The Fourth Figure Read Free Page B

appearance—coincidentally, the local TV camera crew had also decided to call it a day; suicide wasn’t news—the federal police officer consulted with his immediate superior and informed Van In that he had no further objection to the local Bruges police taking over the case. Cooperation at its very best.
    â€œHer name is Trui Andries, and she lived here opposite at number seven,” Van In said to Guido. “They didn’t find keys on her, but I called Tuur. He promised to be here in fifteen minutes.”
    Every little victory against the “legion of darkness”—as Van In liked to call the federal police—cheered him immensely. He beamed like a self-satisfied toddler.
    Number seven was one of the better maintained houses in the Singel. The copper nameplate next to the bell had been polished, so much that the letters had almost disappeared. Van In had to step back to decipher them. WID. ANDRIES, it read. The woman who had called the feds had told him that Trui Andries’s mother had been taken to the hospital a couple of days earlier with a blood clot in the brain. Widow Andries was completely paralyzed, and the chances that she would ever leave the hospital were extremely slim. According to the neighbor, the elderly woman had been seriously ill for almost ten years. Her devoted daughter had taken care of her all that time. Apparently Trui Andries lived on benefits and her mother’s pension and rarely left the house beyond her daily visits to the hospital.
    Van In brought Guido up to date.
    â€œWorth a little praise, if you ask me,” was the sergeant’s spontaneous reaction.
    Van In nodded in agreement. Guido had experienced the same thing five years back. His mother had died of a stroke after a long illness, and he had nursed her at home to the very end.
    â€œMaybe that’s why she committed suicide.”
    â€œI don’t think so,” said Guido.
    A small Suzuki van rattled across the bridge.
    â€œThat’ll be Tuur,” said Van In.
    Guido nodded. He had a serious look on his face, worried that the commissioner was moving a little too fast.
    Arthur “Tuur” Swartenbroeckx was a burly thirty-year-old. He wore his hair in a ponytail and was dressed, as usual, in spotless overalls. Locks had fascinated him all his life and he had decided to turn his hobby into his profession. His one-man business was flourishing, enough to pay for a couple of assistants, but he preferred to work alone. His motto: You do best what you do yourself. Van In liked Tuur’s philosophy, and the two got on like a house on fire.
    The locksmith stepped out of his van, waved, and headed to the back to get his tools.
    â€œTuur. How’s the little one?”
    â€œTeething.”
    It was clear from the tiredness in his eyes that Tuur’s infant had cost him a few sleepless nights.
    â€œAnother delight to look forward to.” Van In grinned.
    Tuur grabbed his electric drill, bored the barrel out of the lock, and replaced it with a new one so Van In could lock up after he had finished checking the apartment. The job only took a couple of minutes, and he charged 2800 Belgian francs for the trouble. He knew doctors who had to get by on less. “Voilà, Commissioner.”
    â€œThanks, Tuur. Next Friday at l’Estaminet?”
    â€œDepends on the little bugger’s teeth.”
    Most Belgian town houses had the same layout: a long corridor with stairs going up and two or three connecting rooms with doors giving out onto the corridor. Widow Andries’s town house was no exception: a floral-pattern rug running the length of the corridor, a wooden chest in the middle holding an “antique” copper pot, and a couple of paintings gracing the wall, the kind they counterfeit in Taiwan by the square meter. A huge oak coat stand with brass hooks was struggling to stay upright under a mountain of winter coats.
    Van In opened the first door, which gave