Art of Murder

7

The New Atelier building in Amsterdam housed the headquarters of Art, Conservation and Security for Bruno van Tysch's Foundation in Europe. It was a rather outrageous building, combining Dutch cheerfulness and Calvinist sobriety, with white-framed windows and seventeenth-century-style gables. To give it a cosmopolitan feel, the architect P. Viengsen had added twin columns a la Brunelleschi to the facade. It was on Willemsparksweg Avenue, near the Vondelpark in the Museum District, where all the artistic jewels of the city are to be found: the Rijkmuseum, the Van Gogh Museum, and the Stedelijk. The Atelier was eight storeys high, with three different blocks. Not unusual in Amsterdam, the entrance hall and first floor were below sea level. In his fifth-floor office, Bosch was probably safe from any threat of flood, although he didn't seem particularly aware of his good fortune.

His office – which included a V-shaped mahogany desk with four old-fashioned telephones on one end and three framed photographs on the other – looked out on to the Vondelpark. The photos were placed so that no one sitting opposite Bosch could see them.

The one closest to the wall was a portrait of his father Vincent Bosch. Vincent was a lawyer for a Dutch tobacco firm. The man in the portrait wore a moustache, had a penetrating gaze, and a huge head, which Lothar had inherited. He looked like a methodical, scrupulous character. The guiding maxim he tried to pass on to his children – achieve the best possible results with the means available – appeared to be chiselled into each and every one of his features. He would have been pleased with the results.

The photo in the middle was of Henrickje. She was pretty, with short blonde hair, a broad smile, and a certain horsiness about her jaw owing to over-prominent teeth. Bosch could vouch for the fact that her body was perfectly well proportioned: Hendrickje liked to show it off in attractive stripey dresses. She was twenty-nine, five years younger than Inspector Bosch, and was rich. They met at a party where an astrologer got them together because of their zodiac signs. Bosch was not attracted to her at first; they ended up getting married. The marriage worked perfectly. Hendrickje – tall, slender, wonderful, attractive, sterile (a problem diagnosed ten months after the wedding), ladylike and positive ('You have to think positively, Lothar', she used to tell him) enjoyed the privilege of having several lovers. Bosch, stubborn, serious, solitary, silent and conservative, only had Hendrickje, but felt that the mere fact of loving her did not mean he could hold her against her will, like the criminals he so detested. Respecting other people's wishes was part of the ideas of freedom that the young inspector had lived by during his troubled adolescence, when he was an okupa in a building on the Spui. It was almost perverse that the same Lothar Bosch who threw stones at the anti-riot squads from the Golfillo statue should a few years later join the city police. On the rare occasions when he still asks himself why he took that decision, he believes he can find the answer in the portrait of his father (back to him), and his sceptical Calvinist gaze. His father wanted him to study

Law, he wanted to be useful to society, his father wanted him to earn money, he did not want to work with his father. So why not become a policeman? A logical decision. One way 'to achieve the best possible results with the means available'.

To some extent, Hendrickje liked him being a policeman. This gave a certain security, or 'stability', to the image of their marriage. Their fights were as rare as were their moments of love, so that in this way, at least, their relationship was balanced. Then one foggy morning in November 1992, it had all come to a sudden end: Hendrickje Michelsen was returning by car from Utrecht when a lorry trailer guillotined her. The impact not only spilled her brains instantaneously, but took with them her head (her beautiful blonde-haired horsey head, the one we can see in the photo), and also her slender neck and part of her upper body. She had gone to Utrecht to visit a lover. Bosch heard the news while he was questioning a man suspected of several murders. He went numb, but chose to go on with the interrogation. Eventually the suspect proved to be terribly innocent. Then one evening in March, four months after the tragedy, a supernatural event took place in the house of the lonely, widowed inspector. The doorbell went, and when he opened it Bosch found himself face-to-face with a girl with straw-blonde hair who said her name was Emma Thorderberg. She was wearing a leather jacket and jeans, with a bag slung over her shoulder. She explained why she had come, and an astonished Bosch let her in. The girl went into the bathroom and an hour later it was Henrickje who came out, wearing her striped dress. She took several long, elegant strides with the bare, shiny legs of someone risen from the dead, and then took up a position in the dining room without so much as a glance at the open-mouthed Lothar. The painting was by Jan Carlsen. Like all artists, Carlsen had reserved the right to change the original: he had shortened the skirt and lowered the neckline to make her more seductive. Apart from that, the cerublastyne had created an exact equivalent: it was as if Hendrickje were alive.

Afterwards he found out who had sent him this surprise gift. 'It was Hannah's idea,' his brother Roland explained on the telephone. 'We weren't sure how you would take it, Lothar. If you don't like it, send it back. Carlsen assured us we could sell it on.'

At first Bosch was tempted to get rid of the work of art. He felt so disturbed he could not eat in the same room but had to move elsewhere to avoid looking at it. He had no idea whether this feeling was due to the fact that Hendrickje was dead, or that he did not want to have to remember her, or for God knows what other obscure reason. Like the good policeman he was, he began by discounting the least likely reasons. If he kept photos and mementoes of his wife, why couldn't he bear that? This meant the first two possibilities could be dismissed. The final conclusion he reached was surprising: what disturbed him so much in the portrait had nothing to do with Hendrickje, and everything with Emma Thorderberg. What most intrigued him was not knowing who was hidden behind the mask. In order to free himself from this fascinating horror, he decided to approach the canvas. One night as she was leaving (the contract stipulated six hours on show at his house), he kept her back with a few banal questions about her profession. They both had a drink, and Emma turned out to be talkative and impetuous, not as educated as Hendrickje, with a less well-defined personality. She was more beautiful, more sympathetic, much less selfish. Bosch discovered something: Emma was not Hendrickje and never could be, but she was very worthwhile in her own right. Once he had discovered this (that Hendrickje was in fact Emma Thorderberg in disguise) the portrait became a carnival joke. He was no longer disturbed when he looked at it, or ate and read in its company. When he realised this, he decided to return it. After quickly compensating Carlsen, they succeeded in selling it to a collector his brother was treating for a throat infection. They even made a profit on the sale. So now Hendrickje is living with someone else. The only thing Lothar regrets is that Emma has gone, too. Because it's not art that is important, according to Bosch, but people.

Having met Emma Thorderberg led him to say yes when, a few years later, Jacob Stein called him to offer him the post of security supervisor at the Foundation. Bosch consoled himself thinking that it was not the hefty raise in salary that led him to quit the police force (not just that, at least). To Bosch, protecting works of art was the same as protecting people. In the end, as Hendrickje used to say – things tend to even out.

The third photo was a snapshot of his beloved niece Danielle, his brother's daughter. Roland Bosch, who was five years younger than Lothar, had studied medicine and become an ear, nose and throat specialist. He ran a prosperous private practice in The Hague, but was one of those people who only feels happy doing something out of the ordinary – risky sports, suddenly buying shares, impulse buying and selling, and so on. When looking for a wife he chose a famous and stunningly beautiful German TV actress who he had met in Berlin. He easily overcame the ugliness characteristic of the Bosch family, and was confident his only daughter would inherit her mother's looks. Danielle Bosch was pretty, it was true, but she was also a ten-year-old child, and Lothar felt she did not deserve such a family. Roland and Hannah had brought her up with a magic mirror that rendered her homage every day. The year before they had wanted their little goddess to go into cinema. They took her to various castings, but Danielle was a pretty poor actress, with rather too deep a voice. She was turned down, to her parents' disgust and her uncle's secret joy. Only two months ago, however, things had taken a new and unsuspected turn: Roland had decided to educate Danielle seriously and had sent her to a private school in The Hague. Bosch was surprised at the news, but he was also worried on Danielle's behalf. He wondered how the girl would get on in this atmosphere, so distant from her parents' uncritical adoration. Lothar loved Danielle with a passion only explicable in a childless widower of around fifty: not the Danielle that Roland and Hannah were creating, but the little girl who occasionally shared smiles and thoughts with him. Hendrickje had never met Danielle, but Bosch was sure they would have got on. Hendrickje and Roland were great friends.

According to Lothar Bosch, the world is divided into two categories of people: those who know how to live, and those who protect those who know. People like Hendrickje and his brother Roland belong to the first category; Bosch to the second.

He was staring intently at Danielle's photo, when Nikki Hartel came into his office. 'I think we've got something, Lothar.'

April Wood's office is on the sixth floor of the New Atelier. It is full of artworks. They are flesh-coloured nudes or near-nudes. No artifice, no fascinating colours, nothing complicated. Wood likes abstract body art, where the figures are shown as simple virgin anatomies in uniform colours: always white Caucasians, nearly always female, built like ballet dancers or acrobats. They are very expensive, but she can afford it. And the Foundation allows her to decorate her office as she likes. Almost all the works are by the new British school. By the door is a Jonathan Bergmann called Body Cult which Bosch particularly likes, perhaps because of its beautiful ballet posture. Standing at the far end of the room, legs apart and hands on hips, there is an Alec Storck painted with tanning lotions and sunscreens of different strengths. There are also three Morris Bird originals: a girl painted lunar blue standing on her head by the window, a boy balancing on one leg next to the desk – his yellow buttocks brushing against the telephone cable – and another ochre and fuchsia girl crouching on the floor like a frog about to leap.

Although he was used to this by now, Bosch was always taken aback when he went into the office. 'Yes?' 'April, good news.'

She was pacing up and down, hands behind her back, dressed in a silver-grey tubular dress. (Joan of Arc in her armour, he thought.) She looked like a queen surrounded by naked statues. Her face showed her concern. 'Let's go to the other room,' she said.

This small room was connected to her office by a short, mirror-lined corridor. It had no windows or human ornaments. Miss Wood closed the door so that the works could not hear them, and offered Bosch a seat. She sat opposite him. Bosch handed her the documents Nikki had brought him. There were several laser-printed photos.

'Look at this blonde woman. She was filmed on three different occasions by the video cameras in the entrance to the Vienna MuseumsQuartier in May. Now look at this man. He was filmed four times by the same cameras, on different days from the girl. And now the most incredible part.' He showed her a third sheet of paper with computer graphics. 'The morphometric analysis of their faces shows a high correlation. There's an eighty per cent probability that it is the same person.' 'What about Munich?'

'Here are the results. Three visits by her, two by him, on alternating days, during the second fortnight in May.'

'Perfect. We've got him. He had enough time to get back to Vienna and change into the girl without papers. But it would be even more perfect if we could compare him to the fake Diaz or the fake Weiss

…' 'Surprise.'

Bosch handed her another sheet of paper. As he bent over Miss Wood, he could see how pale her face was beneath the shadow of her fringe. My God, she puts make-up on like a pharaoh, as if she were scared of anyone seeing her without protection, he thought. It was also true that she seemed different since their return from Munich. He guessed that the work did not help, but he wondered whether there was something else as well. His finger trembled as he pointed to the photo: it was of two men, one facing away, the other towards the camera. The one facing the camera was of athletic build, had long hair and wore sunglasses.

"This is taken by the video camera in the Wunderbar hotel. It shows the moment when the fake Weiss arrived at the hotel on Tuesday afternoon to do the Gigli work. The man with his back to the camera is one of our security agents checking his documents. We processed the image at once. The morphometric analyses coincide ninety-eight per cent with the man in Vienna and Munich, and ninety-five per cent with the woman. The possibility of false positives is around fourteen per cent. It's the same person, April, we're almost sure of it.' 'It's incredible.' 'I'm sorry, April, is something wrong?'

Bosch was alarmed that all of a sudden his colleague was sitting staring intently at a fixed point on the wall.

‘I got a call from London’ said Miss Wood. 'My father is worse.'

'Oh, I'm so sorry. A lot worse?' 'Worse.'

Conversations about April Wood's private life tended to be monosyllabic, words uttered succinctly followed by prolonged silences. 'Good', 'bad', 'better' and 'worse' were the preferred options. As a result, all Bosch knew about her were rumours. He had heard that her father had influenced her significantly in a way he did not like to speculate on, and that he was now very ill in a private hospital in London. He also knew that Wood had never married, and that comments about her possible lesbianism were not infrequent. But the previous head of security, Gerhard Weyleb, had told him about her stormy relationship with Hirum Oslo, one of the most important and influential art critics in all Europe. Bosch admitted he only knew Oslo slightly, but even so could not see what possible attraction a woman like April could have found in that skinny, crippled, helpless creature.

Miss Wood was as passionate a mystery as the unexplored ocean bed. When they had first been introduced, Bosch had not liked her at all.

Judging by what had happened with Hendrickje, he surmised that he would end up falling in love with her. Tm really sorry about that, April,' he said.

She nodded briefly, then immediately changed her tone of voice. 'Great work, Lothar.' 'Thanks.'

Wood was not lavish with her praise, so these words made Lothar feel good. He did not believe he deserved them personally It was his team who had done it all: the wonderful Nikki and the others. They had been busy with the task ever since Wood had suggested the possibility of comparing morphometric similarities in the images of all the people who had visited the exhibitions in Vienna and Munich. 'It's likely he came to explore the terrain before he went into action’ she had said, 'and most probably he did it in disguise.' The computers in the lower basement at the Atelier had not stopped their frantic activity since

Wednesday. Bosch had got the results that Friday morning, on his return from Munich. He was satisfied with his team's work, and pleased that she should acknowledge it.

'I'll tell you something,' Miss Wood said. 'My main doubt was whether it was several people or just one. In the first case, we would have been up against a well-structured organisation with people trained to carry out specific functions. The second possibility makes it more likely we're dealing with a specialist. That makes it more difficult, because we can't catch the small fry first and hope they lead us to the ringleader. We'll have to go shark fishing, Lothar. Are there any comparisons between the computer images of the girl with no papers and the supposed art dealer?' 'On the last page.'

Wood turned to it. On the left was a blow-up of the girl in Vienna and Munich; below them the face of the fake Weiss; at the top in the centre was the man spotted in Vienna and Munich; below that, a photo of Oscar Diaz; and on the right, the computer portraits of the girl without papers and the other girl called Brenda, drawn on the basis of information supplied by the barman in Vienna and Sieglinde Albrecht. They were six different people: it seemed incredible that a single person could have been all of them. Bosch could guess what Wood was thinking. 'What do you reckon?' he asked. 'Is it a man or a woman?'

'He or she is very slender,' replied Wood. 'I'm not sure about the sex, but they're very slender. When it's a woman, she's almost naked. When it's a man, he always wears suits and covers himself right up to the neck. But cerublastyne can't take away, it can only add. Look at those legs – the legs of the girl called Brenda. If it's a man, he must be of very slender build, and look very feminine, and have no body hair. Diaz and Weiss were of similar physical appearance, so probably he solved the problem by using a mould for the head and the thighs. Making the guy with the moustache's fat stomach was even easier: a theatrical prop, possibly. We haven't found any fingerprints anywhere, not even on the steering wheel of the van for Deflowering. That suggests our suspect uses cerublastyne moulds for the hands, which would also explain why Deflowering 's clothes were ripped to pieces, do you remember? Diaz had big hands. If our man used them as moulds to make his cerublastyne hands it must have felt like he was using garden gloves. He couldn't do any delicate work. It would even have been difficult for him to unbutton his own jacket. The Artist has got very small hands, Lothar.' Bosch shook his head as he studied the photos. 'It's incredible that this is only one person,' he said.

Tm not so surprised,' replied Miss Wood. 'I've seen, guarded, and bought some transgender works which I'm afraid would completely destroy any convictions you might have about identity or gender. We live in a confused world, Lothar. A world which has become art, become simply the pleasure of concealing, of pretending to be something one is not, or that does not exist. Perhaps we never used to be like this, perhaps this has come about despite our true nature. Or perhaps we have been like this from the start, perhaps our true nature was always concealment, only now we have the means to make this possible.'

They fell silent. Bosch was taken aback by this philosophical outburst from a woman he considered the most practical person he had ever met. He wondered to what extent her father's illness was affecting her.

‘I don't agree,' he said. Tm convinced we're something more than mere appearance.' Tm not,' Wood replied in a strangely broken voice.

For a moment, they stared into each other's eyes. This was extremely painful for Bosch. She was so beautiful he could almost have cried. Looking at her gave him a stab of pleasure. In his youth he had smoked marijuana, and always had the same reaction on nights when he allowed himself certain excesses: a fitful sense of happiness that rolled down a dark slippery slope to end up in an equally tepid sadness. Somehow, his pleasures had always left behind a trail of tears.

'Be that as it may, the Artist is art,' she said after a further silence. 'What do you mean?'

'Until now we've thought he must be an expert, but now we can go further. You yourself said it: it's "incredible". Someone who's expert in cerublastyne knows how to use it, but that's all.

It would be like an ornament: the craftsman makes the disguise, and that's that. But what's the difference between an ornament and a work of art? A work of art is a transformation. Portraits are works of art because they transform themselves into the person they are representing.'

'A canvas…' Bosch murmured.

'Exactly. The Artist could be a former canvas who is expert in cerublastyne. There are bound to be several portraits in his curriculum.'

'A canvas who hates Van Tysch… a canvas who hates his painter. It sounds good.'

'It'll do as a working hypothesis. Do we have morphometric details of all the HD canvases in the world? Not just the ones on show now, but all the retired ones?'

'We could get them through the net. I'll talk to Nikki. But to study the details of all of them would take months, April. We need to narrow the field down.'

All of a sudden the atmosphere had changed. Now that he and Wood were thinking aloud, Bosch felt energetic and active. They both leaned forward studying the photos as they spoke. 'We can't narrow down the gender…'

'No, but we can be more precise about the professional experience: the use of cerublastyne for example. He or she has been more than an ornament or a marginal work of art. They may have done hypertragedy and art-shocks, but above all, lots of transgender art. We're up against a real expert in transgender work.' 'I agree,' Bosch said.

'And we can assume he or she has worked for or otherwise been in contact with the Foundation: either as a sketch, an outline model, an original, whatever… How many do you reckon are left after that?' 'Several dozen.' Wood sighed.

'Let's set the age limits as…' She thought for a second, then shook her head. 'Well, let's be logical about it. For example, we can eliminate kids and old people. It could be an adolescent or a young adult. We know the approximate morphometric details, so that will help. Talk to Nikki. Tell her she's looking for a model who's worked for us, young, of either sex, with experience in cerublastyne and transgender work, whose morphometric details fit. Once we've drawn up a list of possible suspects, we'll need to investigate where they are now, and cross off all those with a firm alibi. We need results by the middle of next week.'

'We can try.' Bosch felt euphoric. 'This is fantastic, April… We'll get there even before that Rip van Winkle outfit. It might even be us who captures him! I'd love to see Benoit's face if that happens…' Miss Wood was staring at him. After a moment she said:

'There's one small problem, Lothar. After our meeting with the Rip van Winkle people in Munich yesterday, I went with Stein to the airport, if you remember.' 'Yes, but I don't know what you told him.'

1 think I might have put my foot in it. I told him things I shouldn't have. I can't trust anyone. No one, apart from the Maestro. But the Maestro is inaccessible.'

'Is that why you haven't told me? Because you don't trust me?' Bosch had asked the question as gently as possible. Nothing in his tone of voice or his expression could lead her to think he was offended.

Miss Wood gave no reply. She stared down at the floor. Bosch began to get anxious. 'Is it something that serious?'

Slowly, almost painfully, Wood told him about Marthe Schimmel and the platinum-blond boy. Bosch listened, disbelieving.

'That bastard has the advantage,' said Wood. 'Someone is passing him information from inside. Someone is helping him! I've had two sleepless nights just thinking about it… he must be someone senior: he knows the valid codes, has prior knowledge of our security measures

… It could be… Who?… Paul Benoit. It could be Paul Benoit. Or Jacob Stein, even though I find it impossible to believe it could be him, which is why I told him my suspicions yesterday. I'm convinced Stein would never damage one of the Maestro's works: he admires him as much as I do, or even more… But in spite of everything, he's refused to postpone the "Rembrandt" exhibition… It could be Kurt Sorensen or Gert Warfell… Or Thea… Or it could be you, Lothar.' She fixed her blue eyes on him. Her face was a tense mask shiny with makeup. 'Or me. I know it's not me, of course, but I'd like you to think it could be me…' 'April…'

He had never seen Miss Wood in such a state. She had stood up and was almost trembling. She seemed on the verge of bursting into tears.

'I'm not used to having to work like this… I can't bear failing, and yet I know I'm going to fail…' 'For God's sake, April, calm down…'

Bosch stood up, too. He was thunderstruck. He wanted to embrace her, and despite the fact that he had never before done so, or even dared to try, he went up to her and put his arms round her. It felt as though he were enfolding such a fragile and ephemeral creature that he almost became frightened. Now that he was with her, now that he could sense, her, April seemed like a small silver figurine, something tiny and tremulous perched on the edge of a table and about to fall off. This sensation led him to throw off all his remaining caution and to clasp her even more tightly. He joined his hands behind Wood's back and drew her to him. She was not crying, only trembling. She leaned her head on his shoulder and trembled. Unable to say a word, Bosch went on holding her.

Then all at once it was over. Her hands pushed him away gently but firmly. April Wood turned her back to him. When he could see her face again, Bosch immediately recognised the Head of Security. If she had noticed anything, if she had had some inkling of his affection, she apparently now dismissed it as unimportant.

'Thanks, I feel better now, Lothar. The problem is… the thing is… someone in the Foundation wants to destroy works by the Maestro. That much is clear to me. The motive does not matter for now. Maybe he hates him. Or perhaps he's being paid to help. His antennae will go on passing information to the Artist, his damned antennae will go on doing that, and the Artist will work out his plan, or will change it (because I'm sure he already has a plan) on the basis of our decisions… In conclusion, I don't think we can catch him. Our only hope is to anticipate what he is going to do. We have to find out what his next target is and set him a trap of our own.'

She paused. She was as tough and hard as ever again. As she spoke, she frowned deeply.

'Let's start from the hypothesis that the Artist is going to try to destroy one of the "Rembrandt" paintings. Which one? There are thirteen of them. They are going to be on show in a five-hundred-metre-long tunnel specially built out of plastic curtain material in the Museumplein. The tunnel interior will be completely dark apart from the glow coming from the works themselves. We can't even use infra-red to protect them. Thirteen hyperdramatic works based on a similar number of works by Rembrandt: The Anatomy Lesson, The Night Watch, Christ on the Cross, The Jewish Bride… It's an amazing show, but it's very risky, too. If we only knew beforehand which work it might be, we could set a trap. But how can we find out? Some of the works aren't even finished yet. In fact, assistants from the Art section are still drawing sketches on our farms. How can we possibly know which painting the Artist will choose this time, if they aren't even completed?' Bosch decided to be reassuring.

'I'm not so worried about the "Rembrandt" exhibition, April: there's almost an entire army guarding each painting inside and outside the tunnel, as well as the regional police and the KLPD. And in the hotel there'll be lots of security agents on guard inside the rooms. The paintings aren't going to be left alone for a second. We'll keep a constant check on the identity of our men by analysing their finger- and voiceprints. And they'll all be new guards, chosen at the last minute. What can go wrong?' Wood stared at him, then asked:

'Have you been sent the list of the original models who will be the paintings?'

'Not yet. I know Kirsten Kirstenman and Gustavo Onfretti are two of them, but…' He saw April Wood's face cloud over with concern again. He could not bear it, and tried to encourage her. 'April, nothing is going to happen, you'll see. It's not just simple-minded optimism, it's a logical calculation. We're going to be able to rescue the "Rembrandt" collection, I'm-' Wood interrupted him.

'You know one of the models intimately, Lothar.' She paused. Bosch stared at her dumbfounded. 'Your niece Danielle will be one of the paintings.'