The Fourth Figure (6 page)

Van In struggled to suppress a smile. Guido spoke with such enthusiasm that half the restaurant was now listening in.

“Determined not to make the same mistake twice, God decided to put his new creatures on probation, exposing them to the temptations of the fallen angel. If they passed the ‘exam,' he would reward them with eternal life in heaven. Those who opted for the dark side were welcome to join their tempter in hell for eternity. God was sure that this procedure would make his creatures more respectful toward him than the proud angels who had betrayed his confidence. At least that's how some satanists look at it. They see Lucifer as their true master, are convinced God has treated humankind unjustly, and want to know what in heaven's name Lucifer did wrong.”

“Maybe he should have snuggled up next to Adam,” Van In said, grinning. “Then you and Frank would be respectable citizens.”

Guido pretended not to have heard his boss's remark. “According to his supporters, Lucifer was only trying to make a career for himself. He thought it was time for his creator to hand over the scepter to someone else for a change, especially after the cock-up with the angels.”

Van In ordered a second Duvel. It was only appropriate, he figured.

“So what are you trying to say, Guido?”

“How can I say what I'm trying to say if you keep interrupting me?”

“Okay, okay, I get the message.”

Guido continued. “Real satanists claim that Lucifer was the one who lifted humankind out of ignorance and gave them the chance to evolve and develop. After all,
Lucifer
means ‘bearer of light.' He gave humankind divine knowledge, just as Prometheus brought fire from heaven to earth.”

“And faced the punishment of the gods for his efforts,” said Van In. As a child, he had been plagued by nightmares of Prometheus in chains. According to the myth, an eagle flew down every day to pluck out his liver. But the liver grew back, and the eagle returned time and again to torment him for all eternity.

Guido nodded. “At least you know something about classical mythology,” he said with a degree of satisfaction.

“And you think these are the people we're up against?”

“Unlikely,” said Guido. “Like any other religion, melancholic satanism has problems with superstition. Think about the popular traditions within the Catholic Church: the ­medals, the votive offerings, the candles, praying to saints, relics with the power to heal … The list is endless. Satanism developed along similar lines. Real disciples of Lucifer don't wear penta­grams, don't spit on crucifixes, and don't indulge in blood-drenched rituals.”

“You're almost making it sound attractive,” said Van In.

“Plenty of people would agree with you. Look around. Everyone wants knowledge and possessions. Would you accuse someone of being a satanist just because they're ambitious?”

“So we're all satanists when push comes to shove?”

“That's what Frank thinks. According to him the gods—the devil included—only survive by the grace of the people who believe in them. In a world of egoism and indifference, it makes sense that Lucifer's scoring better than the God of love-thy-neighbor.”

“I'll try to remember that,” said Van In.

The waiter took advantage of the pause in the conversation to clear the table. “Can I interest you gentlemen in dessert?”

“I'll stick with the Duvel,” said Van In.

“And for you, sir?”

Guido opened the menu and ran his eye down the list of desserts. The waiter seemed irritated by the delay: “May I recommend the passion fruit and chartreuse sorbet?”

Guido ignored the suggestion and ordered vanilla ice cream with hot chocolate sauce, a traditional favorite. “Is it only me, or are waiters losing their manners these days?” he said when the smirking waiter had turned on his heels.

“Don't exaggerate, Guido. What if he'd suggested a cheese platter? You know you're a sucker for cheese!”

Van In smiled. As far as he was concerned, good and evil were an essential part of the human psyche. Every individual was free to choose the path he or she preferred to follow.

Jonathan made his way down Ezel Street, his thoughts elsewhere. He was carrying a shopping bag with fruit, vegetables, and meat—he had offered to do the grocery shopping for the cop's pregnant wife, but he had another motive for escaping her oversight. Venex lived nearby, and the need to score was getting more urgent by the minute.

The cop's wife was okay, but how would she treat him if he told her the truth? He hadn't used for three months in a row. That's what he had promised Trui, but now that she was gone, there was no more promise to keep. Life was meaningless without her. Only death could reunite them.

He turned and headed toward Slede Street in the fervent hope that Master Venex would release him from his suffering.

4

Christ the King was once a respectable residential corner of the city where Bruges's nouveau riche had clearly enjoyed architectural carte blanche. Many of the buildings were nothing short of tasteless, and the streets were named after the big shots of the day. Its former inhabitants were exceptionally proud of their neighborhood and back then the upper-middle class preferred Cardinal Mercier Street to Green Street.

But Christ the King had lost much of its luster over the years. As the city expanded, the elite of old moved out to the leafier suburbs, and the neighborhood's former inhabitants made way for average two-income families who earned just enough to save their now dilapidated town houses from the wrecking balls.

“
Sic transit gloria mundi
,” said Guido as he turned onto Keizer Karel Street.

He parked the Golf at number 79. The Simons family home was a product of the fifties, a brick box for which some brainless architect had probably been granted an award. The people who lived here were clearly true-blue natives who hadn't been able to afford a move to the new housing developments on the outskirts of the city.

“I wonder if he's home.”

“We're about to find out,” said Van In, sounding detached. In reality, he was having a hard time keeping his eyes open. Sleepless nights, Duvels, and a solid meal were a deadly combination. He grabbed his jacket from the backseat and threw open the passenger door. A cold current of air made him shiver. The dry east wind was in sharp contrast to the previous day's torrential rains.
That's Belgium for you
, he thought,
the only country in the world where the weather is crazier than the people who forecast it
.

Van In announced their presence the way the FBI boys did, leaving his finger on the doorbell until he heard footsteps in the corridor. Much to his satisfaction, it only took ten seconds before the door opened, security chain slipped into place. Van In nodded at the narrow strip of face and slippers peering at him through the crack in the door.

“Good afternoon, ma'am. Commissioner Van In. I'd like to have a word with Jasper.”

The woman's reaction was short and to the point. “Jasper isn't here,” she said and promptly slammed the door in his face.

When Guido saw Van In staring at the door in a daze, he couldn't resist a gibe: “Maybe she thinks you're a Jehovah's Witness trying out a new routine to get inside.”

“Give me a break, Guido. You don't think I'm planning to walk away, do you?”

Van In took a couple of steps backward and inspected the monotonous facade as if he were hoping to find a secret entrance. Guido stayed in the background. The rabbit “Flemish style” they had devoured for lunch was taking its revenge: heartburn for the last half hour. He remembered Van In saying that it had to have been some kind of monkey for the price they paid and not rabbit. It didn't help.

“What next? Climb the front of the house or shoot open the lock?” Guido asked, not inclined to hang around.

“Any suggestions?”

“If
I
ring the bell, she'll probably let us in. At least I'm wearing a uniform and I took the trouble to shave this morning. If I were a middle-aged woman, I'd also think twice before …”

Neither man noticed as they quibbled that a tall gentleman was watching them from behind the window.

“Cut the comedy, Guido.”

Van In reached for the bell, but as he was about to ring it, the door suddenly opened, the chain still on.

“Sorry,” said the woman with a skimpy smile. “We've had a stranger doing the rounds here in the last couple of weeks pretending he's a policeman. My husband insists I ask for some identification.”

While Van In was familiar with the reports of a police impersonator, he still didn't like being asked for an ID. The woman examined his card as if it were a winning lottery ticket. It was only when she caught sight of Guido out of the corner of her eye that she softened, loosened the chain, and opened the door.

“You can never be careful enough, gentlemen, don't you think? Please, come inside.”

Van In figured Mrs. Simons—he presumed—had to be in her midfifties. She was wearing a dark brown skirt and a black blouse with a red floral pattern.
A bird of paradise in mourning
, he thought. Her gray hair had a blue sheen to it, evidence of the blue rinses that kept countless hairdressers in business the world over.

When Van In started down the corridor, Mrs. Simons loudly cleared her throat and glared back and forth between Van In's shoes and the doormat he had just stepped over. The mat was wrapped in a moist floor cloth, making it clear to every visitor that the thing had a purpose.

“Excuse me, ma'am.”

Van In took a step backward and wiped his feet with enthusiasm. Mrs. Simons nodded approvingly.

“Come inside,” she said for a second time.

An oak shelf ran the length of the corridor with a black telephone at one end, the old Bakelite sort with a dial instead of a keypad. People who had their telephone installed in the corridor tended to make calls standing up, keeping them short and to the point. The Simonses didn't like to waste money, Van In figured. Details like that always intrigued him.

Mrs. Simons walked ahead of them and let them into a small fusty room at the end of the corridor that functioned as an office.

“Please wait here, gentlemen. My husband will be with you in a minute.”

“I was actually hoping to speak to Jasper,” said Van In, repeating his initial request.

Mrs. Simons smiled cheerlessly. She seemed to be hiding behind an invisible aura of sadness, a cocoon that engulfed her completely. “My husband will explain everything,” she said as she gently closed the door behind her.

Van In started to pace up and down. There was something ominous about the place, an indefinable feeling that this space wanted to say something about the people who occupied it. “At least we know who wears the trousers in this household,” he said. “There aren't many families left these days where the man is still the boss.”

“True.” Guido smirked. “And you should know.” In spite of the intermittent stomach cramps, the sergeant did his best to lighten up the situation. It was his way of escaping the pressing gloominess of the room.

Van In made his way to the window. A high wall and a line of unhappy pine trees managed to prevent whatever light the sky had to offer from filtering through to ground level. “Hardly a problem
chez
Guido, I imagine. Unless Frank dons a dress every now and then.”

Guido stroked his mustache with his thumb and his forefinger. “What I
meant
to say was that bossy men tend to be boring, and you're anything but. Look around, Commissioner. Compared with this, your office is a rubbish dump. You should be honored.”

Van In was forced to agree with his friend. He'd struck gold with Hannelore, who never complained when he left stuff lying around the house. He was lucky she wasn't the obsessive cleaning type. Mrs. Simons clearly belonged to the latter category. Dust and disorder were her enemy. The floor was as shiny as a puddle of water, the rolltop desk looked brand-new although it was easily antique, and the wastepaper basket was spotless and empty. The only signs of life in the place were the sansevierias on the window ledge. The room was otherwise bare and far from cozy, making the eye-catching crucifix above the fireplace stand out like a wine stain on a white tablecloth. Van In couldn't help staring up at it. An uneasy feeling started to nibble at the back of his mind, a hint that something wasn't right with it, but he didn't get much of a chance to think it over. The door flew open and a man joined them in the room. He looked like a retired tax inspector, dressed in a gray three-piece suit and wearing a tie Van In wouldn't have gifted to his worst enemy. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses framed his watery eyes.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.”

The man shook hands with Van In and Guido. He had Mickey Mouse hands—at least that was what Guido thought when Simons's hand completely swallowed up his own.

“I'm Jasper's father. What can I do for you?” The elderly man had a clear baritone voice that gave him a degree of authority.

“We were actually hoping to speak to Jasper himself,” said Van In for the third time.

Guido kept a close eye on Mr. Simons. He had the impression that the man's face hardened when Van In mentioned his son's name.

“My son is sick, Commissioner. We had him admitted to the hospital yesterday, to the psychiatric ward.”

“Is it serious?”

Mr. Simons nodded. He ran bony fingers through his thinning hair. A common response when people were confronted with a painful question. “Do you have children, Commissioner?”

Only parents with problem children knew how much sadness could lurk behind such a question. “My wife is expecting our first,” said Van In.

Mr. Simons smiled, but even his smile betrayed more pain than words could express. “Then I hope you have better luck than we did, Commissioner. A couple of years ago, the doctors diagnosed a serious psychosis. Jasper suffers from delusions and thinks that God has chosen him to kill the incarnation of Satan.”

“I'm afraid that needs a little more explanation, Mr. Simons.”

The man sat down, took off his glasses, and fidgeted an imaginary speck of dust from his eye. “Jasper thinks my wife is the devil in human form. He tried to kill her yesterday.” Simons sighed as the wrinkles in his face deepened into dark folds. It was hard for any parent to admit they'd failed. Simons buried his face in his hands and Van In gave him the time to get hold of his emotions.

“Did you know that your son was once a member of a satanic sect?” Van In asked, emphasizing “was once.”

“He was interested in that sort of thing,” said Simons wearily. He looked up from his hands and stared at Van In. “But I know nothing about a sect. He never said anything about a sect.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course, Commissioner. I'm certain.”

“Did Jasper have friends?”

“When he was admitted for the first time a couple of years ago, they all abandoned him.”

“And yet he mixed with satanists,” said Van In, a hint of disbelief in his voice.

“I told you he never spoke about a sect or satanists or anything of the sort.”

“Does the name Jonathan Leman ring a bell?”

“No.”

Van In nodded as a painful silence descended on the room. He was drawn once again to the crucifix and suddenly realized what wasn't right about it. The bottom of the vertical beam had a metal eyelet inserted in it that didn't seem to belong.

“Leman claims he's friends with Jasper. He even told us that your son had turned his back on satanism.”

The elderly man was as still as a waxworks dummy. The only thing that moved were his eyelids. … A split-second flash, but Van In noticed it all the same. “So you did know about it?”

“We thought it was a shame,” said Simons.

Van In raised his eyebrows. Had he missed something … lost the plot?

“It might sound strange to you, Commissioner, but while Jasper was involved with the satanists his behavior was relatively normal. The aggression only started after he met that bitch. She goaded him, turned him against his mother. He's never been the same since.”

No need to guess who “that bitch” is
, thought Van In. “Are we talking about Trui Andries?” he asked.

“The very one,” said Simons.

Van In realized that the next step was a crucial one, so he kept a careful eye on the elderly Simons. The man was probably unaware that Trui Andries was dead. If he confronted him with this information, he would have to express surprise in one form or another, and every detective worth his salt knew surprise was a genuine reaction that was impossible to fake.

“Trui Andries was murdered yesterday, Mr. Simons.”

Guido had been expecting this moment and was also keeping a close eye on Simons. A shiver ran through the man's entire body as his jaw fell open; then an almost beatific smile transformed his face.

“Are you telling me the truth, Commissioner?”

Van In looked at Guido, who shrugged in response. This was a career first. He had never seen someone react to the death of another human being in such a manner. He wondered what the man on the cross would think of it all.

“Trui Andries could have been your daughter-in-law, Mr. Simons. Your son was in love with her,” said Van In.

“My son was under that creature's spell,” Simons retorted. “She drove him crazy. Don't you see? It's that bitch's fault that my son is in a psychiatric ward. Of course I'm glad she's dead. Now at least I know she can no longer harm anyone.”

“You said that Jasper was only admitted yesterday,” said Van In. His casual words and tone were ill-chosen.

Simons got to his feet and shook his head back and forth, his eyes ablaze. “When Jasper was released from hospital last month for the umpteenth time, he seemed to be better, on the mend. The doctors gave us hope, but that witch couldn't bear the idea. She filled his head with crazy talk and almost drove him to kill his mother.”

Simons's pallid face turned red with rage. He suddenly grabbed his chest and seemed to lose his balance. Guido rushed forward just in time to catch him and help him into his chair. Van In charged into the corridor. Mrs. Simons had heard the commotion and came running from the kitchen.

“Your husband's having a heart attack,” Van In roared.

Mrs. Simons didn't panic. She hurried back to the kitchen and reappeared with a box of tiny pills, one of which she slipped under Mr. Simons's tongue. Van In was impressed by her calm professionalism.

“He'll be right as rain in five minutes,” she said.

Van In could feel his own heart pounding in his chest. The emergency had left him a little short of breath.