Art of Murder by Jose Carlos Somoza
At that moment, Nikki came in. To Bosch, her arrival seemed like a breath of fresh air.
'Alfred, Rita: I think we'll have to call a halt to this interesting discussion for now. I need to talk to our search team.'
'As you wish,' Van Hoore said, disappointed. 'But we still need to talk about ID for the event.'
'Later, later,' said Bosch. 'I've got a lunch appointment with Benoit, but - listen everybody - before lunch I have a few minutes when ‘ have nothing scheduled. Amazing, isn't it? I'll talk to you then.'
Rita and Alfred smiled as they stood up.
'Everything's under control, Lothar,' Rita said gently as she left. 'Don't worry.'
‘I’ll try to think positively,' Bosch replied, then suddenly realised this was the same reply he used to give to Hendrickje just to make her shut up.
When the door closed behind them, Bosch took his head in his hands and breathed out a great sigh. Sitting opposite him with the apex of the desk triangle pointing at her midriff, Nikki observed him calmly. That morning she was wearing a tight-fitting jacket and trousers, whose canary-yellow colour matched the lemon yellow of her hair. Her white earpiece sat on top like a diadem.
‘I could have got here earlier,' said Nikki, "but I had to repair the damage from spending all night in front of the computer screens with Chris and Anita. I didn't look much like a decent Foundation employee this morning.'
'I understand. Appearance is everything.' Bosch smiled in symmetry with Nikki's beaming smile. 'I hope it's good news you're bringing.'
She handed over several sheets of paper, explaining as she did so.
'Morphometric similarities, considerable experience with portraits, and in cerublastyne disguises. They have all taken part in transgender work with androgynous or either sex figures. And no one knows where any of them are: we haven't been able to contact them either through painters or previous owners.'
Bosch studied the sheets of paper spread out on the desk. 'There are about thirty of them here. Couldn't you reduce the field any further?'
Nikki shook her head.
'On Friday we started out with a list of more than four hundred thousand people, Lothar. By the end of the weekend we had cut it down to first of all five thousand, then two hundred and fifty ... Anita jumped for joy when we managed to bring it down to forty-two. Early this morning we were able to sift out another fifteen. So this is the best we can do.'
'I'll tell you what we'll do now ... what we'll do now .. .'
'What we'll do is take a couple of aspirins,' Nikki said with a smile.
'Yes, that's not a bad idea to start with.'
Lothar had to be careful. Nikki and her team were not part of the 'crisis cabinet' as the committee at Obberlund had been pompously baptised, and so were unaware of everything to do with the Artist and the destruction of the two paintings. All they knew was it was vital to find someone expert in the use of cerublastyne with particular morphometric facial characteristics. And yet it was absurd to keep them out of the investigation. Thea is not going to be able to follow up all the remaining twenty-seven leads on her own, thought Bosch.
'A person doesn't just disappear into thin air, not even a sexless ornament,' he said. 'I want you to leave no stone unturned: family, friends, their last owners ...'
That's exactly what we have been doing, Lothar. No results.'
'If need be, call on Romberg's team. They have the operational capacity to move around.'
'We could look for them for a year and still come up with nothing,' Nikki replied. Bosch realised her tiredness was making her irritable. 'They may be dead, or be in hospital under another name. Or perhaps they've quit the profession: who knows? We can't search for them all on our own. Why don't we inform Interpol? The police have more resources.'
Because then Rip van Winkle would find out, thought Bosch. And, after Rip van Winkle, the Artist. Miss Wood and he had decided not to rely on Rip van Winkle unless it was absolutely necessary. They guessed that the person helping the Artist was part of the crisis cabinet and therefore that anything Rip van Winkle did would have no effect on the criminal. Lothar tried to think of a plausible excuse.
'The police won't search for anyone unless they receive a complaint, Nikki. And even if a family member of one of the canvases has reported their disappearance, the police work at their own pace. It's got to be us.'
Nikki looked at him sceptically. Bosch realised she was too clever not to see this as a sham, because Interpol would have done a belly dance if the Foundation had asked it to, complaint or no complaint.
'All right,' Nikki agreed after a pause. ‘I’ll use Romberg and his team. We'll divide the work.'
Thanks,' Bosch said sincerely. Nikki, you're much more intelligent than I gave you credit for, he thought admiringly.
The intercom buzzed, and the switchboard voice came on.
'Mr Bosch: you have Mr Benoit on line three, but he says that I can reply if you're too busy. And on line two, your brother.'
Roland, thought Lothar. He could not stop himself glancing across at the photo of Danielle. The girl was smiling mischievously at him. Thank God, Roland at last.
Tell Benoit... what is it he wants to ask me?'
Benoit wanted to confirm they were having lunch together in his office at midday. Bosch said yes, impatiently.
'Tell my brother not to hang up,' he said, turning to Nikki. 'Find out where they all are now. We won't cross anyone off the list until we're sure they're either dead, have been bought, or are up for auction.'
'OK, and don't forget the aspirins.'
'I couldn't forget them even if I wanted to. Thanks, Nikki.'
Bosch shut his eyes when Nikki smiled at him. He wanted to keep her smile as his last mental image of her before she left the room. Once he was on his own, he picked up one of the cordless phones and pushed line two.
'Roland?'
'Hello there, Lothar.'
Lothar pictured his brother speaking from his own office, beneath the ghastly hologram of a human throat he always had on the wall. Lothar still wondered what on earth had happened to the Bosch family. One of the great secrets of the universe would be solved when someone worked out why his father had been a lawyer for a tobacco firm, his mother a history teacher, he himself a policeman and then a security chief for a private art firm, and his brother an ear, nose and throat specialist. Without forgetting little Danielle, who wanted to be ... or rather, who already was ...
'Roland, I've been trying to get in touch with you for days ...'
'I know, I know.' He could hear his brother's nervous laugh. 'I was at a congress in Sweden, and Hannah went to Paris. I suppose you were ringing about Nielle. You've heard, haven't you? ... Well, we played a dirty trick on you, and we're both sorry about that. But you have to understand: Stein strictly forbade us to say anything to you. So to explain your niece's absence we made up the story about her becoming a boarder at school. Don't think you were the only one who was deceived though. I only found out about all this less than two months ago ... It was Hannah's idea to introduce Nielle to Mr Stein. And Van Tysch took her on as a figure for an original straightaway! It's all happened in complete secrecy. They even told us that if Danielle hadn't been underage, we need never have known about it.'
'I understand, Roland. Don't worry.'
'My God, it's incredible. Well, you'll know that better than me. They have ... what do they call it ... they've primed her, they've shaved her eyebrows off ... At first we weren't even allowed to see her... then they took us to the Old Atelier and we could watch her through a two-way mirror. She had labels round her neck, her hand and her feet. I thought ... we thought she looked like a beautiful creature. I think we should be proud, Lothar. But do you know what she's most proud about? The fact that it's her uncle who is protecting her!'
Again his laughter at the far end of the line. Bosch closed his eyes and held the earpiece away from him. He felt a strong urge to break something. But he did not dare cut Roland off.
A pause. Bosch was staring at Danielle's portrait on his desk.
'Lothar?' his brother asked.
‘Yes, Roland.'
'Is anything the matter?'
Of course something's the matter, you idiot. The matter is that you've allowed your daughter to become a painting. The matter is that you've let her be part of this exhibition. The matter is I want to tear you to pieces.
'No, nothing in particular,' he replied. ‘I wanted to know how you were.'
'We're very nervous. What's happening with Nielle has got Hannah climbing the walls. And that's logical. It's not every day that your ten-year-old daughter becomes an immortal work of art. I've heard that at the end of next week Van Tysch is going to sign her with a tattoo on her thigh. Does that hurt?'
'No more than your tonsil operations’ Bosch joked half-heartedly. Then he plucked up the courage to say what he had to say. 'Roland, I was wondering ...'
He could see her. He could see her lying back in the garden at Scheveningen, with the shadows from the leaves of an apple tree making a jigsaw pattern on her skin. He saw her stretched out in the sun, or talking to him while she scratched the sole of her foot. He could see her at Christmas, wearing a turtle-neck jersey with her golden curls cascading down her back, her mouth stained with cake. She was a little girl. A ten-year-old girl. But the problem wasn't the almost impossible idea that she should become a painting. It wasn't the dreadful fantasy of finding her naked and immobile in some collector or other's house. Any of this would have been depressing enough, but Lothar would never have protested: after all, he was not her father.
The problem was the Artist.
Be careful. Don't let him suspect that Danielle might be in danger.
'Roland, I was wondering . ..' he tried to sound as casual as possible. 'This is between just you and me . .. But I was wondering whether it might not be better to show a copy rather than Nielle.'
'A copy?'
'Yes; let me explain. When a model is underage, the parents or legal guardians always have the last say ...' 'We signed a contract, Lothar.'
'I know, but that doesn't matter. Let me finish. To all intents and purposes, Nielle will still be the original model of the work, but for a short period another girl will replace her. That's what we mean by a copy'
'Another girl?'
Expensive works always have substitutes, Roland. They don't even have to look the same: there are products to disguise them, you know. Nielle would still be the original, and when someone buys her we would make sure it was her who was on show in the buyer's house. But if we substitute her we can avoid her having to be in this exhibition. They are always very difficult. There'll be lots of visitors, and the hours are very tough ...'
Lothar was amazed at himself, at his ability to be so revolt-ingly hypocritical. Above all, he was astonished to realise how little he was concerned about the girl who would stand in for Danielle. He himself recognised how desperate this plan was, but it was a choice between his niece and an unknown girl. People like Hendrickje would have opted for being sincere, and openly revealing what was going on, or accepting that Danielle would have to run the risks, but he was not as perfect as Hendrickje. He was vulgar. And vulgar people, as Bosch saw it, behaved in exactly this way: meanly, in a convoluted fashion. All his life he had preferred silence to words, and now was going to be no exception.
'You mean that as parents we have the authority to withdraw Danielle from the work and get them to use a substitute in her place?' Roland asked after a pause.
'That's right.'
'And why would we want to do that?'
'I've already explained. The exhibition will be tough for her.'
'But she's been preparing for it for three months, Lothar. She's been painted in secret at some farm or other south of Amsterdam, and I. . .'
‘I’m telling you from experience. This kind of exhibition is very hard ...'
'Oh come on, Lothar.' His brother's voice had taken on a mocking tone. 'There's nothing bad about what Nielle is doing. If it appeases your Calvinist conscience, Nielle isn't even going to be on show naked. We don't yet know the title of the work or what the figure will be like, but in the contract we signed it stipulates quite clearly that she won't be naked in public. Of course, for all the sketches they made of her she was completely in the nude, but that was in the contract, too ...'
'Listen, Roland.' Bosch was trying to stay cool. He was holding the phone in one hand, while he briskly rubbed his temple with the other. 'It's not a question of how Nielle will be on show or how prepared she is for it. It's simply that the exhibition will be very tough. If you agree, a substitute can take her place in the Tunnel. Showing a copy rather than the original is quite common in a lot of exhibitions . ..'
There was a silence. Bosch felt almost like praying. When Roland spoke again, his tone of voice had altered: it was more serious, harsher.
'I could never play a trick like that on Nielle, Lothar. She's very excited. I go hot and cold just thinking about her and the amazing opportunity she's got. Do you know what Stein told us? That he had never seen such a young and yet so professional canvas. That's what he called her: a canvas ... And he also said that with time, our daughter might even become a new Annek Hollech! . .. Can you imagine our own Nielle being the Annek Hollech of the future? Just think of that!'
The outside world disappeared for Bosch. All that was left was this excited voice scratching at his eardrums.
'I have to admit it cost me a lot to imagine my daughter this way, but now I'm fully behind it, and Hannah agrees with me. We want Nielle to be on show and admired. I think that's the secret dream of all fathers. I can understand that the experience may be tough, but it can't be any worse than being in a film or play, can it? You'd be surprised how many children are famous works of art nowadays ... Lothar? ... are you still there? ...'
'Yes,' said Bosch, 'I'm still here.'
For the first time, Roland's voice sounded hesitant.
'Lothar, is there some problem you're not telling me about?'
Ten cuts, eight of them in crosses. The bones were splintered and the inner organs reduced to dust, to cigarette ash. How about that for a problem, Roland? How about me telling you the story of a madman called the Artist?
'No, Roland, there's no problem. I think the exhibition will be fine, and Danielle magnificent. Bye.'
After he hung up, he got to his feet and went over to the window. A golden sun hung heavily over the small buildings and the green space of Vondelpark. He recalled that a weather forecast had said there would be rain in the week of the opening. Perhaps God would bring down a flood on those damned curtains and 'Rembrandt' would be postponed.
But Bosch knew he would have no such luck: history showed that God protected the arts.
*
Benoit occasionally liked to give the impression he hid nothing from the works of art. In his velvety office on the seventh floor of the New Atelier there were eight of them, and two at least were sufficiently expensive for the Conservation director to show as often as he could that he treated them with more respect than human beings. This of course included holding conversations with his guests in front of them without getting them to put on ear protectors.
His office was tranquil and comfortable, cus