The Fourth Figure

by Aspe, Pieter; Doyle, Brian;

  Van In tried to line up four grave pieces of information. One: The drug dealer knew someone in the federal police or the local police who provided him with information. Two: The moment the name Venex raised its head, the federal police received a tip from an unknown informant and large amounts of heroin and ecstasy were intercepted. Three: No one knew where the drugs were coming from. Four: At the first sign of progress in the mass shooting investigation, the informant made a clumsy attempt to frame Van In for drug dealing.

  “Do you mind if I ask what happened to the couriers you picked up?”

  “We had to let them go.”

  “Are you kidding? Why?”

  “They were all psychiatric patients who were allowed into the city once a week. They were all readmitted to their various treatment centers and kept under lock and key.”

  Guido looked at Van In. The commissioner was beaming. “One more question, Delrue. When did your informant drop my name?”

  “The day before yesterday. He told me he’d spoken to a journalist and that the story was scheduled to appear in the papers even if we did nothing.”

  “And you didn’t consider that suspicious?”

  “No.”

  “Did you contact the journalist?”

  “He contacted me to ask if his information was correct.”

  “And you confirmed it?”

  Delrue said nothing.

  “Did you confirm it, Adjutant?”

  “I didn’t deny it,” he said with the necessary embarrassment. “Don’t get me wrong, Commissioner. A statement in the press is sometimes the only way to put pressure on the magistrates. Don’t think the public prosecutor would have done anything if …”

  “Don’t sweat it, Delrue. I’d have done the same in your place.”

  The adjutant smiled. “I didn’t believe the story myself, to be honest. That’s why I’m happy you pinned down the dealer, Commissioner.”

  Guido pinched his eyes shut, curious to see how Van In was going to save himself.

  “I thought you were the dealer, Delrue, but on closer inspection I have to admit that I was wrong.”

  Van In emptied his glass and got to his feet. Guido quickly followed his example.

  The adjutant, on the other hand, stayed where he was, staring wide-eyed at his visitors. “They told me you were a bastard,” he hissed.

  “And they were right, Adjutant. Thanks for the whiskey. See you around.”

  Van In raised his hand and left the room. He hadn’t felt this good in months.

  16

  The sky above Bruges was a fluffy blanket that merged invisibly with the silhouette of the city. Sharp contrasts made way for grayish contours and shrouded facades. Zand Square was like an urban desert, desolate and abandoned. Van In crossed the square diagonally. He had slept reasonably well the night before, and that was clear to see. He was a happy man. The warmth of Hannelore’s body had nourished him the entire night, and the same warmth now protected him from the cutting east wind. Deep in his heart he was certain that everything would work out: the baby and the investigation. The information he had managed to pry from Delrue was exceptionally valuable. Later he planned to tie up the knots and test his hypothesis against reality.

  He turned onto Hauwer Street and saw a Golf parked in front of the police station with its engine running. That had to be Guido. The sergeant was sitting bolt upright at the wheel. Van In opened the passenger door and collapsed in the seat. He shook Guido’s hand, lit a cigarette, and started to cough.

  “Breathtaking aftershave, Guido. I mean literally …”

  Guido ignored the remark, shifted into first, and hit the gas. There was more than one way to pollute the atmosphere.

  Dr. Coleyn’s office was dimly lit. A single halogen lamp dangled above his desk, forming an egg-shaped pocket of light. The burly psychiatrist invited Van In and Guido to take a seat as he removed the cellophane wrapper on a new pack of cigarettes.

  “We wanted a word with you about your son,” said Van In.

  Coleyn cut the tax band with his thumbnail. “I heard you paid a visit to my ex-wife.” The psychiatrist’s voice didn’t sound bitter. He still spoke to her from time to time, and if she had news, she would always call him.

  “Actually, it’s about both your sons,” said Van In.

  The doctor lit a cigarette, his fingers trembling.

  “Richard and Jonathan.”

  Van In waited.

  “I should never have walked out on Veerle,” said Coleyn. “How could I have known she would abandon the child as she did?”

  Van In was also in the mood for a cigarette, but all the coughing in the car stopped him from lighting up.

  “Did Richard tell you?”

  Coleyn nodded. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, and he exhaled huge clouds of smoke as if he could hide his emotions in the haze.

  “Richard finally left home a year and a half ago. We’d had another fight. He accused me of being a bad father, and I told him he had no right to judge. Then he told me about Jonathan.”

  The psychiatrist bowed his head as if the suffering of three generations had suddenly landed on his shoulders. “I should have left Richard with his mother.”

  Van In felt sorry for the man. An upside-down world, he thought. For once I’m in the chair and the shrink’s on the couch.

  “That’s something we can’t change, Doctor,” said Van In.

  Guido liked the fact that Van In had addressed the man as “Doctor” for once.

  “I insisted he should be like me, like my father and grandfather. But times have changed. I’ve lost him. I’ve lost everything: my sons, my wife, and the woman I loved.”

  Van In waited until Coleyn had finished his story. No one had ever been trained to raise their children. If it went wrong, there was precious little parents could do about it. It wasn’t the most cheerful prospect for a father-to-be.

  “We suspect Richard exploited a number of your patients, Doctor. He used them as drug couriers, knowing the police would have to readmit them for treatment, rather than hold them in jail. I suspect he plucked his victims from your database.”

  “You know I can’t share that kind of information,” said Coleyn.

  “At least eleven people have lost their lives, Doctor. The killer may even be one of your patients. I can always ask for a warrant, but I imagine you would prefer to cooperate voluntarily given the circumstances.”

  Coleyn sighed in resignation, then swiveled in his chair, reached for the computer keyboard, and opened the appropriate file.

  Psychiatrists were expected to be a listening ear for people with an ailing soul, and that took time. Dr. Coleyn had two hundred and twelve registered clients. The man worked a fifty-hour week, three thousand minutes in total. Van In figured that if Coleyn spent all his time with his patients and didn’t use his phone, attend meetings, or eat lunch, then each of them could count on fourteen minutes a week max.

  Coleyn scrolled through the list of names on the screen.

  “Masyn. That sounds familiar,” said Van In.

  “Frederik Masyn is the son of Casper Masyn, the notary who was killed with his wife last Sunday in the church shooting.”

  “The billionaire.”

  “That’s what they say,” said Coleyn emotionlessly.

  “What’s his problem?”

  “Frederik is schizophrenic. He thinks he’s the son of Satan.”

  Van In’s penny dropped. Now he had a motive for the church shooting. And it might have more to do with greed than with satanism. Or did they mean the same thing?

  “You don’t think that Frederik …” Coleyn didn’t complete his sentence. He remembered lengthy conversations with the boy. The Kingdom of Satan was at hand. The demiurge was soon to rise from the core of the earth and his sons were expected to prepare the way for hi
m. The master needed a palace, cars, jewels, a yacht … And that called for money … a lot of money.

  “He lives close to Saint Jacob’s Church, Leeuw Street 13,” said Van In. “If he wanted to kill both his parents, he had to make sure he wasn’t a suspect. Otherwise he could forget his inheritance.”

  Coleyn nodded. His stomach churned. After so many sessions with the boy, he’d had to admit that he’d really believed what the boy was saying. “He had to build a palace, come what may.”

  “What did you say, Doctor?” Van In exchanged a knowing look with Guido. Coleyn appeared to be in a sort of trance.

  “I think Frederik staged the shooting to throw us off the scent. A murder can be hard to solve without a motive.”

  Coleyn nodded once again. If he’d had the boy locked up in an institution, this tragedy would never have happened. Van In got to his feet.

  “Are you all right, Doctor? Shall I call someone?”

  Coleyn waved the question aside. “Don’t worry about me, Commissioner. I have a pile of work to keep me busy.”

  Coleyn showed them to the door. When they were gone, he slumped into his chair and buried his face in his hands.

  “Prosecutor Beekman?”

  Van In called from the car on his cell phone. He’d stashed it in the glove compartment a couple of weeks earlier just in case Hannelore needed to contact him in a hurry.

  “Speaking.”

  Van In explained what he wanted. And it wasn’t to be sneered at.

  “I’ll do my best to convince the examining magistrate of the urgency of your request, Pieter,” said Beekman.

  “Then we’ll drive to his office right away.”

  Van In popped the cell phone in his inside pocket. With a bit of luck, they would soon have a search warrant and an arrest warrant, both in the name of Frederik Masyn. Thirty minutes tops.

  “Venex, here we come!”

  Guido switched on the rotating lights and hit the gas. “I hope you’re right, Pieter.”

  “I don’t want you to leave the building until I get back,” said Venex. “Is that understood?”

  Richard had just taken an extra dose of heroin. He was lying on the sofa staring at the ceiling.

  “Yes, Father.”

  A dazzling flash blinded him for a second, then all the colors disappeared. He was soon to descend into the warmth of the womb, where he would hide until his daddy took him onto his lap, caressed his head, read him a story.

  Venex made his way to the back room. A painting of a smiling Satan graced the wall by the door, but Venex didn’t deign to look at it. He opened a drawer in the sideboard, which contained a flat box and a revolver. Venex checked the barrel of the revolver, then stuffed it into the inside pocket of his coat together with the box. He then headed out into the corridor, unlocked the front door, and inhaled the crisp energizing air. This could be the hour of truth. Sink or swim, and he wasn’t afraid of drowning. His colleagues had humiliated him long enough. They had laughed at him for years because they envied his talent. And what was talent worth these days? Fifteen minutes of fame? The occasional pat on the back? An article in the papers? No, he was determined to demand respect, permanent respect. And there was only one way to do it.

  It took more than an hour to find the secret compartment in the floor. Frederik Masyn spent the entire time in his chair with officers flanking him on either side.

  “You would save us a great deal of bother if you would let us have the combination, Mr. Masyn.”

  Frederik stared at the wall. No one had the right to give him orders.

  “It’s up to you,” said Van In. He removed his cell from his pocket and punched in the number of Tuur Swartenbroeckx. The locksmith promised to be with him in less than fifteen minutes.

  “Do you mind if I ask where you were last Sunday morning?”

  “None of your business,” said Masyn.

  “The examining magistrate will be happy to hear it,” said Van In as he started to pace nervously back and forth. “Does the name Venex mean anything to you?”

  Frederik’s eyes sparkled ominously, and his lips curled into a condescending smile. “You shall not take the name of Master in vain,” he said in a reprimanding tone. Later, when all this was behind him and the police had realized who they were dealing with, they would offer their apologies and leave him in peace.

  Guido joined them in the room and signaled to Van In that he wanted a word. “One of the staff told me that the Masyns have an apartment in Blankenberge. They spend most of their weekends there.”

  Van In told Guido to contact the Blankenberge police and have the apartment checked out. He then turned back to Frederik. “It wasn’t very smart of you to leave the stolen car in Blankenberge.”

  “Venex is our father, and we are all his children. He brings light where there is darkness and knowledge where there is ignorance.”

  “Of course he does,” said Van In.

  He approached the boy and looked him in the eye. “In that case I’m your brother and brothers don’t have secrets, right?”

  Frederik relaxed. The policeman had finally realized they all had a debt of fidelity to Master. He inspected Van In with a conspiratorial look in his eyes. “Let me show you who I really am,” he said and tried to stand up, but the two officers held him back.

  “There’s no need for that,” said Van In, “not now that we’re brothers. You can wait outside.”

  The two officers looked at each other sideways.

  “Do what the boss says,” said Frederik. He held out his hand to Van In, and they both made their way to the floor safe. Frederik got to his knees in front of the hole in the floor and invited his brother to do the same. He then pulled on a pair of white gloves and entered the four-letter code. The steel door clicked open. A pile of yellowed documents was visible on the floor of the safe in addition to a number of recently typed pages in a plastic folder. Frederik leaned forward, removed the documents, and handed them to Van In.

  “I see I’m too late.”

  Tuur marched into the room, grinning from ear to ear. Guido was right behind him. Frederik turned his head and caught sight of the locksmith’s toolbox.

  “You dirty Judas,” he screamed, throwing himself at Van In like a wild animal in an attempt to recover the documents. Still on his knees, Van In fell backward and tried to keep the documents out of Frederik’s reach. The scuffle lasted no more than a few seconds. Guido grabbed Frederik by the wrist, threw his arm around the boy’s throat, and immobilized him. Frederik groaned and tried to free himself, but Guido twisted his arm up behind his back, forcing him to abandon any thoughts of escape. The two officers took over and cuffed him just to be sure. Van In scrambled to his feet, the documents firmly in his grip.

  “I’m curious,” said Guido, brushing the dust from his uniform.

  “It looks like a birth certificate.” Van In examined the handwritten lines. “In the year nineteen hundred and one, on December the thirteenth, Joris Karel Frederik Boterman was born … Son of Anna Boterman … Unmarried. Where did I hear that name before?” Van In knit his brows. “Boterman, Boterman …”

  “Deridder’s story,” said Guido. “About the priest Van Haecke and the bastard son of Aleister Crowley!” He grabbed his notebook and checked what he had written the day Jasper Simons committed suicide.

  “Take a look.” Guido pointed to two words he had circled that day: Venex and owly (oly). “Jasper’s last words.”

  Van In and Guido leafed through the other documents. Anna Boterman got married a year later to a certain Adolf Neothère Masyn, bell ringer at the Chapel of the Holy Blood.

  “Frederik’s official grandfather.”

  The bundle also included letters from Van Haecke and a report on Crowley’s visit to Bruges, all written in elegant, decorative handwriting.

  “Who would have thought?”
>
  Van In examined the yellowed pages and suddenly remembered the folder with the handmade sheets of paper they found at Trui Andries’s place.

  “Jesus H. Christ.”

  “What’s up?” asked Guido.

  “Don’t you think the idea of Frederik as a direct descendant of the most notorious satanist of all time is a little bit too good to be true?”

  “It’s possible. Everything seems to square with the story as we know it.”

  “Trui Andries was a calligrapher. What if these are counterfeit documents she made herself? What if Jasper told her what their purpose was and she decided to write that letter to State Security? The one that claimed the satanic fraternity she belonged to was planning to commit a terrible crime.”

  “That’s why she was killed,” said Guido.

  Van In nodded. “I’m guessing Venex found out about the letter. He might even have threatened to kill Jonathan if she breathed a word about the conspiracy.”

  Van In’s cell phone made them both jump.

  “Van In speaking.”

  Guido saw the color drain from the commissioner’s face. The conversation lasted no more than twenty seconds, but it was enough to set off a tremor in his boss’s hand.

  “I’ll be there in five minutes,” he said with a quivering voice. He snapped the cell phone shut and returned it to his inside pocket.

  “That was Saartje. Hannelore’s contractions have started. They’re on the way to the hospital.”

  Van In handed Guido the bundle of documents.

  “Finish things up here, and call me if there are any new developments.”

  Before Guido could say a word in response, Van In stormed out of the room like an aging roadrunner.

  “The doctor will be here in half an hour, Mrs. Martens.” The friendly nurse handed Hannelore a hospital gown and suggested she put it on while she was waiting.

  Saartje unpacked Hannelore’s suitcase. This was more exciting than anything she’d experienced in the past few days. Hannelore undressed. In her panties, she looked like a pregnant Venus de Milo, as if she’d just stepped out of an Italian Renaissance painting. Suddenly the door flew open. Hannelore grabbed the hospital gown from the bed and covered her breasts. The two women turned and stared in disbelief at the sweat-soaked monster who had just stormed into the room.