired, patronizingly.

Pattyn fished a couple of joints from his inside pocket.

“And you arrested him for that?”

“No, Commissioner.”

Pattyn was smart enough to stay polite. He was up for promotion to chief inspector, and if Van In didn't support his application, he could forget it.

“We spotted our friend here at Trui Andries's place, standing at the front door ringing the bell. When he caught sight of us, he took to his heels. Luckily, one of my colleagues managed to collar him before he got too far.”

“And then you asked him what he was doing at the house?”

“Correct, Commissioner.”

“And what did he say?”

Pattyn grinned maliciously. “Then he buggered off again.”

Van In took a look at the boy's wrists. Pattyn had fastened the cuffs around them so tight that the flesh had turned purple.

“Give me the key.”

“You're asking for trouble,” Pattyn protested.

“Give him the key,” Guido reiterated.

Pattyn outranked Guido, but he didn't dare cross the commissioner's best buddy. He fished the key from his pocket and gave it to Van In, who unlocked the cuffs and took the boy by the arm.

“Now back to work, Pattyn. I want a full report on the door-to-door by tomorrow morning. Understood?”

Pattyn nodded, teeth gritted, and turned.

Jonathan Leman gulped down the coffee Guido had poured for him. His identity card and the two joints Pattyn had confiscated were lying on the desk.

“So take your time and tell me what happened.” Van In leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs. This was turning out to be one of those days that refused to end. Tiredness and Jenever joined forces to make him feel sluggish and listless. Every fiber of his body longed for the comfort of a soft mattress. “Unless you'd prefer a cell for the night,” he added.

Jonathan stared into space. This wasn't the first time he'd had a run-in with the police. He knew their tactics. Every word he said would be used against him later.

“I don't want to pressure you, Jonathan,” said Van In, pointing to the clock above the door. “But let me be honest. I hardly slept a wink last night, and under normal circumstances my shift should have finished half an hour ago. I really don't care where you spend the night.”

Van In picked up one of the joints and rolled it between his thumb and his forefinger. “If you ask me, you haven't committed a crime. All I want to know is what you were doing at Miss Andries's place.”

As Van In rolled the joint between his fingers he was reminded of his first smoke. How long ago was it? Twenty years? Twenty-one? He was sure it was before he tasted his first Duvel. He remembered the high, the relaxed feeling, and the philosophical conversations with friends about death and reincarnation, gods and cosmonauts, evolution and creation. Weed had been tolerated in the seventies, and it didn't seem to raise people's level of aggression. The young crowd were more into the chemical crap these days. Smoking was bad for your health, wasn't it? Van In pushed the joint in Jonathan's direction.

“Smoke it if you want. You're safe here,” he said.

Guido observed the scene with increasing astonishment. Van In was well known for his special interrogation techniques, but now he was teetering on the edge. Even Jonathan was thrown for a loop.

“Trui is my girlfriend,” he blurted.

“So you're in a relationship?” Van In deliberately used the present tense. If Jonathan didn't know she was dead, this didn't seem like the moment to bring him up to speed.

“Yes. We have a relationship.”

“Do you sleep with her?”

“She's twenty-nine,” Jonathan said, grinning.

Van In understood. When he was Jonathan's age, girls older than twenty-five were middle-aged. He offered the boy a kosher cigarette and took one for himself.

“And you're nineteen.”

“That's what it says.” Jonathan pointed to his ID card.

Guido listened without making a sound. It was as if Van In were talking to his own son. The familiarity between the two was almost tangible.

“Do you love her?”

“I do.”

Van In offered Jonathan a light. “Can you tell me why you love her?”

There was silence for a moment. Two clouds of smoke rose into the air above Van In's desk, colliding when they reached the ceiling.

“Trui gave me the gift of truth.”

If Jonathan had been a Jehovah's Witness, his words would have sounded banal.

“I was living in sin and she saved me.”

He hesitated. Van In puffed at his cigarette. He was no longer tired. “I'm listening, Jonathan.”

“I met Trui when she was living in the darkness. But even then, she was still a child of the light.”

“I need you to explain, Jonathan.”

Jonathan nodded, his eyes tranquil, devoid of their earlier wildness. Guido was more and more convinced that the conversation was getting out of hand.

“Trui descended into hell, just like Christ did.”

He started to pray. “I believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, creator of heaven and earth, and in Jesus Christ his only son, born of the virgin Mary, who suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified and died. Who descended into hell and rose again on the third day.”

The credo brought back memories. Van In had once been a believer, a very long time ago, but like so many of his contemporaries, obligatory spirituality had been watered down by the materialist philosophy of the sixties. In those days, the scientists preached a new religion in which human beings were central. Happiness was a question of consumption, and modern technology was going to liberate us from the yoke of labor and the curse of original sin. Quotations from Nietzsche had been carved into every classroom bench. God was doomed, and so was the devil.

“So she's Catholic.”

“She's Christian,” Jonathan said passionately. “She believes in Christ and the love of thy neighbor. Because of her, Satan no longer has any hold on me.”

Guido flipped open the book by Leopold Flam. A passage on page twenty-six had been highlighted in yellow. It read:

Satan reveals himself to us in four figures: He tempts, misleads, manipulates, and deceives. These four figures correspond with four familiar archetypes: Don Juan, Faust, Prometheus, and Lucifer. His greatest strength is his ability to convince people that he doesn't exist.

Though Guido hadn't been conditioned by a Catholic upbringing like Van In, he still didn't think the highlighted passage was ridiculous. Far from it. No one could deny these days that evil tended to be rewarded more than punished.

“Are you members of a satanic sect?”

The expression on Jonathan's face hardened, and a dull glow flickered in his eyes. “Not anymore,” he said.

He didn't sound convincing. At least Guido didn't think so.

Richard Coleyn followed the rules he'd first learned from Master Venex: rubbed his forearm with an antiseptic wipe, tightened the tourniquet, prodded in search of an undamaged vein, and inserted the needle. The drug took effect in no time, a sign of quality goods. He withdrew the needle, loosened the tourniquet, and lay down on the sofa. The first flash was followed by colors, capricious blotches dancing behind his eyelids like fluttering birds of paradise. The blotches blurred after a few minutes, then dissolved into tiny dots. The picture focused. Hundreds of eyes behind the wallpaper registered his every move. His body became lighter and lighter, and before he knew it, he was floating around the room.

His senses in a whirl, Richard touched the colors in his mind's eye, tasted red and blue. Red was like liquid chocolate, blue like new mown grass and like the juices young girls exude when they're excited. His penis hardened, but he felt no need to relieve himself. His heartbeat, which was now pounding deafeningly in his ears, registered orgasm after orgasm. Then everything turned moist and wet. Richard imagined himself in his mother's womb. He saw a fetus without a body, just a head pulsating in a soft halo of peach-colored light. Then the image blurred, the spirit of the child mixed with the amniotic fluid. The ancient wisdom that had been passed down from generation to generation became visible: good and evil, life and death. Richard was mobbed by countless creatures of his own species who wanted to communicate with him. Soon Father would come, caress him, whisper sweet words in his ear. The second phase of Father's plan had started.

Venex stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel, and dried himself vigorously. He gave only a small portion of his heroin supply to his boys; the rest was sold for pure profit. But with his drug business now under threat—he couldn't keep the federal police duped forever—his discovery of Frederik Masyn was a genuine godsend.

He'd found the unstable young man through Richard's dating agency—a fortunate coincidence of timing, since Richard was barely capable of running the dating service in his current state. Frederik, Venex was convinced, was the solution to all his problems. Venex would soon be rich, and those who had ignored him in the past would have no choice but to respect him. Money, after all, was the key that opened every door.

And this time, no one was going to screw with his plans. He was prepared to get rid of anyone who crossed him.

3

“Good morning, miss.”

Officer Asaert rarely welcomed visitors with a smile. He didn't have to because he wasn't paid to be friendly. But for the young lady who had just walked in, he was happy to make an exception. “How can I be of service, miss?” he asked, almost obsequiously.

The girl had a friendly face. She leaned forward, almost pressing her nose against the bulletproof glass, but the black cowl-necked sweater she was wearing prevented potential leering.

“My name is Saartje Maes and I have an appointment with Commissioner Van In. Is he in his office?” she asked with the air of someone used to having others dance to attention.

“Commissioner Van In, miss?” Asaert glanced at his watch, an Omega worth thirty-six thousand francs he liked to show off. “At five to eight in the morning?”

The question mark was clearly audible, but Saartje paid no attention. “I thought he started at eight,” she said pointedly.

Asaert's smile froze. “Take my advice, miss. If you really want to speak with Van In, I suggest you come back around noon.”

Saartje wasn't about to let the officer's irritating tone intimidate her. “Then I'll wait for him in his office.”

Asaert put on his strict face. Pretty girls could count on an abundance of patience from him, but they shouldn't push it. He switched back to his normal tone and manner: “Let me repeat it one more time, sweetheart.”

“No need,” Saartje said airily. “Perhaps this can convince you.” She rummaged in her handbag and produced a document. “Take a look at the signature,
sweetheart
. Your boss! If I were you I'd open the door. … Now.”

She took a step back and produced a cynical smile. Asaert had been on the force long enough to know there was a time to go on the offensive and a time to hold your tongue. He swallowed his frustration and pressed the button that opened the door's electric lock.

Saartje straightened her back and marched with confidence toward the elevator.

Asaert waited until the doors were closed, then called the officer on duty. He wanted to know who the black widow was. The duty officer's response was short and sweet: “Keep your paws off her.”

Jonathan was wearing a pair of Van In's pajamas. They were clearly too big for him, but at the rate he was gobbling Danish pastries, he would soon fill them out. Van In had bought a dozen, and Jonathan was on his seventh.

“Taste good?” asked Hannelore, who enjoyed watching the boy eat.

She hadn't managed more than a couple of hours' sleep for two nights in a row, but she still looked fresh and full of beans. She liked the idea of being able to help someone in need. Even Pieter looked as if he'd made it through the night intact. His eyes were clear, and he hadn't complained when Hannelore woke him at seven to put out the garbage.

Van In usually did complain, but his obliging response that morning had everything to do with Jonathan. Like most people, Van In was inclined to relativize the trivial things when he was confronted with a real problem. He was sure he'd made the right decision bringing Jonathan home with him. When he'd finally told him the day before about Trui Andries's demise, the boy's sorrow had verged on hysteria.
If she's dead, then I don't want to live anymore
, he had whimpered. Van In could have called social services, of course, but his own bad experience with the medical profession inclined him not to follow that route. He felt obliged to do something himself, so he suggested Jonathan stay the night at his place, and the boy had responded positively. Hannelore had taken pity on him the moment he walked through the door, and when his initial tears had subsided, he'd told his rambling, disjointed story in fits and starts.

The smell of watery coffee drifting along the corridor made Guido suspicious. When he opened the door to Room 204 and saw the person who had made it sitting at his desk, he plucked nervously at his mustache.

“Do you mind if I ask what you're up to, Miss …?”

“Maes, Saartje Maes.” The woman threw back her head. “I'm working, Sergeant. Is that a problem?”

Guido shook his head. Van In's reaction didn't bear thinking about. The sight of such a svelte creature on an empty stomach! “So you must be the
journalist
.”

Guido's emphasis on the word
journalist
spoke for itself, but she didn't seem to notice. She grinned from ear to ear, pearl-white teeth, the whole nine yards.

“I came a little early,” she said. “First day on the job, that sort of thing.”

Guido nodded. A week, Van In had said, then on to the federal boys. The prospect was a comfort.

“By the way, there's news about the death of Trui Andries.”

“Oh yes?” said Guido.

“The police physician called ten minutes ago. It's clear from the autopsy that she didn't drown. There was no water in her lungs.”

The sergeant didn't let on that this was important information. “And he shared this with you just like that?”

“There was no one else here to answer the phone.” Saartje stuck out her chin and pulled back her shoulders. Body language, they called it. The scientists were convinced it worked.

Guido was faced with a dilemma. His first instinct was to give the child a roasting. Who did she think she was? Following a case at close quarters was one thing; meddling in it another.

“And did the police physician confide in you further?”

Saartje tried to measure the testiness of his question. She decided to change course. Sergeant Versavel was Commissioner Van In's best friend. It made no sense to intimidate him as she had done with the officer at reception. But she still wasn't ready to be pushed into a corner. “He asked if we could stop by in the course of the morning.”

“We?”

“Commissioner Van In and me,” she said breezily. “Unless you want to join us, Sergeant.”

Guido wanted to say something ugly, but instead he crossed to the coffee machine, grabbed the pot, and turned toward the door. He was determined to stay calm. Saartje followed his every move.

“We only have one coffee machine per floor. I'll do the rounds first.”

“Sorry, I didn't know.” She smiled winningly. “Starting tomorrow I'll make sure everyone has coffee.”

“There's no need for that, Miss Maes. The coffee is ­­my responsibility.”

“Up to you, Sergeant.” Saartje spun on her chair and turned back to her work.

Guido closed the door behind him, headed to the kitchen, and poured the coffee down the drain. He had two options: return to his office and put the young journalist in her place or warn Van In and prevent him from having a heart attack. He chose the latter. This was now a murder investigation and he wanted to gauge Van In's reaction. He returned the coffeepot, put on his jacket, and made himself scarce.

“Officer Asaert already has a nickname for our Miss Maes. He calls her ‘the black widow,'” said Guido, bringing Van In up to speed on their new “assistant.” He plucked incessantly at his mustache, making it obvious that he wasn't happy with the situation.

Hannelore poured Guido a cup of coffee and offered him the last Danish. She was having a hard time suppressing her laughter. Two adult men struggling to get control over a twenty-five-year-old girl: Now that's what she called funny.

Van In lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, and exhaled noisily. “And you think that's a joke? You should have seen how she twisted De Kee around her little finger. Scandalous!”

“You're not jealous because she's not courting your attention?” asked Hannelore. Guido started to chuckle. Both he and Hannelore knew how sensitive Van In was in that department.

“She did at first, but …”

“But you're above that sort of thing,” said Hannelore. She was having fun. “I bet she's pretty!”

“Absolutely,” said Van In. “And she has a bad character. You know how I fall for women like that.”

Jonathan sat quietly listening to the conversation, not having a clue what they were talking about.

“Then I'd like to meet her,” Hannelore said. “What would the gentlemen think if I invited the black widow over for dinner this evening?” She gestured to her belly. “I'm not expected in court.”

“If you do, I'll spend the night with your mother.”

“You … with my mother!”

Van In related to his mother-in-law like Moses to the golden calf. If you left them alone together for even a moment, furious sparks were guaranteed to fly. Hannelore juddered with laughter, grabbed her belly with both hands, and ran off to the bathroom. “I can't keep this up,” she said, her laughter now out of control. “I've got to pee.”

Van In shrugged and lit another cigarette. He noticed the longing look in Jonathan's eyes and slipped him the pack. The boy looked around skittishly then helped himself. Guido dutifully dusted the crumbs from the tablecloth and dropped them in the empty basket.

“Now that I'm here, wouldn't this be a good time to have a look at your new music center?”

“Music center?”

“In the den,” said Guido emphatically.

Van In nodded. “Tell Hannelore we're in the den?”

Jonathan nodded. Van In closed the door behind him.

“Okay, Guido, get on with it.”

Guido told him about the telephone call from the police physician. “I didn't want to say anything in front of Jonathan.”

“Of course.” Van In collapsed onto the sofa and threw his legs onto a side table. “After everything Jonathan told us last night, I'm not really surprised.”

“Anything interesting?”

“This and that.”

Guido sat next to Van In. “Tell!”

“Trui Andries used to be a member of a satanic sect. She left three months ago along with Jonathan and Jasper Simons.”

“The man who wrote the letter we found in Trui's apartment?”

Van In nodded.

“And the sect wasn't happy?” asked Guido.

“The three of them have been getting threats ever since.”

“From the sect leaders?”

“I assume so, but they've been smart enough to keep it anonymous. Jasper Simons couldn't handle all the intimidation and became very depressed. He's on the mend, apparently, but no one knows how he'll react to Trui's death. Jasper and Trui were planning to get married soon. Jonathan told me at the station that Trui
had
been his girlfriend, but he later admitted the truth about Jasper and Trui's relationship.”

“And Jonathan?”

“Jonathan's a devout Catholic these days, Jasper the same. Jonathan turned his back on the Satan stuff and wants to be a monk. Trui supported him. … She was his rock.”

Guido rubbed his mustache. The world was getting weirder by the day. There were extremists all over the place. What had happened to the happy medium, the golden mean? “I didn't know monks-to-be were allowed marijuana.” He smirked. “But who am I to judge? If the police can do it, why not the monks too?”

Van In sensed a dig. “I was trying to win his confidence, Guido.”

“So you believe his crazy story.”

Van In leaned back on the sofa and put his hands behind his neck. Guido may have been a little old-fashioned, but his capacity to relativize was up there with the best. Maybe he was right. Maybe Jonathan's story was crazy. But why would Jonathan lie? He had no reason, and his sadness at Trui's death was clearly genuine.

“Stories like that have been doing the rounds quite a bit of late. It's the turn of the century. Sects are popping up all over the place. The end of the world is nigh, Guido, and everyone is trying to deal with the thought of it in one way or another. Some choose sin; others strive to be holy.”

“It's because they read so much crap in the papers. If one of them publishes an article on UFOs, everyone and his mother has seen one the next day.”

Van In sighed. “True or not, we now know for certain that Trui Andries was murdered, and that the murderer mixes in satanic circles.”

“What are we waiting for? We have Jonathan, don't we?”

“That's the problem. It took us all night to get precious little information out of him. The boy is a closed book. Every time we mentioned a name, he broke into a sweat and started to panic.”

“Then let the shrinks take care of it,” said Guido, unable to muster much enthusiasm.

“He doesn't want a shrink.”

“So what do we do?”

“Hannelore's been confined to the house by the doctor.”

After the lousy experience at the hospital, Hannelore had consulted her obstetrician and he had advised her to take time off and get some rest. She had accepted his judgment with stoic good spirits, something Van In found strange and out of character. She usually didn't give in so easily.

“She's going to try to win him over, gain his confidence. Perhaps she's the one to break down the wall he's built around himself. She managed to get a shitload more out of him than I did, I can tell you that.”

Van In scrambled to his feet and rubbed his face with both hands. Sleepless nights had left him with feet like clay and legs like lead. “I'm thinking we should contact the police physician and have a word or two with Jasper Simons.”

“And what about the black widow?” asked Guido.

“Ignore her, Guido.”

“And if that doesn't work?”

“Then we move in with the federal boys. If we have to live with someone, then give me the feds over a dangerous spider any day.”

“That means you'll have to grow a mustache, Pieter. You know what the feds do with mustacheless men?”

“I do,” said Van In. “They get to lick the colonel's ass.”

Forensic medicine had evolved by leaps and bounds in recent decades, and DNA technology had been responsible for most of the advances. These days, a couple of cells were enough to identify a criminal, and they didn't always have to be skin cells. Blood, sperm, saliva, sweat, and tears also contained genetic material. Investigative techniques had made similarly spectacular advances. Ear and tooth prints, for example, were just as reliable as traditional fingerprints. Invisible footprints could now be made visible using new advanced photography, blurred video material could be digitally enhanced, and toxicologists were capable of detecting just about every poison on the planet. Van In tried to keep track of it all as far and as often as he could, which was why he was so surprised that the police physician was unable to answer his question.