Jose Somoza - Art of Murder

Like a powerful condor, Purcell's music was soaring up into the far reaches of the darkness.

Bosch still did not understand. What had the painter been trying to say with this timeless, black world, this mystery of lights and music pouring down from the heights? What kind of message was he trying to convey?

20.45.

It was unbelievable. There they were. A girl standing on some flowers. Two fat, misshapen men. There were two drawings: the first in pastel, the second in China ink. They were not crossed out. She had come across them while she was looking for more examples of Maurits' crossing out.

Deflowering and Monsters, Miss Wood thought, scarcely able to believe her eyes, Van Tysch's most personal works: they are based on his father's old drawings, and no one knows it, not even Hirum Oslo. Nobody has taken the trouble to look at Maurits' legacy closely enough. Perhaps not even Van Tysch himself suspects it. Maurits wanted him to draw, to become the successful artist he never managed to be. But little Bruno did not know how to draw. So what he did was adopt some of his father's drawings for his own art. It was a kind of compensation…

She had separated these drawings from the pile, and went on looking. Zericky returned after a few minutes with yet more folders. He put them down on the table, raising clouds of dust, and began to undo the ribbons. 'These are the last,' he said. 'That's all I have.'

'Van Tysch saw these drawings as a child, didn't he?' said Miss Wood. 'Possibly. He never talked to me about it. Why do you ask?'

Instead of replying, she asked another question. 'Who else has seen them?' Rather confused, Zericky smiled.

'As thoroughly as you, nobody. A few researchers have glanced at a folder or two here and there… but what is it you're looking for exactly?'

'Another one.' 'What?' 'Another one. The third.'

There's one missing. The third most important work. It must be here somewhere. It's not an exact copy of one of the 'Rembrandt' paintings. In fact, neither of the other two is an exact copy of Van Tysch's work… the adolescent for example is not naked, and there aren't any narcissi at her feet either… but her pose is identical to Annek's… there has to be something linking it to one of the works: a character, or a group of characters… or perhaps…

She tried to remember the paintings as she had seen them during the signing session the previous day: the characters; their poses; the clothes they wore; the colours. If I could identify Deflowering and Monsters, I must be able to spot the third one.

'Hey, calm down,' Zericky begged her. 'You're throwing all the drawings on the floor..'

Swear that you're going to find it… Swear you're going to do it. .. Swear you're not going to fail this time…

Every so often she came across a crossed-out drawing: always four crosses and two vertical lines. But it was not the moment to try to unravel the meaning of this other incredible coincidence. Nor could she worry about the most troubling mystery of all: how had the Artist managed to see the drawings? Could it have been one of the 'researchers' Zericky had mentioned? And if he hadn't seen them, how else had he chosen the third work to destroy?

One thing at a time, please.

The last drawing in the folder was of a flower. Miss Wood threw it down so violently that Zericky got annoyed.

'Look, you're going to tear them if you treat them like that!' the historian exclaimed, reaching out to take them from her.

'Don't touch me,' whispered Miss Wood. In reality it was not so much a whisper as a rattle in her throat that froze the blood in Zericky's veins. 'Don't even try it. I'll soon be finished, I swear.'

'Don't worry,' Zericky said haltingly. 'Take your time… make yourself at home…'

She must be ill, he thought. Zericky was not a conventional sort, but solitude had made it hard for him to accept any shocks. Anything unexpected (a crazy person in his house going through all the drawings, for example) horrified him. He started to think of a plan to get close to the telephone and call the police without this psychopath noticing.

Miss Wood opened another folder and put aside two landscape studies. Then a carbon drawing with a night-time wood. Drawings of birds. Still lives, but no slaughtered ox. A young girl standing arms akimbo, but she did not resemble the Girl Leaning on a Windowsill.

20.50.

As he advanced along the Tunnel, Bosch spotted one of the guards. His red badge shone dully in the light from the plinths. His face was a blur of shadows.

'Mr Bosch?' the man said when he had identified himself. 'It's Jan Wuyters, sir' 'How is everything going, Jan?' 'All quiet so far'

Beyond Wuyters the sharp linear splendour of the crucified Christ loomed in the distance. A trick of perspective made it look as though it were floating above Wuyters head, as if he were being offered special divine protection.

'I'd be happier if there was more light and we could see the face and hands of people properly,' Wuyters added. 'This is a slum, Mr Bosch.' 'You're right. But it's Art that's giving the orders.' 'I guess so.'

All at once, Bosch decided Wuyters was a very convincing Wuyters in the darkness. He was almost sure it was him, but as in a nightmare, tiny details confused him. He would have liked to have seen the man's eyes outside in the daylight.

'To tell you the truth, sir, I wish today's opening was over,' Wuyters' silhouette whispered. ‘I share your feelings entirely, Jan.'

'And the horrible smell of paint… isn't your throat burning?' Bosch was just about to reply when all hell broke loose.

20.55.

Miss Wood was staring at the watercolour, without moving a muscle. Seeing the change in her attitude, Zericky leaned over her shoulder.

'It's lovely, isn't it? It's one of the watercolours Maurits did of her.' Miss Wood looked round at him uncomprehendingly. 'It's his wife,' Zericky explained. 'The young Spanish woman.' 'You mean this woman was Van Tysch's mother?'

'Well,' said Zericky with a smile, ‘I think she was. Bruno never knew her, and Maurits destroyed almost all the photos of her after she died, so Bruno only had these drawings by Maurits to know what she looked like. But it is her. My parents knew her, and according to them they are a very good likeness.'

First, the remembrance of his childhood. Then his father and Richard Tysch. Now his mother. The third most personal work. Miss Wood no longer had the slightest doubt. She did not even need to look in the remaining folders. She knew exactly which painting the drawing related to. Her hand was trembling as she consulted her watch.

There's still time. I'm sure there's still time. Today's exhibition hasn't even finished yet.

She left the watercolour on the table, picked up her bag and took out her mobile phone.

All at once, something like a sudden presentiment, the shudder of a sixth sense, paralysed her.

No, there's no time left. It's too late.

She dialled a number.

What a shame you could not do it perfectly, April. Doing things well is doing them badly.

She put the phone to her ear and heard the distant screech of the call.

Because if you let yourself be defeated in small things, you'll lose out in the big ones too.

The telephone voice sounded in the minute darkness of her ear.

20.57.

Lothar Bosch had faced up to a crowd on several occasions in his life.

Sometimes he had been part of it (but even then he had needed to protect himself from it); at others, he had been part of those trying to disperse it. Whatever the case, he had known the phenomenon since his youth. He had never been able to draw any useful lesson from his experiences: he thought he must have survived by pure luck. A terrified crowd is not something a person can learn to resist, just as you can never learn to walk in the eye of a hurricane.