Art of Murder by Jose Carlos Somoza
'Think positively, Lothar.'
For the moment, he just sat there surveying the images on the screen. In particular, he stared at the young woman's face. She stared calmly back at him from the computer.
It's not a woman, it's a canvas. We are what other people pay us to be.
Bosch did not know her, and had never spoken to her. He read her complete name, and tried to pronounce it under his breath. Her family name was quite difficult for him. Rieyes. Reies. Rayes. Miss Rieyes or Reiyes was from Madrid. Hendrickje and he had occasionally spent their summer holidays in Mallorca, and Bosch had been to Madrid, Barcelona, Bilbao and other Spanish cities for various exhibitions. None of that was important now, but details like that helped him think of her as a human being facing danger. Clara Raiyes or Clara Reies had an expressive, sweet look to her, yet deep in her eyes there was a light that not even the computer image could conceal. Bosch surmised that she was a young woman full of life and hopes, someone who wanted to succeed, to push herself to the limit. He thought of Emma Thorderberg and her boisterous cheerfulness. Clara reminded him a little of Emma. How would Miss Wood and he, how would the Foundation and the wretched painter whose works they were meant to be protecting, pay for the destruction of the hopes of this young woman? How would 'Grandad Paul' restore the life and happiness that shone from the face in front of him? Would Kurt Sorensen be able to find an insurance company to bring her life back? How much money was it worth to torture her to death? That was something they should ask Saskia Stoffels.
It's not a woman, it's a canvas.
All at once he conjured up the face of Postumo Baldi peering over her. An empty blue gaze like a painted sky in a picture. His eyes are mirrors. Then the whirring canvas cutter getting closer and closer to her face . ..
Think positively. Let's think positively. We're all going to think positively about this.
To Hell with it.
He leapt up from the computer.
'Nikki, get me a vehicle and three guards. They don't have to be from the SWAT teams, they just need to be armed.' She looked at him in surprise. 'What are you going to do, Lothar?'
Precisely. That was the question. What are you going to do, Lothar? Something. No matter what, but something. I'm not an artist and I don't like modern art, so I have to do something. I'm no good at anything else: I have to do things, I need to do them. That's enough of thinking positively: now it's time to act positively, isn't it, Hendri?
'Just remember that the Amsterdam police are on this guy's tail right now,' said Nikki. Bosch saw a different kind of gleam in her eyes. Was she worried about him? That was funny.
'I'll remember’ he said.
'You'll have the vehicle and the three men straightaway’ Nikki replied. That was the end of their conversation.
21.30.
Gustavo Onfretti surveyed them one by one. They were all still painted and in costume. The students from The Anatomy Lesson were in their dark Puritan clothes and white ruffs, The Syndics still had their broad-brimmed hats on. Kirsten, the woman-corpse, had bent double her fantastic, crude anatomy in a chair at the far end of the Portakabin. He himself was sitting with the models from Ox, and was still wearing the ochre-painted loincloth. His body, painted in streaks of earth colour and gleaming yellow, was aching from the long hours spent on the cross, from which he had been brought down only half an hour earlier. Conservation had gathered all the canvases together in the Art Portakabin. They probably wanted to make sure the paintings were all in good shape and had not suffered any damage.
Onfretti could not complain, but the astonished expression on his face gave him the look of someone returned from the dead.
How come nobody knew anything about the special effects for his painting, when everything was supposed to have been planned by the Art Department well in advance? Why had Conservation not been told that the Christ was an interactive performance piece, and that at a certain moment he was going to 'die', making the earth tremble and everything go dark?
He recalled how devotedly Van Tysch had planned everything during the weeks they had worked together at Edenburg. 'A nerve-wracking experience’ he had noted in his diary. The moment of his supposed 'death' with his shouts and the Tunnel's mechanically induced shuddering, had been painted and repainted to the point of exhaustion. The Maestro had told Mm it was very important that all this should happen at exactly the right moment, and he had set up a small warning light at the far end of the Tunnel so that Onfretti would know when he had to start shouting. But the public and Art and Conservation were meant to know about it, and the quake was supposed to be a small one. That, at least, was what Van Tysch had told him.
Onfretti wondered why on earth Van Tysch had lied to him.
When he had finished painting him, Van Tysch had kissed him on the cheek. 'I want you to feel betrayed by me’ he had suggested.
Now Onfretti thought the phrase had been more than a suggestion.
22.32.
As Bosch left the Portakabin, he was thinking things over.
If the Artist had taken the painting out of Amsterdam, there was nothing he could do. He would have to let the police or the SWAT team find the whereabouts of the van and pray they got to it in time. But what if he had decided to destroy it in Amsterdam? Bosch thought of all the possible places, and immediately dismissed the parks and public places. It wouldn't be a hotel either, because the figures were painted and might arouse suspicion. Then he thought of the man who was helping the Artist from inside the Foundation. Could he have provided him with somewhere quiet so that the destruction could take place without any problem? If that were the case, he must have anticipated that Amsterdam's entire police force would immediately set out in pursuit of the work. The place, wherever it was, had to be completely safe. Somewhere with lots of room, somewhere empty .. .
It was then that Bosch remembered what Nikki had told him a few minutes earlier.
At their last meeting, Van Hoore had suggested that the evacuated paintings should not be taken to the Old Atelier, because it was 'closed and empty', as Stein himself had told him.
Closed and empty.
It was a chance in a thousand, and Bosch was sure he was getting it wrong, but he had to bet on something. Let's trust our intuition, shouldn't we, Hendri my love?
He saw the three guards coming towards him. He guessed they must have been sent by Nikki. He ran towards them, worried he might slip on the sodden ground. It was raining heavily again.
'Where's the van?' he asked the first man. He recognised Jan Wuyters, who he had been talking to in the Tunnel before everything came tumbling down. It seemed like a good omen that they were together again.
The van was parked in Museumstraat. The four of them ran to it through the rain. The people in the square had dispersed by now, but there were still some police cars and ambulances.
'Where are we headed?' Wuyters asked him as they climbed into the vehicle.
To the Old Atelier.'
He could well be mistaken, of course, but he had to bet on something.
The girl's face. The whirling blade. He had to take a chance.
22.37.
'Strange the impression all this makes without furniture or decoration, isn't it? Even the guest rooms have camp beds, neither better nor worse than the one the Maestro sleeps in. It looks more empty or abandoned than monastic, doesn't it... but the smell of oil paint adds something different: as if it were brand new, about to be revealed, don't you think ... ?'
Stein was like a guide commenting on all the noteworthy characteristics of the place for a group of tourists. He waved his hand for Miss Wood to follow him. They chose a door to the left, and entered a shadowy world of echoes.
'It's not that strange after all. We all tend to decorate our homes with things we have found on our journeys. Van Tysch has done the same. But all his journeys have been interior ones. All this is the product of what he has found inside himself. The souvenirs of his mind. When I came to the restored castle for th
Stein's voice sounded weary. His words had the ring of something inevitable about them. He seemed preoccupied by a nebulous idea, as if his thoughts were tiny beings dancing round him.
Miss Wood was clutching the watercolour she had taken from Victor Zericky's house. It showed a naked woman kneeling on the ground, leaning forward with her head turned towards the spectator. Miss Wood had immediately recognised the posture she had seen Susanna in during the signing session at the Atelier. She could understand how when he saw the watercolour as a boy, little Bruno's mind would have been set ablaze with dreams. And she could also understand how, as an adult, he could want to recreate it in the defenceless, desirable figure of Rembrandt's Susanna. Links between past and present, life and work, were frequent in all painters. What was most troubling in this case were the implications. She had decided to visit the castle and confront them. He'll have to let me in and answer my questions, she thought. But the person who received her, standing in the doorway to the inner courtyard, was Jacob Stein.
Now they were walking down a corridor. At the far end she could see another yard with a chequerboard floor. Night was flooding the distant tiles with its lunar tints.
'Who is helping Postumo Baldi?' asked Miss Wood. 'It's obvious he's not working alone. Who has given him all the information? Who has passed him the badges, codes, access numbers, the shifts our guards were working, the paintings' habits? And who told him what was going to happen in the Tunnel today and the exact time?'
A vague smile appeared on Stein's face.
'So you even know that Postumo Baldi is involved ... Ah, galismus, our guard dog, our beloved and faithful guard dog ... Van Tysch used to tell me: "Be careful with her. She'll pick up the scent and get her jaws on the prey before we're ready." And he was right. You are perfect.'
His praise made her shudder.
'Answer my questions, please.'
'When did you realise it was us?' Stein asked her instead. Miss Wood's brain raced.
‘I never did,' she said, then added: 'Why would Van Tysch want to destroy his own works?'
'Destroy? Fuschus, Miss Wood, whoever said that? We are creators, not destroyers. We are artists.'
They crossed the tiled courtyard. Miss Wood had never visited this part of Edenburg castle before. It was very imposing: bare floors and walls. The only architectural detail was the smooth timber columns. The night stretched above them like a sea in the darkness.
'But to be honest, I would not wish to attribute to myself the creation of this work,' Stein said, absent-mindedly once more.
They found themselves in another empty, tiled room. At the far end was another door, but this one seemed different somehow. Miss Wood was still tense. She knew Stein was trying to undermine her defences without facing her openly. Stein was used to manipulating people, not overcoming them. She had to stay on guard.
The door was made of metal and had a lock with a security combination. Stein punched in the numbers, and opened the groaning metal sheet to reveal a completely dark interior. He turned back to Miss Wood with a theatrical gesture.
'The Maestro alone is responsible for the work. But he would be very pleased to know you will be one of the first to see it.'
And he showed her in.
22.40.
The young man called Matt had gone from one to the other of them lifting the portable recorder like a sacred object. The texts were short, so it had not taken long to read them. Krupka and
Clara had needed to repeat one phrase because they had stumbled over it. Clara found it hard to concentrate on what she was reading, as well as on what the Elders were saying. This was a shame, because they seemed like very interesting reflections on the true meaning of art. The word 'destruction' cropped up in all three texts. Clara also realised that the fact whether they understood or not what they were reading was of no importance. She was struck in particular by one of the phrases she had to read. 'The art that survives is dead art.' She pronounced this with all due reverence.
Satisfied, Matt switched off the recorder. His next order did not take Clara by surprise - she had been expecting it - but her anxiety increased all the same. She could tell she was trembling as she hurried to carry it out.
Matt had asked them to strip naked.
The Elders took much longer about it than she did. They were not even sure how to get the heavy, oil-painted clothes off without help, whereas all she had to do was take off her robe. She folded it and left it on the chair. Krupka got undressed before Rodino, who was not only struggling with his vast tunic, but also seemed uncertain as to why they had to do all this in the first place. Clara was tempted to give him a hand, but restrained herself. That would have been a hyperdramatic error. The Elders were detestable. She was their defenceless victim. That was how things should continue to be. Just thinking about what might happen next made her shudder with disgust, but at the same time she felt a powerful feeling of satisfaction.
'Was it the Maestro who gave all these instructions?' Rodino asked.
'Your clothes, please,' Matt replied with complete calm.
Rodino obeyed without another word. Krupka helped him. Clara, who was standing some distance from them, utterly naked and utterly nervous, had decided not to look at the two men. It was easier for her to imagine them as cruel if she did not look at them. But Rodino's doubts were like cold water thrown in her face. Why couldn't that fat, clumsy canvas just shut up and obey, as Krupka had? Krupka was far more odious than Rodino, more detestable, and therefore the better work of art. By focusing her thoughts on Krupka, Clara managed to feel sick from terror. She suspected that Krupka would not have to pretend to fling himself on her and hurt her: ever since they had seen each other for the first time in Schiphol, he had been constantly devouring her with his sensual, shining eyes. Which meant the Hungarian was a good ally for any 'leap into the void'.
She heard the deep rumble of a curtain coming down. Clara guessed this meant Rodino was finally naked.
She went on staring at the floor between her bare feet. She could see the foreshortened perspective of her painted breasts, with the erect nipples gleaming in rose and ochre. But the silence was so profound she was forced to look up.
Matt had turned his back on them and was searching for something in his case.
'What's next?' asked Krupka.
The young man turned towards them once more. He was holding something in his hand. A pistol. 'This is next,' he said simply.
22.50.
Perhaps it was too late already. 'But don't admit defeat until you have to, Lothar', Hendrickje whispered in his ear. They had crossed the Amstel bridge at top speed and headed towards Plantage through the intense curtain of rain. The windscreen wipers could not cope, so that to Bosch it seemed as if they were driving through an underwater city. All of a sudden the walls of the Old Atelier buildings loomed up in their headlights like tall cliffs. A complicated aerosol graffiti decorated the lower sections. It was signed by a neo-Nazi group.
'Drive into the underground car park, Jan,' Bosch said.
The front door to the Foundation was closed, but that meant nothing, if he's brought them to the Atelier, he must have the keys.' One of the men got out and dealt with the electronic keypad that allowed them access. As the van negotiated the descent, the car-park lights came on. Under the blinking fluorescent strips they could see it was empty and silent. But Bosch still thought the other vehicle might be there somewhere.
Then all at once there was the parked van, as if it had been lying in wait for them, beside a block of lifts. To Bosch's surprise this discovery, which apparently confirmed his theory, had the effect of almost totally unnerving him. He swivelled in his seat and hit Wuyters on the arm. 'Here! Stop here!'
The engine was st
The van looked empty, but they had to check it out. He opened the front door, looked inside, and breathed in a rasping smell of oil paint. No one there.