Art of Murder

by Jose Carlos Somoza

'Oh, I'm so sorry. A lot worse?' 'Worse.'

  Conversations about April Wood's private life tended to be monosyllabic, words uttered succinctly followed by prolonged silences. 'Good', 'bad', 'better' and 'worse' were the preferred options. As a result, all Bosch knew about her were rumours. He had heard that her father had influenced her significantly in a way he did not like to speculate on, and that he was now very ill in a private hospital in London. He also knew that Wood had never married, and that comments about her possible lesbianism were not infrequent. But the previous head of security, Gerhard Weyleb, had told him about her stormy relationship with Hirum Oslo, one of the most important and influential art critics in all Europe. Bosch admitted he only knew Oslo slightly, but even so could not see what possible attraction a woman like April could have found in that skinny, crippled, helpless creature.

  Miss Wood was as passionate a mystery as the unexplored ocean bed. When they had first been introduced, Bosch had not liked her at all.

  Judging by what had happened with Hendrickje, he surmised that he would end up falling in love with her.

  Tm really sorry about that, April,' he said.

  She nodded briefly, then immediately changed her tone of voice.

  'Great work, Lothar.'

  'Thanks.'

  Wood was not lavish with her praise, so these words made Lothar feel good. He did not believe he deserved them personally It was his team who had done it all: the wonderful Nikki and the others. They had been busy with the task ever since Wood had suggested the possibility of comparing morphometric similarities in the images of all the people who had visited the exhibitions in Vienna and Munich. 'It's likely he came to explore the terrain before he went into action’ she had said, 'and most probably he did it in disguise.' The computers in the lower basement at the Atelier had not stopped their frantic activity since

  Wednesday. Bosch had got the results that Friday morning, on his return from Munich. He was satisfied with his team's work, and pleased that she should acknowledge it.

  'I'll tell you something,' Miss Wood said. 'My main doubt was whether it was several people or just one. In the first case, we would have been up against a well-structured organisation with people trained to carry out specific functions. The second possibility makes it more likely we're dealing with a specialist. That makes it more difficult, because we can't catch the small fry first and hope they lead us to the ringleader. We'll have to go shark fishing, Lothar. Are there any comparisons between the computer images of the girl with no papers and the supposed art dealer?'

  'On the last page.'

  Wood turned to it. On the left was a blow-up of the girl in Vienna and Munich; below them the face of the fake Weiss; at the top in the centre was the man spotted in Vienna and Munich; below that, a photo of Oscar Diaz; and on the right, the computer portraits of the girl without papers and the other girl called Brenda, drawn on the basis of information supplied by the barman in Vienna and Sieglinde Albrecht. They were six different people: it seemed incredible that a single person could have been all of them. Bosch could guess what Wood was thinking.

  'What do you reckon?' he asked. 'Is it a man or a woman?'

  'He or she is very slender,' replied Wood. 'I'm not sure about the sex, but they're very slender. When it's a woman, she's almost naked. When it's a man, he always wears suits and covers himself right up to the neck. But cerublastyne can't take away, it can only add. Look at those legs - the legs of the girl called Brenda. If it's a man, he must be of very slender build, and look very feminine, and have no body hair. Diaz and Weiss were of similar physical appearance, so probably he solved the problem by using a mould for the head and the thighs. Making the guy with the moustache's fat stomach was even easier: a theatrical prop, possibly. We haven't found any fingerprints anywhere, not even on the steering wheel of the van for Deflowering. That suggests our suspect uses cerublastyne moulds for the hands, which would also explain why Deflowering's clothes were ripped to pieces, do you remember? Diaz had big hands. If our man used them as moulds to make his cerublastyne hands it must have felt like he was using garden gloves. He couldn't do any delicate work. It would even have been difficult for him to unbutton his own jacket. The Artist has got very small hands, Lothar.'

  Bosch shook his head as he studied the photos.

  'It's incredible that this is only one person,' he said.

  Tm not so surprised,' replied Miss Wood. 'I've seen, guarded, and bought some transgender works which I'm afraid would completely destroy any convictions you might have about identity or gender. We live in a confused world, Lothar. A world which has become art, become simply the pleasure of concealing, of pretending to be something one is not, or that does not exist. Perhaps we never used to be like this, perhaps this has come about despite our true nature. Or perhaps we have been like this from the start, perhaps our true nature was always concealment, only now we have the means to make this possible.'

  They fell silent. Bosch was taken aback by this philosophical outburst from a woman he considered the most practical person he had ever met. He wondered to what extent her father's illness was affecting her.

  ‘I don't agree,' he said. Tm convinced we're something more than mere appearance.'

  Tm not,' Wood replied in a strangely broken voice.

  For a moment, they stared into each other's eyes. This was extremely painful for Bosch. She was so beautiful he could almost have cried. Looking at her gave him a stab of pleasure. In his youth he had smoked marijuana, and always had the same reaction on nights when he allowed himself certain excesses: a fitful sense of happiness that rolled down a dark slippery slope to end up in an equally tepid sadness. Somehow, his pleasures had always left behind a trail of tears.

  'Be that as it may, the Artist is art,' she said after a further silence.

  'What do you mean?'

  'Until now we've thought he must be an expert, but now we can go further. You yourself said it: it's "incredible". Someone who's expert in cerublastyne knows how to use it, but that's all.

  It would be like an ornament: the craftsman makes the disguise, and that's that. But what's the difference between an ornament and a work of art? A work of art is a transformation. Portraits are works of art because they transform themselves into the person they are representing.'

  'A canvas ...' Bosch murmured.

  'Exactly. The Artist could be a former canvas who is expert in cerublastyne. There are bound to be several portraits in his curriculum.'

  'A canvas who hates Van Tysch ... a canvas who hates his painter. It sounds good.'

  'It'll do as a working hypothesis. Do we have morphometric details of all the HD canvases in the world? Not just the ones on show now, but all the retired ones?'

  'We could get them through the net. I'll talk to Nikki. But to study the details of all of them would take months, April. We need to narrow the field down.'

  All of a sudden the atmosphere had changed. Now that he and Wood were thinking aloud, Bosch felt energetic and active. They both leaned forward studying the photos as they spoke.

  'We can't narrow down the gender ...'

  'No, but we can be more precise about the professional experience: the use of cerublastyne for example. He or she has been more than an ornament or a marginal work of art. They may have done hypertragedy and art-shocks, but above all, lots of transgender art. We're up against a real expert in transgender work.'

  'I agree,' Bosch said.

  'And we can assume he or she has worked for or otherwise been in contact with the Foundation: either as a sketch, an outline model, an original, whatever . .. How many do you reckon are left after that?'

  'Several dozen.'

  Wood sighed.

  'Let's set the age limits as ...' She thought for a second, then shook her head. 'Well, let's be logical about it. For example, we can eliminate kids and old people. It could be an adolescent or a young adult. We know the approximate morphometric details, so that will help. Talk to Nikki. Tell her she's looking for a mo
del who's worked for us, young, of either sex, with experience in cerublastyne and transgender work, whose morphometric details fit. Once we've drawn up a list of possible suspects, we'll need to investigate where they are now, and cross off all those with a firm alibi. We need results by the middle of next week.'

  'We can try.' Bosch felt euphoric. 'This is fantastic, April . . . We'll get there even before that Rip van Winkle outfit. It might even be us who captures him! I'd love to see Benoit's face if that happens...'

  Miss Wood was staring at him. After a moment she said:

  'There's one small problem, Lothar. After our meeting with the Rip van Winkle people in Munich yesterday, I went with Stein to the airport, if you remember.'

  'Yes, but I don't know what you told him.'

  1 think I might have put my foot in it. I told him things I shouldn't have. I can't trust anyone. No one, apart from the Maestro. But the Maestro is inaccessible.'

  'Is that why you haven't told me? Because you don't trust me?' Bosch had asked the question as gently as possible. Nothing in his tone of voice or his expression could lead her to think he was offended.

  Miss Wood gave no reply. She stared down at the floor. Bosch began to get anxious.

  'Is it something that serious?'

  Slowly, almost painfully, Wood told him about Marthe Schimmel and the platinum-blond boy. Bosch listened, disbelieving.

  'That bastard has the advantage,' said Wood. 'Someone is passing him information from inside. Someone is helping him! I've had two sleepless nights just thinking about it... he must be someone senior: he knows the valid codes, has prior knowledge of our security measures ... It could be . . . Who? ... Paul Benoit. It could be Paul Benoit. Or Jacob Stein, even though I find it impossible to believe it could be him, which is why I told him my suspicions yesterday. I'm convinced Stein would never damage one of the Maestro's works: he admires him as much as I do, or even more ... But in spite of everything, he's refused to postpone the "Rembrandt" exhibition ... It could be Kurt Sorensen or Gert Warfell... Or Thea ... Or it could be you, Lothar.' She fixed her blue eyes on him. Her face was a tense mask shiny with makeup. 'Or me. I know it's not me, of course, but I'd like you to think it could be me ...' 'April...'

  He had never seen Miss Wood in such a state. She had stood up and was almost trembling. She seemed on the verge of bursting into tears.

  'I'm not used to having to work like this ... I can't bear failing, and yet I know I'm going to fail...' 'For God's sake, April, calm down ...'

  Bosch stood up, too. He was thunderstruck. He wanted to embrace her, and despite the fact that he had never before done so, or even dared to try, he went up to her and put his arms round her. It felt as though he were enfolding such a fragile and ephemeral creature that he almost became frightened. Now that he was with her, now that he could sense, her, April seemed like a small silver figurine, something tiny and tremulous perched on the edge of a table and about to fall off. This sensation led him to throw off all his remaining caution and to clasp her even more tightly. He joined his hands behind Wood's back and drew her to him. She was not crying, only trembling. She leaned her head on his shoulder and trembled. Unable to say a word, Bosch went on holding her.

  Then all at once it was over. Her hands pushed him away gently but firmly. April Wood turned her back to him. When he could see her face again, Bosch immediately recognised the Head of Security. If she had noticed anything, if she had had some inkling of his affection, she apparently now dismissed it as unimportant.

  'Thanks, I feel better now, Lothar. The problem is ... the thing is ... someone in the Foundation wants to destroy works by the Maestro. That much is clear to me. The motive does not matter for now. Maybe he hates him. Or perhaps he's being paid to help. His antennae will go on passing information to the Artist, his damned antennae will go on doing that, and the Artist will work out his plan, or will change it (because I'm sure he already has a plan) on the basis of our decisions ... In conclusion, I don't think we can catch him. Our only hope is to anticipate what he is going to do. We have to find out what his next target is and set him a trap of our own.'

  She paused. She was as tough and hard as ever again. As she spoke, she frowned deeply.

  'Let's start from the hypothesis that the Artist is going to try to destroy one of the "Rembrandt" paintings. Which one? There are thirteen of them. They are going to be on show in a five-hundred-metre-long tunnel specially built out of plastic curtain material in the Museumplein. The tunnel interior will be completely dark apart from the glow coming from the works themselves. We can't even use infra-red to protect them. Thirteen hyperdramatic works based on a similar number of works by Rembrandt: The Anatomy Lesson, The Night Watch, Christ on the Cross, The Jewish Bride... It's an amazing show, but it's very risky, too. If we only knew beforehand which work it might be, we could set a trap. But how can we find out? Some of the works aren't even finished yet. In fact, assistants from the Art section are still drawing sketches on our farms. How can we possibly know which painting the Artist will choose this time, if they aren't even completed?'

  Bosch decided to be reassuring.

  'I'm not so worried about the "Rembrandt" exhibition, April: there's almost an entire army guarding each painting inside and outside the tunnel, as well as the regional police and the KLPD. And in the hotel there'll be lots of security agents on guard inside the rooms. The paintings aren't going to be left alone for a second. We'll keep a constant check on the identity of our men by analysing their finger- and voiceprints. And they'll all be new guards, chosen at the last minute. What can go wrong?'

  Wood stared at him, then asked:

  'Have you been sent the list of the original models who will be the paintings?'

  'Not yet. I know Kirsten Kirstenman and Gustavo Onfretti are two of them, but.. .' He saw April Wood's face cloud over with concern again. He could not bear it, and tried to encourage her. 'April, nothing is going to happen, you'll see. It's not just simple-minded optimism, it's a logical calculation. We're going to be able to rescue the "Rembrandt" collection, I'm—' Wood interrupted him.

  'You know one of the models intimately, Lothar.' She paused. Bosch stared at her dumbfounded. 'Your niece Danielle will be one of the paintings.'

  8

  The arms flinging themselves at her in the darkness reminded her of a drawing of night.

  She screamed and tried to roll across the mattress, her brain dissolving in an ocean of terror. Something clamped her wrists, then a rough heavy weight fell across her stomach. She was flat on her back, struggling and screaming. A spider controlled by a higher intelligence felt for her lipless mouth, her mouth where the lips had been stamped, and flattened itself against her. It was a hand. She could not scream any more. Another hand was crushing her right wrist. She fought to get a mouthful of air. The gag left her nostrils free, but she needed to swallow oxygen. Her breasts were crushed against some material. Two tiny mirrors floated a few inches from her eyes: she could see them perfectly, even in the darkness, and thought she caught sight of her own gagged face in them.

  'Be quiet.. . stay still.. . still...'

  Now at last she knew who it was (that voice, those arms, there could not be two people like that) and managed to intuit what was going on. But the earlier impact had been too fierce, and she was not prepared. She knew they wanted her not to be prepared. Even so, she needed to be. If she was on the point of going beyond the final barrier, she needed to gather strength. She struggled again. A hand clasped her hair.

  'I'm going to tell you ... to tell you . . . what will happen ... if you don't do as I wish ... if you don't do as I wish ...'

  Each phrase poured into her ear was accompanied by a violent tug at her hair. Uhl made her see stars. But he had also made a mistake: he had allowed her to recuperate too much. Clara was mistress of her body and her emotions again. She was still very weak, but she could react. She slammed her feet on to the floor and flung her hips upwards in a move that took Uhl by surprise. She was
expecting a more violent response, and it was not long in coming. He slapped her. Not very hard, but enough to stun her.

  'Don't do that again .. . what are you playing at, eh . .. ?'

  She lay still, panting, trying to work out what to do next. She knew that if she gave in, it would all come to a stop. She was completely sure of that. But she did not want to. If she took the risk, if she faced up to whatever Uhl was doing, he would increase the darkness of his brushstroke. If she went on fighting him, the stretching would cross the barrier and there would be a 'leap into the void'. She had never experienced this 'leap into the void' with any painter, because it was too dangerous a technique. It could end up badly: she could be damaged, perhaps seriously. And the damage could prove irreparable. Even though she was not working in an art-shock, it was clear that the sketch was very strong (the toughest, most risky). She was very frightened: she did not want to suffer or die, but nor did she want to halt the process. She no longer had any doubt that they were painting her, and she did not want to get in their way. She wanted to surrender to them just as she had to Vicky, Brentano, Hobber, or Gumsich.