Jose Somoza - Art of Murder

'I still think children are a special case’ Marcus insisted. I don't like them as viewers, but I like them even less as paintings. No painting less than thirteen years old should be allowed.' 'How old were you when you started?' 'OK, lets say under twelve then.' Sieglinde laughed, then went on:

'I think the question of underage works is difficult. If you ban them, you'd have to ban children appearing in films and plays as well. And what about adverts? I reckon it's much more indecent to use a child's body to sell toilet rolls than to paint it and pose it as a work of art. Hey! Are you listening?' Marcus did not reply. Brenda was there, standing between two columns.

She nodded at Marcus; he smiled back. His heart was pounding, as if instead of walking down the stairs he had run up them three at a time. 'Hello there,' Marcus said, going over.

The girl nodded again. This time she was not looking at Marcus, but at his colleague. Weiss found himself obliged to introduce them.

'This is Brenda. Brenda, this is Sieglinde Albrecht. Sieglinde can give you a lesson or two about how to be an outdoor seasonal work and get bought.'

'Are you a painting too?' Sieglinde asked with a broad smile, raising eyebrows that were no longer there, and openly examining Brenda from head to toe. 'No,' replied Brenda.

'Well, you should be. You'd be bought very quickly, whoever painted you.'

Marcus was delighted to detect a hint of jealousy in his companion's voice.

'Brenda, you'll have to forgive Sieglinde's twisted mind,' he said with a laugh.

'It was meant as a compliment, you idiot!' said Sieglinde, slapping his shoulder.

Brenda looked like a doll programmed only to nod and laugh at everything said to her. Weiss thought there was no need for her to speak: her extraordinary face said it all anyway.

'You may not believe it,' he explained, 'but Brenda isn't a painting… she's more like a… dealer.'

'Oh, so it's business, is it?' Sieglinde planted a kiss on Weiss' lips. Then she winked at Brenda with an eyelashless eye. 'In that case, I'll leave you two to it. I'll see you the day after tomorrow, Mr Weiss.' 'Absolutely, Miss Albrecht.'

Although the gallery was open the following day and Sieglinde had to go to work, Marcus always took Tuesday off. Sieglinde did not know the reason for such unusual behaviour in a work that had not yet been sold, but her sly attempts to find out had met with a wall of laconic replies, so she had not dared enquire any further. She was sure though that Marcus had another job in a much less public (and much more scandalous) venue than the Max Ernst gallery.

Sieglinde's hair became a golden dot quickly disappearing down Maximilianstrasse. Marcus gently put an arm on Brenda's shoulder and steered her in the opposite direction. It was the last Monday in June, and the streets were crowded. 'I thought you weren't going to come.' 'Why not?' Brenda asked. He shrugged.

'I don't know. I guess because everything happened so quickly yesterday. Look, you're not annoyed I told Sieglinde you were a dealer, are you? I had to tell her something. And besides, Sieglinde is not a nosey person.' 'That's OK. Where are we going?'

Marcus stopped and glanced at his watch. He spoke as if he were unsure of what to suggest, even though he had planned everything out the night before. 'How about having a drink and then going for dinner?'

He took her to a place called the Mini Bar. It was on a street corner near the gallery, but the paintings and sketches preferred to go to the bars on the avenue, so that with any luck the two of them could enjoy some privacy. The Mini Bar sold everything in small sizes: the drinks came in tiny bottles, just as in hotels. The ice cubes were as big as poker dice. It was self-service, and behind the bar (which reached up to the waist of an adult) could be seen an espresso coffee machine as big as a silver shoe box with three handles, shelves as narrow as skirting boards, notice boards advertising the dishes of the day in handwriting not for the short-sighted, and tiny lights hanging from the ceiling which after nightfall gave the bar the air of a puppet theatre. The background music was a tremulous violin solo. But apart from this, Gulliver suddenly found himself in the land of giants: the barmen were unusually tall, and the prices were much higher than average. Marcus knew the Mini Bar was way beyond his budget, but he did not want to skimp on entertaining Brenda: he wanted to impress her so that she would realise he was used to the best.

They found a quiet corner with a table and a couple of stools. Marcus had intended to start with a beer, but changed his mind and joined Brenda in a whisky. He ordered two delicious Glenfiddichs and two glasses full of ice so pure and clear it shone transparently. As he was returning to the table he had time to consider Brenda once more. He saw no reason to change the opinion he had formed the previous evening. She was quite slim, but undeniably attractive, and wore her wavy blonde hair in a ponytail gathered on her back like a bushy paint brush. She was wearing a short jacket and a dark-blue miniskirt (the previous day it had been a blouse and a pair of short blue jeans). Her clothing was creased and obviously not new, but this only attracted Marcus all the more. Her shoes had stiletto heels, a style he had never thought of as old-fashioned. He realised she did not have a handbag. Or stockings. He liked to imagine she was wearing nothing more than what he could see.

When he sat down again, he saw she was staring at him without smiling. Her blue eyes did not shine, but reminded him of something he could not quite place: they were penetrating, fixed points. Points like tiny black pools.

'And now,' he said, serving her the Glenfiddich, unable to take his eyes off those two points, 'you're going to tell me the truth.' 'I always tell you the truth,' she replied. That was the first time he was sure she was lying.

So the questions began. The customers in the Mini Bar came and went constantly without him noticing: he was concentrating on his interrogation. Marcus was an experienced painting, and nobody was going to pull the wool over his eyes, least of all using a doll like this girl. By the time he looked down at his glass, the Lilliputian ice cubes had watered down the taste of his whisky. She had not drunk much either: between answers she raised her glass to her lips, but did not seem to swallow. In fact, she did not seem to do anything. She just sat there crossing and uncrossing her pretty, bare legs and looking straight at Marcus as she replied to his questions. 'Why did your friends think of me for this job?'

'I've already told you that.' 'I want to hear it again.'

'They're looking for people. And as I told you, they sent me to Munich to see you.'

She spoke German perfectly, but Marcus could not place her accent.

'That doesn't answer my question.'

‘I don't know, I guess they liked you as a painting. You'd have to ask them. I'm just here to try to hook you.'

The girl seemed to be trying to be honest at least. Marcus took another sip of Glenfiddich. The Mini Bar violin began a tinny, musical-box waltz.

'Tell me more about the work.'

'It'll take a month to complete, but I can't tell you where. Then it will automatically be sold. In fact, it's a commission. You're not allowed to know who the buyer is either, but you'll be travelling south. To Italy, probably. It's an outdoor performance. It takes five hours a day, and will carry on until the autumn.'

'How many figures are there in it?'

'I don't know, it's a mural painting. I know there are adults and adolescents. I think it's a mythological subject.' 'Is there anything "dirty" about it?' 'No, it's entirely clean. Everyone is a volunteer' 'Kids?'

'No, only adolescents.' 'How old?' 'Fifteen and upwards.'