As the hot water of the shower embraced Saartje Maes’s body, she wondered how Van In and Guido had gotten on at the Iron Virgin. Then her thoughts turned to her commission. The two cops were less of a problem than she had expected. Van In actually seemed competent. So why did she still have to be such an arrogant pain in the ass? Be confident, her bosses had told her during training, self-assured. Let people see you’re in charge. Seduce and prevail. What a pile of crap!
Fuck the big boys in Brussels and fuck the journalist act. It was time to let the commissioner see the real Saartje Maes.
At nine thirty-five, when Van In arrived in Room 204, Guido was busy on the phone. He nodded continually, and the look with which he greeted Van In didn’t bode well. At least there was coffee. Van In helped himself, sat down at his desk, grabbed a police report, and started to read.
I, the undersigned, hereby declare that …
Van In struggled through a couple of pages. The witness was a regular at the Iron Virgin, and you could tell from his signature that the man hadn’t finished high school.
I knew people messed around in the cellar—copulated, the officer on duty had written between brackets—but that sort of thing went on all over the place. … I know nothing about Satanism. I went to the technical school. … They don’t teach that kind of stuff there. Bart Muylle is a decent guy, a regular drinking buddy … But Jonathan’s off his head … wants to be a priest or something. He’s been driving us all crazy of late with all that horseshit about God and the hereafter. …
Van In sipped at his coffee. Guido was still on the phone, nodding like a toy dog in the back of a car and doodling on the back of a cardboard file. Why was he taking so long?
“Spill!” he said, as soon as Guido hung up. The sergeant smiled as if he’d just wrangled a date with one of the Chippendales.
“Praise the Lord,” he said with what passed for a Bible Belt accent.
Van In tossed the report he had been reading back on the pile. He had thumbed through one report and was already sick of it. “Spare me the crap, Guido. We don’t have time to piss about.”
Guido shook his head, scribbled a few words on a sheet of paper, and handed it to Van In.
Saartje Maes breezed into Room 204 and greeted the men with a radiant smile. Her jacket blew open to reveal a white T-shirt that did justice to her every curve. “Good morning, gentlemen.”
Van In looked at the sheet of paper Guido had just handed him and read: Saartje Maes isn’t who she says she is.
Guido offered Saartje a cup of coffee. Things can only get better, he thought. After their encounter in the Iron Virgin, he had started to ask himself serious questions about the identity of Miss Maes. Her story about learning from a friend that the Iron Virgin was used by a satanic fraternity didn’t hold water, and for someone who had only visited the café once or twice, she seemed to know El Shit far too well. She had raised her hand and the man had left the bar without protest to show her into the hall at the back.
“Your chief editor just called,” said Van In. “He wants you to call him back. It’s urgent.”
Saartje took off her jacket and hung it on the coat stand.
“Something about your article,” Guido added. “Did you write down the number, Commissioner?”
Van In seemed aggrieved. “I thought you had it, Guido.”
“Why would I? Anyway, I’m sure Miss Maes knows her editor’s number by heart. Am I right, Miss Maes?”
“I don’t have to justify myself to you,” she said bluntly. “I’ll call the editor when I’m in the mood.”
“Don’t worry, Miss Maes,” said Guido. “I called in your place. No one’s ever heard of you!”
Her cheeks reddened, and she fiddled nervously with her nose. “Game over,” she said dryly.
“This is fun,” said Van In. “More games, Miss Maes?” He pushed aside a pile of reports and looked her in the eye. She seemed fragile all of a sudden.
“My name is Saartje Maes and I’m an inspector with State Security. I’ve been researching the existence of satanic sects in Bruges for the last six weeks.” She paused, hoping their mouths would fall open in amazement. They didn’t.
“Good try, Miss Bond. But surely you don’t expect us to fall for a story like that.”
Saartje threw back her head in a final attempt to maintain her dignity. “In October our offices received a letter from Trui Andries. She claimed that the satanic fraternity she had joined a while back was planning a terrible crime. I was ordered to start a discreet investigation and try to determine if we should take the contents of her letter seriously.”
Van In and Guido were both flabbergasted.
“I called Chief Commissioner De Kee, and he guaranteed complete secrecy.”
“Sounds like De Kee,” Van In grumbled. He was having a hard time concealing his indignation. “Did he invent your cover too?”
Saartje nodded.
“As soon as he heard that Trui Andries was dead, he called me. I contacted my case officer, and he advised me to follow the investigation at close quarters.”
Van In couldn’t believe his ears. The entire country knew that Belgian State Security was led by a bunch of idiots, political buddies who couldn’t find work elsewhere, but this kind of bungling bordered on insanity. “And may I ask what brought you to State Security, Miss Maes?” he inquired
The girl pouted. “My uncle is director. He’s in charge of the department that deals with sects. When I lost my job last year, he suggested I sign up for the inspector’s exam.”
“Which you passed cum laude.”
It was true that Saartje had enjoyed a carefree childhood. Her family was well-to-do, and she had finished college without too much effort. But Van In’s sarcastic tone hurt her to the core. She couldn’t remember ever being put in her place with so few words.
“I worked hard,” she said defensively.
“Criminology?”
Saartje lowered her eyes. “I’m an accountant.”
Van In nodded. A bookkeeper. The prophets of doom were right after all. The end of the world was really nigh! “Since?”
“I graduated three years ago.”
Van In looked at Guido, who was watching and listening and shaking his head. Belgium had more unsolved crimes than any of its neighbors. Now he knew why.
“Do you realize that your silence probably cost the lives of eight people?” Van In sensed a fit of temper coming on. Was there any end to this madness?
“My job was to chart the different sects, Commissioner, and try to determine if a crime was in preparation. State Security inspectors don’t have the authority to arrest people. All I can do is observe and report back to my superiors.”
“Why didn’t you bring us up to speed?”
“Because my case officer didn’t think it was opportune. He wanted to know first if the Trui Andries killing had anything to do with satanism. That’s why I wanted to get close to the investigation. If I’d known that you were following a similar line of approach, I would have revealed my true identity immediately.”
Her self-confidence was returning, albeit slowly. The scores were one-all, and the ball was in his court.
“So what were you doing yesterday at the Iron Virgin?”
“Observing, Commissioner. I go there at least twice a week.”
Van In sighed. The fact that she was right only made things worse. When he’d called Beekman the night before, the prosecutor had warned him not to be in too much of a hurry to intervene.
“Did you have any form of contact with Trui Andries in the last few weeks?”
“We spoke twice.”
“About the letter.”
Saartje nodded. She had to admit that it was partly her fault that things had gotten out of hand. The investigation into the satanic sects was her first big job. She’d thought herself superior to local pol
ice, looked down on them as dumb and naïve, and she’d clearly let them feel it. “Miss Andries told me the letter was a mistake, that she no longer wanted to have anything to do with it.”
“And you didn’t believe her.”
“No,” said Saartje. “I thought she was scared.”
“Did she give a reason for her sudden turnabout?”
“She said she was seeing a psychiatrist and that the doctor had told her she’d imagined it all.”
“Do you have a name for the doctor?”
Saartje shook her head. “She didn’t mention it.”
Van In took a pen and twirled it through his fingers. Squabbling was pointless. He needed information, and it was possible at least that Saartje Maes had discovered something that might help his inquiry.
“How many satanist sects did you manage to chart?”
“Four,” said Saartje.
“Did the names Jonathan Leman, Jasper Simons, Richard Coleyn, or Venex ever come up in conversation?”
“No,” she said, sure of her answer.
A knock came at the door. Inspector Pattyn waited patiently for Van In to say “come in.”
“There’s a problem with Coleyn,” he said, coming straight to the point. “They had to cuff him to a radiator. He’s causing a riot.”
Saartje Maes’s confession had distracted Van In so much that he had completely forgotten giving orders for Coleyn to be brought to the station.
“Sort it out,” Van In snapped.
“He says the waiting room’s driving him crazy. He insists we leave the door open. If you ask me, the guy’s got claustrophobia.”
“Put him in a cell for an hour or two and let him cool off. I don’t have time for him right now.”
Pattyn turned and headed for the door. Just as he was about to close it behind him, Van In called him back.
“By the way, Pattyn. Is the broom closet free?”
“I think so.”
The broom closet was a tiny room on the first floor, six feet by ten and without windows. Architects were prone to the odd mistake now and then, especially when it came to public commissions. Who cared? Belgians were creative enough to find a solution for any problem.
“Good, then I’ll question him there,” said Van In.
Pattyn raised his eyebrows, thinking that sometimes Van In made no sense at all. First he sided with a guttersnipe who deserved a kick in the ass; now he was deciding to use an interrogation technique that Amnesty International would describe as barbaric.
Van In understood the skepticism in the inspector’s face. “Eight people died, Pattyn. I don’t have time to piss around.”
Pattyn straightened. “Anything else, Commissioner?”
Van In peered at the pile of police reports taking up more than half his desk. There was indeed something else. “I gave orders last night for Muylle’s garage to be searched. Did anyone find the time?”
Pattyn nodded. The report was somewhere in the middle of the pile, but it didn’t seem appropriate to respond to the commissioner’s question with a search. “There were signs of breaking and entering on the door, and the lock had clearly been forced. One of the neighbors also said he heard a strange noise that Friday night.”
Pattyn’s summary confirmed the misgivings that had plagued Van In since his encounter with Muylle. It was highly unlikely that Muylle would force open the door to his own garage.
“Shit,” said Van In, kicking his desk out of pure frustration, bruising his big toe in the process. The string of expletives that followed was enough to shock both Saartje and Guido.
“I think you can go now, Inspector Pattyn,” said Guido. He was familiar with the commissioner’s moods. Van In could rant and rave at times, and his fits of temper were nothing short of legendary. Hannelore knew all about it.
The second Pattyn closed the door, Van In called Beekman.
“Commissioner Van In here. It’s about Muylle. I think we’ve got the wrong man.” Van In explained the new situation, keeping it as short as possible.
Beekman was calm and professional, as anyone would expect a magistrate to be. “I’ll inform the examining magistrate that there are new elements in the investigation.” Beekman looked at his watch. It was ten forty-five. Muylle was scheduled to appear in front of the examining magistrate in forty-five minutes. He had no reason for concern. The correct procedures had been followed. It was only when Van In then suggested that the examining magistrate might be persuaded to issue a warrant for the arrest of Richard Coleyn that his tone suddenly changed.
“I presume you have sound reasons for such a request, Commissioner.”
Van In’s instincts were faultless. Muylle was a mere metalworker, but Richard Coleyn was the son of a respected doctor. That made all the difference, even for a modern prosecutor like Beekman.
“Coleyn is the only one who can tell us more about the relationship between Trui Andries, Jasper Simons, and Jonathan Leman.”
A moment’s silence followed as Beekman searched for an elegant way to change Van In’s mind.
“Are they involved in the shooting?”
The minister of justice had called him half an hour ago. The prosecutor general was planning to retire in six months and Beekman was in line for his job if …
“There’s a connection,” said Van In, and he didn’t have to be a fortune-teller to know how Beekman would react.
“Do you have hard evidence?”
Van In could have said: Prosecutor Beekman, yesterday you gave me carte blanche on the shooting incident and now you’re backtracking like a timid teenager on his first date. But he didn’t. “I’m convinced Coleyn knows more than he’s been willing to divulge thus far.”
Beekman weighed the pros and cons. Muylle’s arrest was a mistake, and he would be held responsible, but the press wouldn’t punish him for it. On the contrary, they would praise him for his bold and energetic approach. Van In, on the other hand, was far from incompetent. It wouldn’t be the first time that his unorthodox methods had produced results. He opted for a compromise.
“You’ve got forty-eight hours, Van In.”
“And you’ll take care of the arrest warrant?”
A five-second silence predicted the answer. “I said you’ve got forty-eight hours, Commissioner. Call me if you make any progress.”
“We’ll manage just fine, sir. We’ll be in touch.” Van In hung up the phone and scratched behind his left ear.
Guido realized immediately that something wasn’t right. “The broom closet?” he asked.
“Unless you can think of something smaller, Guido.”
“Is there anything else I can do?” asked Saartje as Van In and Guido got up and headed toward the door. The black widow now seemed more like a harmless daddy longlegs. “Do you have a file on Trui Andries?” she asked.
Those who knew Van In were aware that he never bore a grudge. “I still have to type it up,” he said, slightly embarrassed. “You would be doing us an enormous favor …”
She nodded enthusiastically. “And the poison killings?”
Van In looked at Guido. The sergeant didn’t say a word.
“I think we can leave those old cases for the time being, Miss Maes.”
Saartje beamed with joy, threw her arms around Van In’s neck, and gave him a kiss. Van In felt a bit like a grandfather with a beautiful granddaughter. At least that’s what he told himself.
11
Three chairs and an old-fashioned metal desk with a typewriter that had seen better days were the sole contents of the broom closet. The door was ajar, for the time being at least. The entire picture had something Hitchcockian about it, a sense of menace, the feeling that something dramatic was about to happen.
“Do you think this is the right approach, Pieter?”
Van In was reminded of Room 101 in George Orwell
’s 1984. It had been a while since he’d read the book, but he’d never forgotten the cage with the rats and the terror it generated.
“Psychiatrists claim that you can cure people of their phobias by confronting them with them,” he said.
“We’re about to find out,” Guido agreed.
What was Van In supposed to do? Admit he was at his wits’ end, that the case had outsmarted him? He felt like an Internet surfer who had consulted a hundred sites but had learned nothing. Times were changing at a pace he couldn’t keep up with. Unlike the old days, modern suspects rarely admitted they’d done anything wrong. They lied and deceived to their hearts’ content. It was the price society had to pay for a judicial system that forced suspects to cheat if they wanted to avoid being brought to justice. Honesty had become a sign of weakness that was punished without mercy. Perhaps modern satanism had a similar philosophy at its core? Perhaps there was a sort of connecting thread that snapped every time the knot unraveled and the way out of the labyrinth came into view, such that those who wanted to find the truth were doomed to wander forever in caves of darkness as sightless seers.
Van In had been suffering more from cheerless thoughts of late. He knew that these days you had to be able to relativize, let things go, glide off you like Teflon. Those who refused to accept the status quo were immediately labeled as right wing or stupid. Van In wondered which of the two labels he feared the most.
Two burly police officers dragged Richard Coleyn to the door of the broom closet. They had probably told him what to expect in advance, given the fight he put up. He was like a man possessed, and his appearance confirmed the comparison: hollow chest, poorly shaved, and dull, greasy skin with blackheads and pimples in profusion.
“I want a lawyer,” he screamed. “You have no right to lock me up.”
His screams echoed down the icy corridor. Prisoners didn’t have rights. Corridors could lead anywhere. Van In signaled to the officers that they could bring Coleyn in. They succeeded, although not without a struggle. Van In then gave them the key, ordering them to lock the door and to open it only on his personal request.
Richard Coleyn turned white as a sheet. He tried to get out, to push his way past the officers at the door, but they closed it in his face. He started to tug on the door handle like a madman. When that also failed to get him anywhere, he started to kick the lower panel of the door. This wasn’t the first time the broom closet had been used for interrogations, as the black smudges on the door testified.
The Fourth Figure Page 15