The Fourth Figure

by Aspe, Pieter; Doyle, Brian;

  Van In almost said, Yes, Professor! But instead he answered the doctor’s condescending question with a nod.

  Coleyn blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling and continued. “We had little choice in the old days, but a new generation of antidepressives has been on the market for the last couple of years based on serotonin and dopamine.”

  “Is that what you’re giving Jasper?”

  “I prescribed Risperdal,” said Coleyn, sounding as if he’d invented the stuff himself.

  “And is it working?”

  “Risperdal repairs the neurotransmitters. Eighty percent of people treated with it respond positively.”

  “Is Jasper part of the eighty percent?”

  Coleyn frowned. “In Jasper’s case, we’ve also had to resort to traditional therapies.”

  “You mean knocking him out with sedatives.”

  Coleyn leaned back in his calf leather chair. There was little trace of the jovial smile that had welcomed the detectives. “Listen carefully, Commissioner. Jasper Simons has declared war on the Church of Satan. He thinks he’s been called to eradicate evil, root and branch. The appropriate medication helps us to suppress his aggression to a certain degree, but—”

  Van In interrupted. “Do you think Jasper would be capable of killing his mother?”

  Coleyn joined his hands behind his neck and leaned back. A tiny throbbing vein was visible on his forehead, a sign that he was clearly irritated. Not very professional for a psychiatrist, thought Van In.

  “Jasper Simons is capable of killing anyone who gets in his way,” Coleyn said, his face grim and determined.

  “In spite of the pills.”

  “In spite of the pills, Commissioner.”

  “Ever heard of tetramethylammonium pyrosulphate?”

  “Tetramethyl …” Coleyn muttered. It was clear from the expression on his face that he hadn’t a clue, but would rather die than admit it. Van In put him out of his misery.

  “Tetramethylammonium pyrosulphate, Doctor, is a poison. It was used to kill Trui Andries.”

  “I’m not a toxicologist,” Coleyn protested, clearly miffed.

  Van In smiled. Intellectuals all seemed to suffer from the same ailment: They took offense at the drop of a hat. “It was just a question,” he said.

  Coleyn sat upright in his chair and spread his hands on his desk as if he was about to stand. “Is there anything else I can do for you, gentlemen?” The rancor on his face made it clear that he was determined to wrap up their discussion.

  “Just one last thing,” said Van In. “Trui Andries was killed late Tuesday night or early Wednesday morning, and according to you, Jasper Simons was admitted on Wednesday morning.”

  “You’re not suggesting …”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, Doctor. I want a word with him, that’s all.”

  Coleyn knit his bushy brows. “I doubt if he’ll be able to talk to you,” he said.

  “A moment, no more,” Van In insisted.

  Coleyn sighed, got to his feet, and put on his white coat. “A moment then.”

  Van In and Guido followed Dr. Coleyn to the elevator, which whisked them smoothly to the fifth floor, where a sign on the wall directed them to the psychiatry ward. Coleyn moved with haste, the panels of his coat flapping between his legs like a pair of slack sails.

  Hospitals these days were suspiciously like American hotels: Those who had never stayed in one tended to be full of praise while those who had didn’t dare admit that they’d expected better.

  “Will Jasper have to stay confined for long?” asked Van In.

  “That depends,” said Coleyn.

  With patients having more and more of a say in their treatment, doctors were terrified to tie themselves down to fixed dates, an objectionable habit they had learned from the world of politics. “A month, two?”

  “At the very least, Commissioner, at the very least.”

  When they entered the room, they found Jasper still lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. He had been given a couple of pills intended to compensate for the unpleasant side effects of the Haldol. Now he was waiting patiently for the clatter of plates and cutlery that would soon announce the evening meal. Tucking into a couple of slices of brown bread with pastrami and mustard was the only attraction on the program that evening. After that, it was a longer wait for the new sun to rise.

  “Hi, Jasper. I’m Commissioner Van In and this is Sergeant Versavel.”

  Jasper turned his gaze to the voice that had summoned him from his lethargy.

  Dr. Coleyn moved closer. “These two gentlemen are from the police, Jasper. They want to ask you a couple of questions. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

  The medical world was convinced that pills and technical ingenuity were enough to make sick people better, but they often tended to forget that other maladies like loneliness and despair cried out for a different approach, an affectionate approach. Guido wondered if Jasper would have given his right arm for a word of encouragement instead.

  “It’s about Trui Andries,” said Van In. “Do you remember when you saw her last?”

  When he didn’t answer immediately, Coleyn turned to Van In with an I-told-you-so look on his face, but Guido noticed that Jasper was trying to lift his head from the magnetic embrace of the pillow. He turned on his side, seeming intent on leaning on his elbow, but he fell back to the pillow as though he lacked the strength to support himself.

  “His lips are moving,” said Guido.

  Coleyn leaned over him, his shadow smothering the supplication in Jasper’s eyes. “I think it would be better to come back tomorrow.”

  Van In looked at Guido, who shrugged his shoulders. “You think he’ll be in better shape?”

  “I’m certain of it,” said Coleyn.

  “Fine, then we come back tomorrow.”

  As they left the room, Jasper started to cry, gently. A tear rolled down his nose, pausing just above his upper lip. He licked the teardrop and tasted the bitterness of his failure.

  5

  It was almost eight in the evening when Van In turned into the Vette Vispoort, shivering, the cobblestones reinforcing the dry echo of his footsteps. They always sounded more hollow when it was cold. As he turned his house key in the lock he heard the clatter of pots and pans in the kitchen, and the smell of smoldering birch and thyme wafted through the letterbox. Good omens, he thought. A little warmth and a tasty dinner were exactly what he needed.

  Hannelore was in the kitchen. She was wearing an apron with the words Je cuisine, donc je suis. Van In had given it to her as a gift the month before. He had cut the strings to measure. When she could no longer tie them, it was high time to prepare for fatherhood. Luckily, today was not the day.

  “I managed to pick up a couple of decent knuckles of veal this afternoon.” Hannelore leaned forward for a kiss. “We haven’t had ossobuco in ages.”

  Van In licked his lips, grabbed a spoon from the counter, and tried the sauce. Delicious as usual. No one could make ossobuco like Hannelore. “You’re a treasure,” he said.

  She loosened the safety pin holding the strings of her apron without drawing Van In’s attention, crossed to the refrigerator, grabbed an already open bottle of Muscadet, and poured a couple of glasses. Van In kicked off his shoes, sat down at the kitchen table, put his legs up on a chair, and enjoyed the moment at which his fatigue (or did the tingling in his calves have something to do with poor circulation?) flowed out through the tips of his toes and was absorbed by Mother Earth. “If there’s anything I can do, say the word,” he said as Hannelore put the finishing touches on what promised to be a fabulous meal.

  She shook her head. Why did men always think that their willingness to help was enough? “You can do the washing up.” She sighed as she sat down at his side and offered him a glass. “Cheers.”


  “Cheers,” said Van In.

  They both sipped at the wine. Van In didn’t need much to feel content that evening. A glass of wine and the thought that someone had cooked for him were more than enough.

  “Is Jonathan still here?” he asked after a moment.

  “He’s asleep,” said Hannelore. “He took a nap this afternoon and it seemed a sin to wake him.”

  “Did he have anything new to say?”

  It was clear from her smile that she had news.

  “He’s really a sweet boy when you get to know him. He insisted on doing the washing up and then …”

  Van In listened uncomplainingly to Hannelore’s story. Jonathan hadn’t only done the washing up, he had also vacuumed the house and picked up the groceries.

  “Did he have anything new to say?” he asked a second time, trying to mask the impatience in his voice. If her reaction was anything to go by, his efforts had been to no avail.

  “Don’t take your frustrations out on me, Van In,” she snapped.

  Van In had noticed how grumpy she had been the last couple of days. He understood, but he was so bushed he found it hard not to snap back at her. It was the pregnancy, of course, sapping her energy day after day and adding pound after pound. Was there some kind of giant growing in there? he wondered. What makes it possible for a person to be so completely happy for no apparent reason, and why was it so easy to disturb that perfect balance? This time he decided not to give in to the demon who was pushing him toward the abyss. It made no sense to start an argument.

  “Sorry, Hanne. Mea culpa.”

  She nodded a couple of times in succession, aware that his words didn’t come easy. Why ruin the evening with a stupid argument? she thought.

  “Jonathan still refuses to talk about the sect, but he did say that Trui and Jasper met each other via a dating agency run by a certain Richard Coleyn.”

  “Coleyn,” said Van In, resting his glass on the table. The entire case was beginning to stink; too many coincidences and too many features that just didn’t square. Trui Andries had been killed with a rare poison that shouldn’t have left any traces. She was on the point of getting married to a psychiatric patient who had been admitted into hospital days earlier and was being treated by a Dr. Coleyn. Coincidence? A relative of Richard Coleyn? And then there was Jonathan, a friend of Trui, who had been afraid to speak up to that point for fear of reprisals from a mysterious satanic sect, but in the last analysis had provided them with a name.

  “According to Jonathan, Richard Coleyn is a drug addict and an old friend of Jasper.”

  “Good news at last.” Van In sighed.

  Hannelore looked at him in surprise.

  “Now at least I have an old-fashioned lead, and that might appreciably simplify the case. Did he have anything else to say?”

  “That we should stay out of it.”

  Van In shrugged his shoulders and topped up his glass. Best let Jonathan simmer for a while and first have a word with Richard Coleyn. A confrontation later might give us a few more names, he thought. “Is the ossobuco ready?” The aroma was making his mouth water.

  “I think so,” said Hannelore, readying herself to take a look. But Van In gestured that she should stay where she was.

  “You’ve done enough work for today,” he said. “Now it’s my turn to spoil you.”

  “As long as you don’t forget the washing up,” she said, resting her weary legs on Van In’s chair. She would ask him later to massage her ankles and would sound him out on Saartje Maes while he was at it.

  “I’d rather have had an Uzi,” said Venex. “They’re easier to handle.”

  Richard Coleyn stored the Kalashnikov in an old-fashioned chest and placed it on the floor at his feet. It hadn’t been easy to get hold of a machine gun, and now Father wanted an Uzi.

  “I’m assured the Kalashnikov is more reliable than an Uzi,” he said guardedly.

  “Let’s hope it is.”

  Venex pointed at an open bottle of Veuve Clicquot that was almost within his reach. Richard reacted immediately and topped up Venex’s glass.

  “To Sunday,” said Venex, raising his glass and drinking. It was his fifth in less than an hour. A sense of euphoria was slowly filling his head. “I would appreciate a shoulder rub, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  Richard hurried to comply with his boss’s request. Venex closed his eyes and purred with pleasure as Richard’s fingers massaged his neck. He liked to be attended to hand and foot. Slavery had been an essential part of every self-respecting civilization. No one would ever have remembered the pharaohs if it hadn’t been for the slaves who built the pyramids. Greek and Roman culture was just the same. History had always been written by the powerful, and a concept like democracy had been powerless to change it. The slaves of yesteryear had evolved into industrious shareholders who worked hard to make sure the company they co-owned stayed profitable. In exchange for their labor, they received money, and if that didn’t help, they were supplied with stimulants of every kind, or the promise of a better life in the hereafter. Systems used to keep slaves, workers, and shareholders in line were childishly simple, and history had demonstrated that they were extraordinarily efficient.

  “So are we enjoying our new status as high priest?” Venex asked after a moment of silence.

  Richard nodded. In half an hour, Venex would give him a dose of what he needed, and the promise of that made him exceptionally submissive. As long as he kept up the ritual circus act once a month and kept his mouth shut about Venex, his future was assured and he had nothing to worry about.

  When the phone rang at three thirty that morning, Hannelore and Van In were both jolted from their sleep. In spite of her ever-swelling belly, she was faster than him. The only telephone in the house was downstairs, and Hannelore had picked it up before Van In had had time to catch his breath.

  “It’s for you,” she said, handing him the receiver. “Something about Jasper Simons.”

  The officer on duty at the station had been hesitant to wake Van In, but the commissioner had stated explicitly that he was to be informed right away if there were new developments in the Trui Andries case.

  Hannelore pressed her ear to the outside of the phone and listened in.

  “He jumped from the sixth floor,” she heard the officer say. “The night staff called fifteen minutes ago.”

  “Have you informed Guido?”

  “Not yet, Commissioner.”

  “Then get on to him as soon as I hang up. Tell him to meet me at the station in twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  Van In hung up the phone, tidied his hair, and started to unbutton his pajamas. “That’s the third night in a row we’ve had to sacrifice part of our sleep.”

  “Consider it training,” said Hannelore. “When the baby’s here, you can expect the same night after night.”

  Van In glared at her in confusion. “I thought you wanted to breast-feed the baby.”

  “Babies have other needs, Pieter.”

  Van In wasn’t amused. He turned and thundered upstairs, making enough noise to wake the dead.

  “Don’t forget Jonathan,” Hannelore shouted.

  After consuming a copious dinner, they had in fact completely forgotten about Jonathan. They hadn’t heard from him since he’d gone to bed that afternoon. Hannelore now rushed to the guest room and carefully opened the door. Even without switching on the light, she could see that the bed was empty. She hurried upstairs and told Van In, who was standing in front of the bathroom mirror in his underwear, brushing his teeth.

  “He must have slipped out while we were watching TV.”

  “Maybe he listened in on our conversation,” said Hannelore.

  Van In rinsed his mouth and put on a clean shirt. Jonathan’s disappearance was an unexpected complication. “I’ll sen
d a patrol around to his house,” he said. “If we find him, we lock him up.”

  “Maybe he’s afraid because he said too much this afternoon. If he is, then I’m to blame. I virtually interrogated him all day.”

  Van In pulled on his trousers and slipped on his shoes. “Don’t let it worry you, Hanne. At least we did our best for him.” He gave her a kiss and headed downstairs. “With a bit of luck, I’ll be home for breakfast.”

  Hannelore heard the front door slam, then sat on the edge of the bed. She was about to lie down when the baby started to kick. She lifted up her nightdress and followed the tiny feet pushing against her belly from the inside.

  Belgian hospitals tend to be even more cheerless at night than they are during the day. The silence is to blame. It accentuates the restlessness of the sleepless and reinforces the groans of the lonely. When darkness falls, their corridors become surreal Paul Delvaux railway platforms, where death is driving the last train and the passengers are waiting, tickets in hand, not caring about their final destination. Despair isn’t subject to the laws of logic. It propagates like amoebas, fast and relentless.

  A puddle of blood marked the spot where Jasper had crashed to the ground in the hospital parking lot. A pair of surgical gloves, a syringe, and a catheter at its side testified like a botched still life to the tragedy that had taken place moments earlier.

  “The doctors probably tried to resuscitate him,” said Guido.

  The sergeant seemed exceptionally alert in spite of the late hour. Judging by the smell of expensive aftershave and a forehead that gleamed like buffed marble, he had managed the shave and shower in the space of fifteen minutes.

  “Or they took the opportunity to milk his insurance at the last minute.”

  Van In had hated hospitals and doctors all his life, remnants of a childhood trauma he had experienced when “they”—as he always referred to doctors and nurses—left his father to die in a tiny hospital room as cancer devoured his body. People were careful not to mention the word cancer back then, and Van In understood why, to a certain extent. But the fact that the leeches had subjected the dying man to one cruel test after another until he breathed his last just because the hospital’s finances were “in the red” was something he couldn’t forgive. “Beds are revenue” was what they said in the business. Guido knew the story and prudently held his tongue.