Jose Somoza - Art of Murder

A select naked silver service was circulating around the room. They were Silverware by Droessner. They were aged between fifteen and eighteen, and at first sight were all female, unless they were transgender pieces – which Bosch did not rule out. They had been covered from head to foot in a layer of liquid mother-of-pearl, on which Droessner had traced a subtle filigree of bluebirds perched on branches or settled in nests. There were birds on breasts, backs, on buttocks and on abdomens. All the Silverware was wearing ear and eye protectors, which left them deaf and blind, but even so their work was faultless. They moved round the room in a never-ending circle, like an Escher drawing, carrying small trays with food and drink. After a certain number of predetermined steps, they came to a halt in front of each guest and bent over with their tray. The guest was free to accept the offer or not. The only thing he or she was not allowed to do was to touch them. Precious silverware is not to be touched, thought Bosch, not even here.

A Silverware leaned over in front of him, and Bosch chose what looked like a martini. As the ornament was moving on, another one arrived from the opposite direction. Their trays bumped into each other, and the two of them immediately moved apart, continuing on their blind way like ants whose antennae clash in the long file back to their nest. There was a bisexual De Perrin Lamp on the ceiling, and other Lamps, almost all of them female, shone in the corners of the room. There were Tables and Trolleys, too. Bosch wondered who was paying for all this expensive decor. Cohesion funds again?

Jacob Stein and April Wood were the most notable absentees. Apart from them, the whole of the 'crisis cabinet' was there. Head Honcho, still apparently fascinated by the sweets Tray, quickly summed up why they were there, with a spectacular announcement:

'Rip van Winkle has captured the Artist with a margin of error of less than 0.05 per cent. To be precise: 0.05.'

'Could you translate that for those of us who have studied humanities?' Gert Warfell asked.

Head Honcho launched into a complicated explanation. Fifteen suspects had been arrested, five of whom had passed to a higher level of suspicion. According to the information Rip van Winkle had, one of these was almost certainly the Artist. The other ten had been eliminated. Once they had determined which of the five was the one they were looking for, they would eliminate the others. The Artist would be interrogated thoroughly until they were certain he was not withholding anything at all. After that they would discover all the ramifications and eliminate them. Then they would eliminate the Artist. And finally, Rip van Winkle would eliminate itself.

'We will be the last to be eliminated. Let's be precise. We will eliminate ourselves, because once all this is over, the crisis cabinet will be disbanded, Rip van Winkle will go back to sleep, and we will never meet again. Besides, to all intents and purposes, we have never met,' he finished. And stuffed another handful of caramels into his mouth.

'That's good news,' said Miss Roman. Bosch could not tell whether she was talking about the elimination of the Artist or of Head Honcho. Miss Roman's Chair was masculine: the strong, tight dun-coloured buttocks bearing her weight were clearly visible from where Bosch was sitdng.

'Have any of them confessed?' Gert Warfell asked, leaning forward. He was constantly fidgeting, and Bosch could see his varnished seat tensing his muscles as Warfell shifted around. ‘I mean, any of the five suspects.'

'Three of them have said they were guilty. That doesn't mean anything of course, but it's more than we had a fortnight ago.'

That's amazing news,' Benoit said enthusiastically. 'Don't you think so, Lothar?'

'What information have the five suspects given?' Bosch asked, ignoring Benoit.

Head Honcho had stretched out his hand to take a glass of whisky. The Ornament paused for just the right length of time, then continued on its cautious, blind way. Light from the Lamps was reflected on its nacreous buttocks, making them look like some fabulous bird's eggs.

'For the moment that's confidential,' Head Honcho replied, it will be provided in subsequent reports, once we've assessed it.'

'Let me put it another way. Have any of the suspects said anything they could only know if they were the Artist?'

'Lothar is trying to say he doesn't trust Rip van Winkle,' observed Sorensen.

Bosch protested, but Head Honcho did not seem to attach any importance whatsoever to Sorensen's comment.

The interviews are taking place in various European cities, and I don't have all the information to hand. But we are not torturers, if that is what is being suggested: was ask questions before we shoot. No information has been obtained by force.'

Bosch was far from convinced that this assertion was true, but he preferred not to challenge it.

'So we can say the problem has been dealt with,' Warfell exclaimed. 'Only just in time,' said Sorensen. 'The opening is tomorrow.'

'Mr Stein will be very pleased, I'm sure,' Benoit said, eyes shining, as though congratulating the whole of humanity.

'I was hoping to sort this out as soon as possible, so I could go off on vacation,' Harlbrunner's booming voice roared. The Chair squashed beneath his tonnage was, as far as Bosch could tell, a girl.

The meeting was adjourned. As the crisis cabinet members used the hands of their Chairs to stand up, Benoit turned to Bosch and asked whether he would mind having a few words when they got outside. Bosch minded a lot, not only because of his appointment with Van Obber that afternoon, but because the last thing he needed at that moment was to talk to the Head of Conservation – but he knew that he could not refuse. Benoit suggested they talk in the Clingendael park. He said he really liked the Japanese garden there. They went in his car.

Neither of them spoke during the journey. An architectural kaleidoscope of The Hague flashed in through the tinted glass of the car windows. This was where Bosch had been born, although he had lived in Amsterdam from early childhood. He briefly wondered if anything of The Hague was still in him. He thought that perhaps there was something of The Hague everywhere in the modern world. Just as in M.C. Escher's etchings, his native city contained another one inside itself, which in turn contained another, and so on to infinity. The Madurodam was a scale model of Holland, 'the smallest biggest city in Europe', as his father used to say. The Mesdag Panorama showed a painting 120 metres in diameter, also to scale. In the Mauritshuis you could get a glimpse of the past thanks to the Holland the great masters had painted. And if it was HD art you were looking for, any collector would find ten official galleries, and four times as many private ones, as well as the Gemeentemuseum and the brand-new Kunstsaal. There were legal adolescent art galleries like Nabokovian or Puberkunst; the clandestine utensils in Menselijk; the public art-shocks offered by Harder and the Tower; the animarts in the Artzoo. And if you felt like taking photos, where better than in the garden of Het Meisje in Clingendael? Fake cities and real human beings disguised as works of art. If you spent a day in The Hague you could end up confusing appearance and reality. Maybe it was because he had been born there – thought Bosch – that his mind seemed always shrouded in mist, as if he could not distinguish any boundaries.

Clingendael park was full of tourists, even though the increasingly heavy clouds threatened an unpleasant surprise before the evening was out. Benoit and Bosch began to stroll down the avenues, hands behind their backs. A slightly chill breeze lifted the ends of their ties.

‘I read recently in Quietness,' Benoit said, 'that an exhibition of retired canvases is being organised in New York. There have already been several successful sales in the United States. It's Enterprises that is financing them, of course. And the writer said it was a stroke of genius, because what else could an old-age pensioner do but sit in some corner or other looking at people and having them look at him? Stein doesn't like the idea much though, because he's not really interested in old canvases, but I'm sure it will soon catch on in Europe. Just imagine all the old folk who can hardly live on their pensions all of a sudden finding they are multi-million dollar works of art. The world is spinning round, Lothar, and it's calling on us to spin with it. The question is: do you accept the invitation, or do you step off and watch it go by?'