Jose Somoza - Art of Murder

The driver was having an animated conversation with an assistant from a tourist shop. Then he turned to Miss Wood. 'It crosses Kasteelstraat.'

11.30.

Gustavo Onfretti made his way into the Tunnel surrounded by security guards and personnel from Art. He was wearing a padded suit and the usual yellow labels. His body had been painted in ochre and flesh tints. Thin layers of cerublastyne lent his face a certain similarity to the Maestro, but also to Rembrandt's Jesus Christ. I'm both of them, he thought. He was one of the last paintings to arrive, and he knew it was going to be hard to get into position.

He was to be crucified six hours a day.

Wrapped in a winding sheet that smelt of oil, Onfretd walked along the ramp in the darkness to reach the part of the Tunnel where the cross had been set up. It was an artistic cross rather than a real one: it had several devices designed to make his pose less painful. Even so, Onfretd was sure that no device could spare him all the suffering, and this intimidated him a little.

But he had accepted his chalice. He was a masterpiece, and as such was prepared to suffer. Van Tysch had worked on him for a long while in Edenburg so there would be no mistakes. Of any kind. Everything had to be perfect. As he was signing him the previous day, the Maestro had looked him straight in the eye. 'Don't forget, you are one of my most intimate and personal creations.'

This sincere declaration gave Onfretti the strength to bear all he knew awaited him.

13.05.

Jacob Stein had finished his lunch and sat facing the neat lines of the coffee cup. The Table was solid, one of his own designs. It was made up of a glass top held up by harnesses on the shoulders of four kneeling adolescents bathed in silver. A frieze encircled the entire table, creating swirls between the different figures. The adolescents were almost exactly the same height, but the one on the far left corner was a little taller, which meant the surface of the dark, steaming coffee in the cup was slightly askew. Of course, like all the other decorations in the room, the Table was an illegal piece of furniture worth billions. Stein was absent-mindedly leaning his foot on a silver thigh.

He knew that, unlike his room, Van Tysch's 'zone' in the New Atelier was empty. Stein liked to live surrounded by luxury, and had decorated his dining room according to his own tastes with paintings, ornaments and utensils by Loek, Van der Gaar, Marooder and himself. More than twenty adolescents, some of them motionless, others following choreographed steps, were breathing in the room, and yet the silence was immense. Only Stein appeared alive.

He was going over all he had to do in his mind. By now, all the paintings should be in position inside the Tunnel, waiting for the Maestro. Tine opening was scheduled for six, but Stein would not be there: Benoit would take his place and look after all the dignitaries. His own presence was needed elsewhere, where he also had to look after an extremely important person.

Fuschus, power was another kind of art, he thought. Or perhaps a handicraft, showing the ability to control everything. He had been a real master at it. Now he had to surpass himself. It was a very delicate moment, perhaps the most delicate in the Foundation's entire history, and he had to be up to it.

All at once his secretary Neve appeared at the far end of the room.

Even though he was well aware that the expected moment might happen at any time, the announcement that it had truly arrived made his faun's features relax into a happy grin. He stood up leaning on the Table, producing nothing more than a slight quiver from the four silvery girls – and a blink from the one on whose thigh he had been resting his foot – and made for the door.

His visitor stood fascinated for a moment in the doorway, staring wide-eyed at all the warm bodies decorating the room. This was soon followed by a beaming smile and a shake of Stein's hand.

'I'd like to welcome you to the Van Tysch Foundation,' Stein said quickly in fluent English. 'I know you understand English perfectly. I wish I could say the same of my Spanish.'

'Don't worry about that’ replied Vicky Lledo with a smile.

24.26.

Miss Wood had been sitting on the lawn for more than three hours. She had opened one of the fruit juices she kept in her bag and was taking slow slips and staring up at the clouds. It was a tranquil spot, just made to shut one's eyes and rest in. Somehow it reminded her of her house in Tivoli: the same summer soundtrack, with birds singing and dogs barking in the distance. Victor Zericky's house was small, and its apple-green fence showed signs of having been repaired by an expert hand. The garden was full of flowers: an ordered arrangement of plants trained by human hand. The house was shut. It seemed there was no one in.

The old man in the house next door had told her Zericky was divorced and lived on his own. Miss Wood suspected this was his way of telling her he had no fixed timetable, but came and went as he pleased. Apparently, Zericky was in the habit of going away for days on trips to Maastricht or The Hague to collect information for his work as a historian or simply because he felt like stretching his legs and finding new paths along the banks of the Geul.

‘Im not saying it to put you off, 'added the old man, who had hair like marble and cheeks as pink as if he had just been slapped, but if he doesn't know you're here, I'd advise you not to wait. As I told you, it could be days before he returns.'

Miss Wood thanked him, went over to her car, and leaned in at the driver's window. 'You can go wherever you like, but be back here at eight.'

The car pulled away. Miss Wood looked for a suitable spot, sat down on the grass, and leaned her back against a tree. She could feel the rough grooves of the trunk through her thin jerkin; she devoted herself to the difficult task of letting time pass by.

She had nothing else to do anyway, and she had never minded waiting if it was essential to her work. In fact, she rather enjoyed this parenthesis of birdsong and perfumed breeze. She finished her drink, put the empty carton in her bag, took out another one. She only had two left, but she needed to drink liquid. She felt increasingly weary: her eyes were drooping behind the dark barrier of her glasses, and from time to time she almost nodded off. She could not remember how long it was since she had eaten anything solid – two days perhaps, or even longer – and yet she did not feel at all hungry. Yet she would have paid a fortune to have a full thermos of coffee with her. She was hot. She took off her jerkin and left it on the grass. But then in her sleeveless dress she felt chilly.

It did not occur to her to wonder whether Zericky might not come at all. The fact was, she had let her mind go blank. All she knew was that she would wait there until she could wait no longer. Then she would go back to Amsterdam.

She sat drinking more juice while the breeze ruffled her hair.

16.20.

'Nothing to report, sector two.' 'Situation normal, sector three.' 'Nothing, sector four.'

As he listened to this litany from the guards through the loudspeakers, Bosch was not even thinking of the Artist. Instead, he had been reflecting on circuses. As a child he had seen very few, because his father Victor did not like them. Going to the circus was not the best way to make use of the means available. But willy-nilly, all children visit a circus, and Bosch had eventually got to see one, too. When he was there, he did not enjoy it: from the dangerous acrobatics to the wretchedness of the caged tigers, from the meringue-faced clowns to the magicians' packaged tricks, it had all seemed to him a sorry and sad affair.

Now here he was in another circus. The attractions were different, but there was an audience, tents, magic tricks and wild beasts. And it all seemed to him just as sad.