Jose Somoza - Art of Murder

'They were… they were people from my world,' he replied. His father had forbidden him to talk to the girl about the incident. 'From your world?'

'Yes, like the people you saw yesterday at the Roquentin mansion! Assholes who get paid to carry guns and guard paintings! Anyway, what does it matter who they were!'

'They were looking for a friend of mine who works in the Van Tysch Foundation… Why…?' 'How should I know!' 'We must go to the police.'

'No, better to let things lie,' said Roger. 'Business is business, you know…'

Briseida went on drying herself without another word. She had just taken a shower and been able to check that she was unharmed after the incredible painting session. Or torture session. She was thinking that as soon as she got dressed, she would pack her things and get out of Roger Levin's apartment. Accepting his invitation had been a mistake. She was almost sure the responsibility for what had gone on lay mostly with Roger and the gangsters surrounding him.

What about Oscar? She sincerely wished nothing had happened to him, but a sense of foreboding she could not shake off told her she would never see him again.

'I'm increasingly convinced Diaz had nothing to do with this,' said Miss Wood.

'So why has he disappeared?' Bosch asked. That's what I can't understand.'

Stubbed out in the ashtray, her ecological cigarette was a mass of green wrinkles.

'What's this?' asked Jorge. 'It's me,' Clara said.

He could not believe it. The creature staring at him out of all that yellowness was a being from another planet, a devil from a traveller's tale, a sulphurous spirit. It was Clara, but less than her. Clara the egg yolk. Or a corrected Clara: because he could remember that the curve of her collar bones had never been quite so gentle, the shadow under her cheekbones so ill-defined. And her muscles looked different. And her silhouette. It was her, but not her. And whoever had drawn her like this did not have flesh-coloured pencils, but very pale lemon-yellow ones. He was used to seeing her in an unending carnival of works of art, and so part of his brain did not react. But this thing went beyond painting.

'If you like, I'll take my clothes off,' she said. Even her voice sounded odd – was there a distant crystal echo? 'But I warn you, the rest is more of the same.'

Jorge went cautiously over to her. In the creature's face, the slit of the lips curved upwards. 'I don't bite, you know. And I'm not contagious.'

She was standing there like a well-behaved schoolgirl, hands behind her back. Her clothes – a top with crossed straps that left her midriff bare, and a creased miniskirt, looked youthful and normal. 'But it's padding,' she explained, 'for works of art to be despatched.' Her shoes were flat enclosed sandals like bedsocks. 'What have they done to you?' 'They've primed me.' 'Primed you?' 'Aha.'

Jorge knew of the word, just as Clara knew what an endoscopy or a cardiac scan were. Your partner's language is the first thing you pick up, sometimes the only thing. But there was a slight difference. He always grimaced when he heard her mention things like hyperdramatic, prime or quiescence. He knew it was a bit unfair of him, but unfortunately it was unavoidable. Clara's profession was too much for him. His ex-wife Beatriz also had a job that did not exactly enthuse him (watching bacteria copulate, for God's sake), while that of his sister Arabia (interior design), not to mention his brother Pedro's (an art critic) seemed to him merely eccentric, but biology, design and art criticism are professions one can understand. Being a work of art, though, was beyond his comprehension.

'I'm sorry, but I seem to remember you've been primed before, or at least that's what you've told me, and it wasn't…'

'No, it was never like this Jorge, never like this. This is the work of specialists. It was done by F amp;W, the top people. If I told you all they have done…' 'Even your eyes…' ‘Yes, the irises, the conjunctivae, and the retinas. And all the rest of my body, including the holes and uumm… cavities’ she ended, sticking out her tongue.

A quivering stamen poking out from the flower of her lips. Jorge had seen orchids with reproductive organs the same colour as this thing. It was not just her tongue – it was her entire palate. Will it ever come off? was the macho worry that flashed through his mind. She loved producing astonishment like this.

'Don't worry, the priming is never permanent. I'm the same as ever underneath. But you still haven't seen the best.' What else could there be? He blinked, and moved closer.

'It's not my skin, it's what I've got hanging here’ Clara helped him.

It was then he saw it. A label dangling between her breasts, hung round her neck by a black thread. Another one similar on her right wrist, and a third round her right ankle. A strong, orange-tinged yellow, the yellow of a Chinese emperor. She had once told him that this colour, this and no other, belonged to labels from…

'Aha.' Clara smiled gleefully when she saw he had got it at last. 'I've been contracted by the Van Tysch Foundation!'

A suitcase – Jorge reasoned – also carries labels of the airline company it is being sent with, but after all, it is a suitcase, so that surprises no one. But what would anyone think if they could see this girl in her pearl-white top and skirt, her hair and skin like a plastic doll's, stripped of her eyelashes and brows, almost completely devoid of facial features, but attractive despite all that, yes, for some morbid and inexplicable reason even more attractive because of the three yellow labels hanging from her. The latest generation of Japanese toys? A female entertainer for long-haul flights? She could be anything, thought Jorge. A bell-flower with no dragonfly wings; a faery creature freshly painted by one of those Pre-Raphaelites Pedro hated so much, dressed in her summer best.

'Don't worry’ she reassured him, 'No one is going to see me. I was brought to Barajas in an armour-plated van, and we came in at the freight terminal rather than the one for passengers. They always treat their primed paintings as fragile freight items when they have to travel.' Her eyes gleamed yellow. 'This room is exclusively for artistic material transported by KLM. I have to wait here until they tell me it's time to get on the plane to Holland.'

There was not much furniture in the room: a yellow bench (where she had been resting before Jorge arrived) and a shelf like a narrow bar all along one wall. They preferred to lean against the shelf.

'So who's going to paint you…? Jorge muttered, as if he were dreaming, too frightened to pronounce the magic word. 'Will it be Van…?'

Clara, busy fixing her top, stretched out a yellow finger and placed it on his lips, in the centre of his grey moustache. Jorge smelt of chemicals.

'Don't say it. If you do, it'll be sure to bring me bad luck. Anyway, I'm still not sure. Remember, there are many artists in the Foundation. It could be Rayback, Stein, Mavalaki…' 'What about the "Rembrandt" collection…'

'Yes, yes that's it! It's his collection and there's still time for me to be one of the paintings. But please, don't talk about it! I'm so happy with what I've got that I don't want to think of anything else…'

They stared at each other. Clara was radiant under the neon lights. Jorge felt dull in comparison. There was nothing he shared with that tiny alien figure, that half-finished piece of porcelain (God, it set his eyes on edge just looking at her, all that yellow was like scraping a fingernail on a blackboard; how he would have loved to be able to add the missing layer of flesh pink). He could understand how excited she was, but he could not go along with her. Who could blame him? He was a forty-five-year-old radiologist, with hair as white and fluffy as the cottonwool used for snow in Christmas cribs. This was, in fact, one of only a pair of bright spots in his life. His moustache, for example, was grey. And five years of a failed marriage to biologist Beatriz Marco had been enough to convince him that his life was no brighter than his moustache. Clara was the other exception. He had met her the previous spring, on a day when it seemed the sun was determined to paint everything yellow. His brother Pedro had invited him to a cocktail party of a collector, a Belgian woman who had settled in Madrid by the name of Edith, who was anxious to show everyone her most recent acquisition: The White Queen, the latest work by Victoria Lledo. At that time, Jorge was preoccupied with his divorce proceedings. He had no shortage of work (his radiology practice was satisfyingly busy) but he was more lonely than the losing chess king. He had no idea that meeting The White Queen would change his life completely. An infallible sixth sense ('You inherited it from your father,' his mother used to say) led him to accept the fateful invitation his brother had made simply to take his mind off things.