The Fourth Figure (18 page)

A slovenly dressed waiter brought the Duvel he had ordered. Its frothy head had collapsed. Van In paid the man and made a mental note never to come back. He sipped at the beer and made a face. It tasted of dishwashing liquid, and there were traces of lipstick on the rim. He couldn't help comparing the Duvel with the case he was investigating: Both left a foul taste in his mouth.

The conversation with Ms. Meerseman had clarified a number of things, but he still didn't have enough to draw conclusions. They needed more information, and at this stage, they were still grasping at straws.

“Deridder has no reason to complain,” said Van In as they pulled up to the house an hour later.

Guido pulled on the handbrake and unclicked his seat belt. “He remarried last year,” he said with a grin. “A widow with money in the bank.”

“Some people always land on their feet.”

Van In took a last puff of his cigarette and stepped out of the car. Deridder's villa, a hideous pile of stones with a thatched roof, Flemish ironwork, and oak doors, was flanked on either side by two similar monstrosities in a chic Bruges suburb. A smart town-and-country planning official had had a row of poplars planted to ensure that the residential area wasn't visible from the nearby highway.

“Orphans and widows,” said Van In. “Everything pays off if you know how to work it.”

The current Mrs. Deridder was a friendly lady in her fifties and matched Van In's image of a rich widow to perfection. She was dressed in a stylish outfit that discreetly camouflaged her rotund figure, and the gold draped around her neck and wrists was worth enough to send an average family on holiday every year for the rest of their lives.

“Could we have a word with Mr. Deridder?”

The woman's ruby-red lips unfolded into a broad smile. “We don't need anything right now, but please, gentlemen, come inside. Who shall I say is here?”

“Pieter Van In and Guido Versavel.”

Van In felt like a door-to-door salesman. He wanted to add “Cheese specialists to his majesty the king” but stopped himself just in time. The very mention of royalty would probably have prompted a substantial order. Her husband loved his cheese, no doubt.

“My husband is in his studio. He's a painter, you know. He has an exhibition lined up for next year in the old market hall. Very prestigious.”

She floated along the corridor like a quilted wood nymph. Van In and Guido followed. If Guy Deridder didn't achieve success as a painter, he could always write a letter to the
Guinness Book of Records
. After Graceland, his home was the undisputed Kingdom of Kitsch. Pink wallpaper with green leprechauns, gilded telephones, crystal chandeliers, a canary yellow lounge suite, curtains with rhinestones, fluffy dinosaurs, framed jigsaw puzzles on the wall, Greek goddesses and lecherous satyrs, a stuffed poodle with its fossilized snout still stuck in its bowl, a spluttering fountain surrounded by plastic vegetation, Persian rugs
Made in Korea
, a collection of Barbie dolls in an empty aquarium, and two pairs of house slippers with images of Joseph and Mary.

“We have visitors, Guy.”

Mrs. Deridder's harrowing voice sounded like the trumpet blast that brought down the walls of Jericho.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Deridder.”

The former janitor at Suffer Little Children was wearing a white smock and a black bow tie. Van In placed him in his early forties.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. How can I be of service?”

Deridder handed his brush and palette to his chubby wood nymph of a wife and turned toward his visitors with the air of a genuine artiste.

“We're from the police,” said Van In. “It's about Jonathan Leman.”

“Ah. How's the boy doing these days?”

“Not well at all, Mr. Deridder.”

“Oh, such a shame.”

Van In perused the walls of Deridder's studio. His work reminded him of the leprechauns on the wallpaper, the gilded telephones, and the Persian rugs
Made in Korea
. “We would greatly appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Deridder.”

The face of the amateur dauber beamed, but Van In had no delusions. A man who had ripped off a pack of nuns for the best part of ten years had to be smart by definition.

“And I imagine you're also interested in Trui Andries?”

Van In nodded. So much for Sister Marie-Louise's claim that Deridder didn't interact with the other staff.

“Take a seat, gentlemen.”

Deridder winked at the wood nymph, and she knew immediately what she had to do.

“Champagne?” she asked.

The wood nymph turned and tiptoed out of the studio like an aging ballerina without waiting for confirmation.

Deridder's interior design skills may have been atrocious, but he clearly knew his champagne.

“Veuve Clicquot, La Grande Dame, 1989. Cheers.”

Van In sipped at the pretentious flute, a crystal vase with a gilded rim. “You knew that Jonathan was Trui's nephew.”

Deridder nodded and popped a cigarette into a meerschaum holder.

“Trui was a good girl, Commissioner. She wanted to look after Jonathan. After her sister took her own life, Trui applied no fewer than eight times for a job at the orphanage.”

“Did the sisters at the orphanage know they were related?”

Deridder puffed at his cigarette. “The sisters finally took her on when she agreed to work for eighty percent of the normal pay. In such circumstances, no one asked any questions.”

Van In sipped at the champagne. It was soft, refreshing, with a hint of raspberry.

“And now I'm guessing you'll want to know about Jasper Simons,” said Deridder, leaning back in his chair like a Turkish pasha. “Trui persuaded the sisters to give Jasper a job.”

“At eighty percent of the normal pay?”

“Seventy-five, Commissioner. Jasper had a psychiatric history. Good deeds had to bring in the bacon, and the sisters knew how to run a business.”

Van In liked the man's cynicism.

“I heard that Jasper had trouble with hallucinations. Something about the devil …”

“Jasper was a satanist. At least that's what he claimed. When Trui found out, she was determined to convert him, just as she was determined to be a mother for Jonathan. She thought that the social work being done in the orphanage would open Jasper's eyes.”

The pieces of part of the puzzle came together seamlessly. Jonathan had told the truth in that respect. Trui had descended into hell to save the ones she loved.

“Do you think she—”

Deridder anticipated the question. “Trui converted to satanism to convince Jasper of the error of his ways. She studied for months on end to be able to refute his arguments.”

Van In emptied his glass in one gulp. That explained the extensive library. “And the sisters didn't appreciate it, so they let her go.”

“How did you guess, Commissioner?”

Mrs. Deridder topped up the glasses. She clearly knew how to spoil a man.

“One thing still bothers me,” said Van In.

“Did I screw the sisters out of three million?”

“That's your business, Mr. Deridder. As far as I'm concerned, you only took what you were entitled to. But didn't you read in the papers that we wanted to question you?”

Deridder smiled. “Have you heard of the Confucian Circle, Commissioner?”

“What does that have to do with it?”

“A great deal, Commissioner. You were fated to meet me. To be honest, I expected you yesterday.”

Guido smiled. According to the Confucian Circle principle, when you met someone, you would also meet their friends and acquaintances one day.

“I'm guessing your next question will be about Venex,” said Deridder.

Van In heaved a silent sigh of relief. “Do you know him?”

“Venex is a common drug dealer who screws around with young people's heads.”

“Is he a satanist?”

Deridder smiled. “Venex is a businessman. He only believes in money.”

“Who is he?”

“I don't know, Commissioner. Jonathan told me about him, but when I asked about the man's identity, he clammed up. He often spoke about the legacy of Lodewijk Van Haecke, though, the Holy Blood chaplain.”

Guido raised his eyebrows. He remembered the portrait of the satanic priest in the cellar of the Sons of Asmodeus.

“According to reports, the chaplain received a visit around the turn of the century from Aleister Crowley, an occultist renowned in those days as the pope of satanism. The story goes that the chaplain provided Crowley with female company for the night. The girl, a certain Anna Boterman, got pregnant and later gave birth to a son. They say the boy inherited Crowley's fortune.”

“How do you know all this?”

“Jasper told me when he'd had one too many. He refused to come back to the orphanage after that.”

Van In took a sip of the excellent champagne. It was becoming clear that Venex was the kingpin, the man Trui had written about in her letter, and, in all probability, the brain behind the mass killing. But why? If he wasn't a satanist, then why kill nine innocent churchgoers? And Crowley. Where had he heard that name before?

“So you think Venex had Jonathan completely in his power?”

Deridder nodded. “Jonathan didn't have the financial means to get hold of drugs.”

“And Jasper?”

“I don't think Jasper was doing heroin.”

“Richard Coleyn?”

“Coleyn? Absolutely.” Deridder said the name Coleyn with an element of disdain, enough to draw Van In's attention.

“Do you know him?”

The affable amateur fidgeted nervously with his bow tie. “I know who his father is,” he said.

“So you're not a big fan of psychiatrists either,” said Van In with a smile.

“No, Commissioner.”

“Thank God,” said Van In.

Deridder's hand tightened around his glass, and his knuckles turned white. “I imagine you know what happened to my first wife.”

Van In nodded. He looked at the wood nymph, but she seemed to be just as upset. Her eyes filled with tears, and she reached for a box of Kleenex.

“Tania”—he hadn't spoken his first wife's name in ages—“was unable to have children. So when Jonathan was brought to the orphanage, we applied to adopt him. Dr. John Coleyn was chair of the committee that dealt with such applications and made recommendations.”

Deridder emptied his glass in a single gulp. The wood nymph refilled it immediately.

“We weren't good enough to adopt a child. Our living quarters were inadequate, we didn't earn enough money, and our psychological profile didn't correspond to that of the model family.”

Deridder sounded bitter. Dr. Coleyn's recommendation was an insult that had been etched in his memory for eternity. “Nobody said a word about the psychiatrist and all his mistresses.”

Guido looked at Van In, hoping the commissioner would learn a lesson from Deridder's words. Van In sensed his colleague's reproachful gaze.

“Did you know that Jonathan is the son of Veerle Andries and John Coleyn?”

Guy Deridder slammed down his glass, and his cheerful expression disappeared. “The bastard.”

Silence filled the studio. Van In thought about Hannelore. He had to find her whatever it took and beg her to forget the incident with Saartje, on his bended knees if he had to.

“Interesting conversation,” said Guido.

Van In hit the gas. The tires spun and dug themselves into the gravel like hungry trenchers. The Golf shot into reverse and left deep tracks in the neatly leveled driveway.

Guido clicked his safety belt, leaned forward, and switched on the rotating lights. “At least the other people on the road will be able to get out of the way when they see you coming,” he said stoically.

Van In hit the brakes, and the Golf jolted like a badly sprung baby carriage.

“Guido, the queen of bellyaching,” Van In said, crunching into first gear. The sturdy German car accepted the shock and blindly obeyed the foot of its master. Typical German!

“Tell me what's on your mind.”

Van In slowed down. A police car with rotating lights doing twenty-five brought a smile to more than a few faces on the street.

“I'm going around the bend.”

“Do you suspect John Coleyn?”

“At least he has a motive.”

“So does Deridder, Pieter. I found him a little too smug. Too good to be true. And didn't he work in a hospital for a while? That gives him a medical background. And don't forget Mr. Simons. He hated Trui with a vengeance.”

“And what about the shooting?”

Guido didn't answer. It seemed unlikely that one of the three suspects would have shot eight, now nine, people dead in cold blood. “What do we do now?”

Van In hit the gas. “First I make peace with Hannelore, and tomorrow we make another round of visits.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“Shall I drop you off at home?”

Guido nodded.

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.