Jose Somoza - Art of Murder

'Listen, Roland.' Bosch was trying to stay cool. He was holding the phone in one hand, while he briskly rubbed his temple with the other. 'It's not a question of how Nielle will be on show or how prepared she is for it. It's simply that the exhibition will be very tough. If you agree, a substitute can take her place in the Tunnel. Showing a copy rather than the original is quite common in a lot of exhibitions…'

There was a silence. Bosch felt almost like praying. When Roland spoke again, his tone of voice had altered: it was more serious, harsher.

'I could never play a trick like that on Nielle, Lothar. She's very excited. I go hot and cold just thinking about her and the amazing opportunity she's got. Do you know what Stein told us? That he had never seen such a young and yet so professional canvas. That's what he called her: a canvas… And he also said that with time, our daughter might even become a new Annek Hollech!… Can you imagine our own Nielle being the Annek Hollech of the future? Just think of that!'

The outside world disappeared for Bosch. All that was left was this excited voice scratching at his eardrums.

'I have to admit it cost me a lot to imagine my daughter this way, but now I'm fully behind it, and Hannah agrees with me. We want Nielle to be on show and admired. I think that's the secret dream of all fathers. I can understand that the experience may be tough, but it can't be any worse than being in a film or play, can it? You'd be surprised how many children are famous works of art nowadays… Lothar?… are you still there?…' 'Yes,' said Bosch, 'I'm still here.' For the first time, Roland's voice sounded hesitant. 'Lothar, is there some problem you're not telling me about?'

Ten cuts, eight of them in crosses. The bones were splintered and the inner organs reduced to dust, to cigarette ash. How about that for a problem, Roland? How about me telling you the story of a madman called the Artist?

'No, Roland, there's no problem. I think the exhibition will be fine, and Danielle magnificent. Bye.'

After he hung up, he got to his feet and went over to the window. A golden sun hung heavily over the small buildings and the green space of Vondelpark. He recalled that a weather forecast had said there would be rain in the week of the opening. Perhaps God would bring down a flood on those damned curtains and 'Rembrandt' would be postponed.

But Bosch knew he would have no such luck: history showed that God protected the arts.

*

Benoit occasionally liked to give the impression he hid nothing from the works of art. In his velvety office on the seventh floor of the New Atelier there were eight of them, and two at least were sufficiently expensive for the Conservation director to show as often as he could that he treated them with more respect than human beings. This of course included holding conversations with his guests in front of them without getting them to put on ear protectors.

His office was tranquil and comfortable, cushioned in blue. The light sparkled intensely on the shoulders of the painting by Philip Brennan, who was only fourteen years old, and was situated behind Benoit. Bosch noticed him blink from time to time. Hanging from the ceiling in a glass cage with breathing holes was an authorised copy of Claustrophilia 17 by Buncher. Behind Bosch, an Ashtray by Jan Mann was bent over holding its ankles, with the tray on its rump. In the window, the splendid anatomy of a blonde Curtain by Schobber stood in a ballet pose awaiting the order to be drawn. The food was served by two utensils created by Lockhead: a boy and a girl who moved with gentle, perfumed, catlike gestures. The Table was by Patrice Flemard: a rectangular board perched on the back of a shaven figure painted manganese blue, which in turn was balanced on the back of another similar figure. They were tied to each other by their hands and ankles. The bottom one was a girl. Bosch suspected the top one might be as well, but it was impossible to tell for sure.

The lunch was in fact a small feast. Benoit had not missed a trick: eel and dill soup with strands of seaweed, hock of venison done in nutmeg with vine leaves and a herb and chicory salad, followed by a dessert that looked like the clues from a recent crime: a bilberry and raspberry mousse in a buttermilk sauce, all of it prepared by a catering company that supplied the Atelier daily. Before and after the meal, Benoit carried out the ritual of his medicines. In total he took six red-and-white capsules and four emerald-coloured pills. He complained about his ulcer, claimed he could not eat anything at all, and that when he did he had to take all the medicines as a precaution. Despite this, he also tried the Chablis and the Lafitte that the Lockhead figures elegantly placed before him on the Table. As it breathed gently, the Table made the wine bottles sway. Bosch ate little and hardly touched the wine. He found the atmosphere in the office stifling.

They talked of all they could mention out loud in a room full of a dozen people besides themselves (even though the silence made it seem there were just the two of them): about 'Rembrandt' and the discussion with the mayor of Amsterdam about installing the curtain structure in the Museumplein; about the guest list for the opening; about the increasingly likely possibility that the Dutch royal family would visit the Tunnel before the official opening.

When the conversation languished, Benoit stretched out his hand to the Ashtray's inverted backside and took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the big golden dish balanced between the buttocks. The Ashtray was obviously masculine and was painted a matt turquoise colour, with black stripes running down his shaven legs.

'Let's go to the other room,' Benoit said. 'Smoke isn't good for paintings or ornaments.'

You're a master of hypocrisy, Grandad Paul, thought Bosch. He knew Benoit had decided from the outset they would have a further talk in private, but wanted his works of art to think he was doing it so as not to bother them while he smoked.

They went into the next room. As Benoit shut the heavy oak door, he began to speak almost without a pause.

'Lothar, it's chaos out there. This morning I met Saskia Stoffels and Jacob Stein. The North Americans want to suspend things. Financing for the new season is at a halt. They're worried about the Artist, and they don't like the massive withdrawal of Van Tysch works. We've been trying to sell them the idea that the Artist is a European problem, a local question. We've explained that the Artist is not for export. He operates in Europe and only in Europe. But they reply: "Yes, yes that's fine, but have you caught him yet?'"

He stubbed out the cigarette in a metal ashtray. It was a perfectly normal cheap ashtray: Benoit only spent money on flesh and blood ornaments. While he was talking, he took a small aerosol out of the inside pocket of his immaculate Savile Row jacket.

'Do you have any idea what it costs to run this company, Lothar? Every time I have a finance meeting with Stoffels the same thing happens: I get vertigo. Our profits are huge, but the gap is even more enormous. And as Stein was saying only this morning, before we were the pioneers. But now… My God.' He opened his mouth, pointed the aerosol at his throat, and squirted a couple of times. He shook the spray violently, then squirted another dose. 'When Art Enterprises started up in 1998, we said it wouldn't last two years, do you remember? Now it's the sales leader in America, and has a monopoly in the choice sector of California collectors. And this morning Stoffels told us the Japanese are doing even better. Believe it or not, but Suke's turnover in 2005 was almost half a billion dollars more than the Foundation and Art Enterprises combined. Want to know how?' 'Ornaments,' replied Bosch. Benoit nodded.