The Fourth Figure

by Aspe, Pieter; Doyle, Brian;

  When Van In opened the front door and went inside, he knew immediately that Hannelore wasn’t home. The house was ice cold, and the kitchen was filled with the sour smell of unwashed plates. He tried to light the fire, and when that didn’t work, he turned up the thermostat to eighty degrees. He then raided the refrigerator: a couple of slices of stale bread, a half-empty jar of cheese spread, and a slice of salami that was well past its sell-by date. He gobbled it all down like a starving wolf.

  Van In lit a cigarette and punched in the number of his in-laws. He heaved a sigh of relief when he heard his father-in-law’s voice.

  “Gerard, Pieter here. It’s good to hear your voice.”

  “She was here yesterday to get her things. In and out in half an hour. You know Hannelore. She doesn’t want to be a burden.”

  Van In had suspected as much. Hanne was an independent woman. He was dumb to have thought she’d run home to her parents.

  “Is it for me?” someone shouted in the background. Van In recognized Andrea’s shrill voice, and Gerard switched to a whisper.

  “She’s staying with Beekman,” he said hastily. “And she loves you.”

  He heard a commotion on the other end of the line as Andrea pried the phone from her husband’s hand. “She wants nothing more to do with you, Pieter. And if I was you, I would …”

  “If I was you, I’d turn off the heat under your cauldron,” said Van In, slamming down the receiver and turning to the window. The man in the moon had a smile on his face. Van In poured himself a Duvel and called Beekman, but the answering machine picked up four times in a row: I’m not available to take your call. Please leave a message after the tone.

  15

  Three Duvels were enough to clear Van In’s mind of the crap that had been building up over the last few days. Murders, satanists, drug dealers, and false accusations … He didn’t give a fuck anymore. The radiators were at boiling point, but instead of turning down the thermostat, he kicked off his shoes, stripped to his underwear, and collapsed on the sofa. He lay on his back and peered at the belly that was blocking the view of his toes. Depression germinated in his head.

  Lonely people experienced time differently from overstressed fusspots. When you had nothing to look forward to, you entered another dimension, where minutes seemed to last for hours. There were nine cigarette butts in the ashtray, but Van In still had the impression it was early. The clock in the hall confirmed it. Seven thirty. Another twelve hours to go before sunrise. Sleep made more sense than anything else, and the hope that his dreams might refresh him.

  A rusty old lock could sometimes be better than an advanced alarm system. The noise it made was usually enough to wake anyone who heard it, but that only applied to normal people, not lonely drunks who’d passed out after a night on the booze.

  “He’s home,” said Hannelore. She turned the thermostat to sixty-five and threw open the kitchen window.

  “You can’t leave them alone for long,” Saartje said, then giggled.

  A cool evening breeze poured into the kitchen like a breath of fresh air. Hannelore took off her coat. The smell of cigarettes and unwashed feet was unbearable. And all that in one single day.

  “I think he’s in the living room,” she said.

  “Can I join you?”

  “Of course you can.” Hannelore threw open the living room door and switched on the light. “Thought so,” she said.

  Saartje couldn’t believe her eyes. She’d rather have a birdbrain with muscles than the thing that was snoring on the sofa.

  Van In was in a wooden hut full of naked men and hot steam. He crawled into a corner. The steam hid him from view. The men were a noisy bunch, prattling like American tourists and lashing each other on the back with fine twigs. No one paid any attention to him but he still felt uneasy. Van In had never fantasized about men before and asked himself if he’d landed in one of Guido’s dreams by accident. Then a muscular V-shaped specimen suddenly jumped to his feet and threw open the door. An ice-cold wind made him shiver. The men ran outside whooping and cheering and played leapfrog in the snow. Van In wrapped his arms around his chest. His teeth chattered. Two men beckoned him to the door. Why had they left it open? He felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Leave me alone,” he screamed.

  Hannelore smiled. In his socks and underwear he wasn’t much of a Romeo. Saartje looked away out of embarrassment, but only for a second. The picture was too funny to miss.

  “Wake up, Pieter. It’s me, Hannelore.”

  Hannelore was a word that had the power to penetrate the clouds of his subconscious mind. He opened his eyes.

  “Ego te absolvo,” she said.

  Van In pictured confessionals and pale-faced priests who gave him severe penances every time he admitted to a sin against purity.

  “Saartje explained everything.”

  Hannelore leaned down and kissed him on the lips. She smelled of pine needles, and her breasts were warm and soft. Someone giggled in the background. Van In groped for the blanket that was lying on the floor beside the sofa and quickly covered his lower body. This wasn’t a dream, it was a nightmare. The two women looked down at him. The cold air flowing through the living room door worked wonders. Van In straightened himself up and pulled on his trousers like a bather on the beach, with the blanket held tightly around his waist. Saartje turned and headed back into the kitchen.

  “I called you several times,” said Van In, his voice dry and hoarse.

  “That’s sweet of you.”

  Hannelore gazed at him, her eyes wide and inviting, just like that first time when she massaged his ankles one sultry summer evening.

  “I love you, Hanne.”

  “I know,” she said.

  Saartje had popped a dish of mashed potatoes in the oven and set the three steaks to sizzling in a pan next to a simmering pot of green beans. She had found all the ingredients in the freezer, and in spite of her lack of experience in the kitchen, she thought she was doing a pretty good job. The wonderful smell in the kitchen reminded her of her childhood, when her mother made roast beef and cauliflower every Sunday without fail.

  Van In jabbed his fork into the last chunk of beef and wiped his plate clean.

  “That was very tasty, Miss Maes.”

  Both women burst out laughing.

  “Don’t pretend you’re a saint, Pieter. I’m not planning to run out on you if you use her first name.”

  Van In reveled in the novelty of the situation. He found it hard to imagine enjoying a meal with his wife that had been prepared by his alleged mistress, and even harder to imagine them gathered around the table talking like civilized human beings.

  The topic of conversation was the investigation into the mass shooting, of course, and that led them inevitably to Jonathan.

  “Didn’t you say you sent him shopping?” Van In asked. “Was he away for long?”

  “One and half hours, two hours tops. Why d’you ask? I was just getting ready for my nap and I told him he didn’t have to hurry.”

  “Did he wake you when he got back?”

  “He didn’t want to bother me. I gave him a key and …” Hannelore suddenly realized where Van In was leading.

  Van In treated himself to a serious swig of Duvel. Now he understood why the fifty thousand francs in the wardrobe had been left untouched. Jonathan had other plans. He’d probably made a copy of the front door key to let himself in later with a bag of heroin to conceal under the toilet rolls. He’d done the same thing to get hold of a key to Muylle’s car. Was he the killer? Van In found it hard to believe. Jonathan worked for Venex, and Venex was under investigation by the federal police. The planting of the heroin, the anonymous tip—the entire operation was a stupid diversion intended to get Van In removed from the case. It was an act of desperation, a hasty decision made by someone who felt himself cornered.

 
“I went shopping myself on Saturday morning,” said Hannelore, anticipating his next question. “Someone must have been watching the house.”

  Van In took another gulp of Duvel. He was slowly but surely coming to grips with the situation. “If you ask me, Jonathan was facing a moral dilemma. Trui’s influence made him want to live a different life, a better life, but he was unable to detach himself from Venex. When you sent Jonathan shopping, he turned to Venex for advice, and Venex changed his plans on the spot.”

  “What plans?” asked Hannelore.

  Van In took a moment to think. For one reason or another, he had the feeling that Venex had made a mistake. “The infantile attempt to discredit me suggests that he had reason to believe I was on to him.”

  “We know he has connections with the federal boys. According to Beekman, they got their information from a snitch, someone reliable who’d worked for them before,” said Hannelore. “But Adjutant Delrue refuses to divulge the name of his informant.” She scraped the remains of the mash from Van In’s plate onto her fork and licked it clean. “He thinks he’s getting close to a major drug dealer and he’s determined to protect his sources.”

  “Then it’s about time we had a private word with Adjutant Delrue.” Van In finished his Duvel and went to the phone. “Hello, Guido. Sorry to bother you so late, but …”

  “I’m sorry, Father.”

  Richard had spent the last thirty-six hours in hiding in the house on Raam Street where the fraternity held its regular meetings. Venex usually spent most of his time there, but he hadn’t appeared the day before, and Richard had no idea where to reach his master, so he’d waited.

  “My neighbor called the emergency services,” he said. “There was nothing I could do to stop her.”

  He told him what had happened and Venex listened attentively. The police were now sure to make the link between Jonathan and Richard, and if Jonathan survived, there was more than a good chance that he would talk. Venex tried to think it through, to be logical. He had to presume that the cops hadn’t questioned Jonathan yet. If they had, they would have already been at his door.

  “You did the right thing to come to me, Richard.”

  Venex walked to the phone, looked up the number of the hospital, and called reception. He pretended to be Jonathan’s uncle, and in a few short minutes he had the boy’s room number. The receptionist then transferred him to the care unit on the eighth floor, where he was informed that Jonathan wasn’t ready for visitors. When the night nurse asked for his identity, he broke the connection.

  “All is not yet lost, Richard.”

  Venex smiled and returned the receiver to the cradle. First Jonathan, then Richard.

  In the seventies, more than a few Belgians with moderate incomes were given the opportunity to buy their own homes at very affordable prices with the help of government subsidies. Adjutant Delrue, who was still a sergeant at the time, took advantage of the assistance and bought a house on an estate to the north of Bruges.

  Van In parked the Golf directly opposite the adjutant’s house. Guido surveyed the cheerless facades, all of them identical and each with a TV screen flickering inside. Even the TVs were all in the same place. They got out and crossed the street.

  “I wonder how he’ll react when he sees us,” said Guido.

  “Me too, Guido. Me too.”

  Ding dong.

  “Good evening, Adjutant. Mind if we come in?” Van In grinned from ear to ear, and Delrue didn’t like it.

  “I thought you were suspended,” he said.

  “There’s so much nonsense going around these days. You can’t believe everything you hear.”

  Van In stepped inside. “We won’t keep you long, Delrue, just five minutes. Then we’ll be out of your life forever.”

  The federal adjutant was wearing striped pajamas and a cheap pair of bath slippers. His wife was nowhere in sight, which meant she’d probably already retired to the bedroom, where she had a TV of her own—and all the other things she needed to make it through the night. Pressure at work and irregular hours had been the death of many a cop’s marriage.

  Delrue remained standing in the corridor, determined not to let them come any farther. “Why don’t you just bugger off? I see no reason why I should talk to you.”

  “I’ve got an offer for you,” said Van In.

  “Put it in writing.”

  Delrue stepped forward and placed his hand on the door handle. Van In sensed he was losing the argument. He thought about Sister Marie-Louise. Her weakness was love of one’s neighbor. What was the adjutant’s weakness?

  “What would you say if I told you I could identify the real drug dealer? Think about it, Delrue. Your bosses would be over the moon.”

  Delrue looked at his visitors. Pressure from Major Baudrin had forced him to be unprofessional. He’d been in too much of a hurry with the search warrant, and the more he thought about it, the less believable it seemed that Van In was a heroin dealer.

  “Come in,” he snapped.

  Guido breathed a sigh of relief, and the smile returned to Van In’s face. They followed the adjutant into the living room.

  Delrue didn’t explain the blanket and pillows on the sofa. He invited them to take a seat and switched off the TV.

  “Scotch?”

  Van In nodded. Delrue shuffled toward the kitchen. He suddenly looked ten years older.

  “What are you going to tell him?” asked Guido.

  “No idea. We’re inside, and that’s what matters.” Van In wanted to say something else, but at that moment Delrue appeared with a tray, three glasses, and a quart of Glenfiddich. The label on the bottle had been stamped in red: For crew only.

  “I didn’t know you worked for customs,” Van In said sarcastically.

  Delrue shrugged his shoulders. Van In and Guido were colleagues. Even his boss drank tax-free whiskey. “I’m guessing that’s not why you’re here.”

  “Commissioner Van In’s had a tiring week,” Guido said, his tone apologetic. “Don’t let him get to you.”

  “We’re not the best of buddies, Commissioner, I understand that, and I also admit that the search warrant was a clumsy way to confirm the tip we received, but …” Delrue sighed and emptied his glass in a single gulp.

  “But the investigation was at a standstill,” said Van In.

  Delrue nodded. “I was convinced we were almost ready to close the case, but the major wanted immediate results. Our officers have turned into accountants. If we’ve used up our budget, then we need to move on to a new project and account for the old one. Do you get my drift, Commissioner?”

  Van In nodded. He was well aware of the new philosophy. Instead of solving concrete crimes, the Special Detectives Division had been split up into theme-based departments. One focused on people trafficking, others on drugs, computer fraud, the Mafia, selling illegal hormones to farmers … They had to infiltrate their own particular underworld and were only allowed to make a move if it suited their federal bosses. That meant when the theme was ripe for media attention. Every crime had its time and place. December was set aside for bank robbers, January for drunk drivers, February and March for the hormone dealers, April and May for the drug dealers … and the list went on. There was plenty of crime around, but it was important to introduce order to the chaos. That’s what the public wanted.

  “So you thought: Let’s have a go at Van In?”

  Delrue poured himself a second glass.

  “My colleagues warned me,” he said dryly. “Don’t underestimate Van In.”

  “But you decided to ignore them.”

  Delrue’s resistance dissolved like a sand castle at high tide. The adjutant tossed another glass of whiskey down his throat. “I had reason to believe that the dealer knew our every move in advance, as if someone was providing him with inside information. I’d been convinced for a while
that he had contacts in the police, and when your name came up, I put two and two …”

  “Don’t make me laugh, Delrue. You guys don’t even trust your wives when you’re on an important case. What made you think I—”

  “Give me time to explain,” said Delrue.

  He refilled the glasses and tried to be as succinct as possible, struggling at first to find the right words. The narcotics division had been aware for more than a year that someone was dealing ecstasy and heroin on a large scale in and around Bruges. After months of detective work, they came to the conclusion that most of the stuff was being distributed via the Iron Virgin. They launched Operation Snow White, and two young detectives infiltrated the place but failed to unmask the man behind the scenes. They were also in the dark about the source of the drugs and how they were getting into the country. All they managed to pick up was that the dealer used a pseudonym. Everyone knew him as Venex. Two weeks later, Delrue received an anonymous tip. The unidentified caller claimed that Venex was shifting his operation to the area around Courtrai. The informant suggested they arrest a couple of couriers, but that didn’t help. The boys in question had each been recruited for one-off deliveries. They’d been told there wasn’t much action in Bruges anymore.

  “And in the meantime, the Iron Virgin continued to enjoy protection.”

  Delrue nodded. “We were convinced that the dealer had moved on.”

  “I’m guessing you never met the informant,” said Van In.

  Delrue shook his head.

  “Did you ever think he might have been leading you down the garden path?” A picture was slowly forming in Van In’s mind, getting clearer by the minute.

  “Why would he? His information was always on the ball. With his help we managed to confiscate two kilos of heroin and ten thousand ecstasy pills in a couple of months’ time.”

  “Dealers have been known to betray their couriers,” said Van In. Occasionally drug dealers would tip the police themselves and offer up a couple of “innocent” couriers in exchange for some breathing space.

  Delrue shook his head, then added, “The consignments were always relatively large. Half a kilo is a lot of heroin, even for a major dealer.”