Art of Murder

4

Paul Benoit's eyes were not violet, but the lights in the room almost made them look it. Lothar Bosch studied them, and not for the first time knew he had to tread carefully. Where Paul Benoit was concerned, it was always wise to be cautious.

'Do you know what the problem is, Lothar? The problem is that nowadays everything valuable is ephemeral. I mean that in days gone by solidity and the ability to last were what gave value: a sarcophagus, a statue, a temple or a canvas. But now everything of value is consumed, used up, disappears – whether you're talking about natural resources, drugs, protected species or art. We've left behind the era when scarce products were more valuable precisely because of their scarcity. That was logical. But what's the consequence of that? Today, for things to be more valuable, they have to be scarce. We've inverted cause and effect. We tell ourselves: Good things are rare. So let's make sure bad things are rare, and that will make them good.

He paused and stretched out his hand almost without looking. The Trolley was ready to hand him his porcelain cup, but his gesture took her by surprise. There was a fatal hesitation, and the head of Conservation's fingers knocked against the cup and spilled some of the contents on to the saucer. Quickly and efficiently, the Trolley substituted another saucer and wiped the cup with one of the paper napkins she was carrying on the lacquer table attached to her midriff. The white label hanging from her right wrist described her as Maggie. Bosch did not know Maggie, but of course there were many ornaments he had not come across. Although she was kneeling down, it was obvious Maggie was very tall, probably almost two metres. Perhaps that was the reason why she had not become a work of art, Bosch reflected.

'Nowadays there's no money in buying or selling a painting on canvas,' Benoit went on, 'precisely because they are not consumed quickly enough. Do you know what the key to the success of hyperdramatic art has been? Its short shelf life. We pay more, and more readily, for a work that lasts only as long as someone's youth than for a work that will carry on for a hundred or two hundred years. Why? For the same reason we spend more during the sales than we do on a normal shopping day. It's the "Quick, it'll soon be over!" syndrome. That's why our adolescent works of art are so valuable.'

Perfect result the second time, thought Bosch: the Trolley was carefully following Benoit's movements, and he helped by carefully grasping the second cup she held out to him. 'Try some of this concoction, Lothar. It smells like tea, and tastes of tea, yet it isn't tea. The thing is, if it smells and tastes like tea, to me it is tea. But it doesn't make me nervous and it soothes my ulcer.'

Bosch caught hold of the delicate imitation porcelain cup the Trolley was offering him. He looked down at the liquid. It was hard to make out its real colour in the funereal violet light of the room. He decided it might be violet as well. He lifted it to his nose. It was true, it did smell like tea. He tried it. It tasted like nothing on earth. Like caramel liquidised with cough medicine. He stifled a grimace and was pleased to see Benoit had not noticed. Better that way. He pretended to drink some more.

The room they were in was part of the MuseumsQuartier. It was large and rectangular, soundproofed and dotted with violet-coloured lights: in the ceiling the lights were a soft purple, in the floor a cobalt-blue colour, while the square wall lights were a pale lavender, so that they all seemed to be floating in a violet fish tank. Except for the Trolley, there were no other ornaments. The far wall of the room was like a TV gallery. Ten closed-circuit monitors were grouped together; they were all switched off, and reflected crescent moons of violet light.

Sitting in front of them were Willy de Baas and two of his assistants. They were about to begin the psychological support session held every Saturday night. This came under the Conservation department, which Paul Benoit was directly responsible for. It was obvious De Baas felt nervous at having his boss breathing down his neck.

With an expression of pure pleasure, Benoit put the cup back on its saucer. He licked his lips and looked across at Bosch. The wall lights made his pupils look red; his bald patch glowed like a cardinal's cap, and his feet and the lower half of his trousers gave off violet gleams.

'All of which explains why what happened to Deflowering is so dangerous, Lothar. Adolescent works of art like that are extremely valuable. Fortunately, we have managed to keep the news quiet in Amsterdam. Only those at the highest levels know about it. Stein made no comment, and Hoffmann could scarcely believe it. And, of course, they haven't informed the Maestro. 'Rembrandt is due to open on 15 July, and some of the canvases are still being stretched or primed. So the Maestro is unreachable. But it's said heads will roll. Not yours or April's of course…'

'It was nobody's fault, Paul,' Bosch said. 'We were just caught out, that's all. Whether it was Oscar Diaz or not, it was a good plan, and they caught us out.'

'The thing is,' Benoit insisted, holding out his cup for the Trolley to refill it, 'that we have to make sure it's we who find him. We need to interrogate him ourselves – the police wouldn't know how to get all the information we need out of him. You understand, don't you?'

'I understand perfectly, and we're working on it. We've searched his apartment in New York and his hotel room here in Vienna, but we haven't found anything unusual. We know he's a keen photographer and likes the countryside. We're trying to find his sister and mother in Mexico, but I don't think they'll have much of interest to tell us.' 'Didn't I hear he had a girlfriend in New York…?'

'Yes, by the name of Briseida Canchares. She's Colombian, an art graduate. The police don't know about her: we preferred not to tell them, and to look for her ourselves. Briseida met Oscar in

Amsterdam a month ago. Several of Oscar's colleagues saw them together. She got a grant from Leiden University to study classical painters and lived there from the beginning of the year, but she's vanished too…'

'That's a remarkable coincidence.'

'Of course. Thea talked to her Leiden friends yesterday. Apparently, Briseida went off to Paris with another boyfriend. We've sent Thea there to see if it's true. We're expecting news from her at any moment.' Bosch wondered whether Benoit would be offended if he realised he was not going to drink any more of his horrible concoction. He carefully concealed the cup under his left hand.

'We have to find her and make her talk, Lothar. By whatever means necessary. You do realise the situation we're in, don't you?' 'Yes, I do Paul.'

'Deflowering was going to be sold at Sotheby's in the autumn. The sale would have made even the sports pages. Headlines like: Naked teenager sold at auction; The most valuable adolescent in history.. . well, the sort of nonsense you always find on the front pages… except, that in this case, the nonsense would have been accurate. Deflowering was the most valuable piece in the 'Flowers' exhibition, and we haven't found a replacement. The offers we were receiving were far higher than those we got in the past for Purple, Marigold or Tulip. In fact, the bidding had already started. You know how we like to play people off against each other.'

Bosch nodded as he pretended to take another sip of tea. All he did was wet his lips.

'You'd be astonished if you knew how much people were willing to pay for the monthly rental of that work,' Benoit went on. 'Besides, I knew how to put pressure on the most interested collectors. Deflowering had been very sad recently. Willy thought she might be entering a depression, but I had an idea of how we could use that to our advantage.' Benoit's eyes glinted triumphantly. 'We spread the news that the cost of psychotherapy would make the rental of the painting even more expensive. And then any buyer had to bear in mind that the work was only fourteen and so needed to go out, travel, have fun, buy herself lots of things… in short, that they would have to spend a fortune if they didn't want to pay three times more for a restoration. Stein told me it was a masterstroke.' He pursed his lips and rolled back his eyes in a typical gesture. Bosch knew he was listening to echoes of the praise he had received. He loves reminding himself of his triumphs, thought Bosch. 'In two years we would have recouped the cost of the work from the rental fees alone. Then we could have negotiated a replacement, if the Maestro had agreed to it. The original canvas wouldn't have been so young any more, so we'd have got rid of her. But there would have been another one. We'd have had to lower the rent a bit, of course, but we could have used the difficulty we found in substituting the original to cream off another substantial profit. Deflowering would have gone down in history as one of the most expensive works of art ever. But now…'

The TV monitors started to hum, and came alive. The support session was about to start. De Baas and his assistants were ready to hear complaints from works with problems. Benoit did not appear to notice: he was pursing his lips again, but this time his expression was far from triumphant. 'But now all that's down the drain…'

One of De Baas' assistants gestured towards the Trolley. It would have been no use trying to shout at her, because the Trolley was wearing ear protectors, as all ornaments did to prevent them hearing any private conversations. The Trolley got delicately to her feet, padded barefoot across the violet floor carrying the teapot and cups, and began to serve De Baas tea. Who could Maggie be, Bosch suddenly asked himself; from what remote part of the world could she have come, and with what remote hopes? What was she doing naked in a room like this, her head shaved, wearing ear protectors, her skin painted mauve with black flourishes, and a board strapped to her waist for a table? He would never get an answer, because ornaments did not speak to anyone, and no one ever asked them anything.

'What I'd like to know, Lothar,' Benoit suddenly said, 'is if all this might be some kind of… if there's any suggestion it might have been staged.' As he said this, he waved his right hand in the air. 'Do you follow me?' 'You mean that…?'

'I mean could it all be a… I shudder even to say it… a piece of theatre?' Theatre.' Bosch echoed him.

At that precise moment the face of Jacinto Moteado appeared on the TV monitors. This was the first work to have asked for support, and had obviously just had a shower and washed the paint off. The smooth skull and primed skin, devoid of eyebrows and lashes, stood out against a black background. The eyes were as expressionless as milky marbles. The label around the neck was just visible.

'Buona sera, Pietro,' De Baas said cheerfully, speaking into the microphone. 'How can we help you?'

'Hello, Mr De Baas.' The voice of the Italian work boomed out through the loudspeakers. 'The usual problem. The dioxacine brings me out in a rash. I don't know why Mr Hoffmann insists on using it for the indigo on my arms…'

Benoit only followed the conversation between De Baas and the canvas for a moment. Then he spoke to Bosch once more:

‘Yes, a piece of theatre. Let me explain. At first sight, Oscar Diaz is a psycho-whatever, isn't he? He's looked after the painting several times and while he was doing so, he was getting his kicks imagining how he was going to destroy it. He plans everything carefully, and decides to make his move on Wednesday night. He is the van driver, but instead of heading for the hotel, he goes to the woods. There, he's got everything prepared. He forces the work to read an absurd text and records her voice, then slices her up and performs his crazy rituals, whatever they might have been. That's the theory, isn't it?' 'More or less, yes.'

'Well now, just imagine it was all stage-managed. Imagine that Diaz is no crazier than you or I, and that the recordings and all the sadistic paraphernalia are a piece of theatre aimed at throwing us off the scent. To make us think it was the work of some serial killer when in reality it was our competitors who paid him to destroy the painting just before the auction.' He paused, raised an eyebrow. 'You used to be a policeman, Lothar. What do you make of the idea?'

Ridiculous, Bosch thought to himself. Fortunately for him, he did not have to conceal his thoughts as he had done the cup to prevent Benoit guessing what he was thinking. 'I find it hard to accept,' he said finally. 'Why?'

'Because I simply cannot believe someone was capable of doing that to a girl like Annek simply to spoil our multi-million dollar sale, Paul. You have more experience in that area, but… just think – if they wanted to destroy the canvas, there are a thousand quicker ways of doing it… and even if they wanted to imitate a sadistic act, as you say, there are other ways to go about it… she was a fourteen-year-old girl, godammit. They cut her up with… with a sort of electric saw… and she was still alive while they were doing it…'

'She was not a fourteen-year-old girl, Lothar,' Benoit corrected him. 'She was a painting valued at a starting price of fifty million dollars.' 'OK, but…'

'Either you see it that way, or you'll be on completely the wrong track.'

Bosch nodded. For a few moments all that could be heard was the dialogue between De Baas and Speckled Hyacinth. 'Dioxacine helps create a deeper violet-blue colour, Pietro.'

'You always say the same thing, Mr De Baas… but it's not your arms that itch the whole time.'

'Please, Pietro, don't get so upset. We're trying to help you. I'll tell you what we'll do. We'll talk to Mr Hoffmann. If he says the dioxacine is essential, we'll find some way to anaesthetise your arms

… just your arms – what do you think?… It could be done…' 'Fifty million dollars is a lot of money,' said Benoit.

At this, Bosch's semblance of calm evaporated. He stopped nodding and glared at Benoit.

'Yes, a lot. But just you point out to me the person capable of doing that to a fourteen-year-old girl in order to spoil our million-dollar auction. Point that person out to me and tell me: He's the one. And let me look him in the eye and see for myself there's nothing but money, works of art and auctions on his mind. Only then will I admit you're right'

A clink of china. One of De Baas' assistants was putting the empty cups back on the Trolley, who was waiting on her knees to receive them.

'Of course I'm not saying the person who destroyed the canvas was a Saint Francis of Assisi, if that's what you mean…'

'He was a sadistic bastard.' Bosch's cheeks flamed a colour that the lights in the room turned to a deep maroon. 'I can't wait to lay my hands on him.'

The two men fell silent. 'Getting mad with Benoit won't get you anywhere,' Bosch told himself. 'Calm down.' He glanced over at the screens. The canvas was busy agreeing with De Baas' advice. Bosch remembered that Speckled Hyacinth was displayed with the right calf lifted over the shoulder and the head resting on the sole of the foot. He could not imagine himself twisted into such a contortion for even a split second, but Hyacinth put up with it for six hours a day. Bosch realised Benoit was also looking at the screens.

'My God, what it takes to conserve these works. Sometimes I dream of destroying them, too.'

Hearing words like this from the Head of Conservation took Lothar Bosch aback. Benoit often spoke harshly when there were no canvases or luxury ornaments who could hear him, but he did not usually show any weakness. At least, not in public. He gave the false impression of being a gentle old age pensioner one could trust. His bald, round head looked like an anti-stress ball: you looked at it, and it seemed you could squeeze it to help you relax. In fact, it was he who squeezed yours without you being aware of it. Bosch knew that before joining the Foundation he had been a private clinical psychologist in an upper-class district of Paris, and that his previous profession was very useful to him in dealing with the canvases. A very special therapeutic coup had led the doctor to change jobs overnight. Valerie Roseau, a young French canvas Van Tysch had used to paint his early masterpiece The Pyramid, had one day refused to continue to be shown in the Stedelijk. This provoked a multi-million dollar crisis. Valerie had been in treatment for years for her neurosis. The specialists knew this was at the root of her refusal to be exhibited, and tried all they could to cure her. Benoit adopted a different strategy: instead of trying to cure Valerie's neurosis, he convinced her to carry on in the museum. Stein immediately offered him the post of Head of Conservation.

The canvases, especially the youngest ones, all loved talking to Benoit. They poured out their fears to this bald grandfather who spoke with a French accent, and invariably decided to struggle on. It was a wonderful act. In fact, Benoit was a dangerous individual: more dangerous, in his own way, than Miss Wood. Bosch thought he was the most dangerous of them all. Except, of course Stein and the Maestro.

They're young and rich,' Benoit said scornfully, staring at the monitors. 'What more do they want, Lothar? I can't understand them. They have clothes, jewellery, human ornaments and toys, cars, drugs, lovers… if they tell us of somewhere in the world where they'd like to live, we buy them a palace there. So what more do they want?' 'A different kind of life, perhaps. They're human, too.'

Benoit's forehead furrowed. The frown stayed for several moments while Bosch smiled wearily but stubbornly at him.

'Please Lothar, don't say such things while I'm drinking my tea substitute. My ulcer has been worse recently. What Van Tysch has offered them is something far greater than they themselves are, or their wretched lives. He's offered them eternity. Don't they realise it? They are incredibly beautiful works of art, the most beautiful a painter has ever created, but that's not enough for them: they complain of backaches, of itchy backsides or of depression. Please, Lothar, please…' 'All I meant was…'

'No, Lothar, don't give me that.' Benoit lifted his hand. It was as though he were waving away a plate of disgusting food. 'Beauty requires sacrifice. You've no idea what it costs us to keep these little flowers in good condition. So don't give me that. Let's drop it.'

He waved his cup angrily in the air. The Trolley rushed over, arching her back so that her stomach, with the tray attached, stuck out beneath it. She was almost bent over double backwards, because Benoit had barely raised his arm. Her depilated, mauve-coloured sex pointed straight at Bosch.

'Would you like some more, too, Lothar?' Benoit asked, signalling to the ornament to serve him another half cup.

'No thanks,' Bosch said, taking the opportunity to get rid of his still almost completely full cup on to the Trolley. 'Did you like it?' 'It was delicious.'

'It is, isn't it? I order it personally from a firm in Paris. They have substitutes for almost everything you could think of, even substitutes of substitutes.'

There was another silence. Purple Tulip appeared on the screens.

'Will you be staying long in Vienna, Paul?' Bosch asked eventually.

The question caught Benoit just as he was sipping his tea. He drank greedily as he shook his head.

'Only as long as is necessary. I want to be sure the information about the case is kept out of the news. That's proving quite difficult. For example, yesterday I had a telephone conversation with a bigwig in the Austrian Ministry of the Interior. Those people make your blood boil. He was trying to put pressure on me to make it public. My God, what's happening in this crazy country just because at the end of the last century a neo-Nazi party raised its head? They treat everything as if it were breakable, they use tweezers all the time… All they think of is covering their backs… He even had the nerve to accuse me of putting the population of Vienna in danger! I told him: "As far as I'm aware, the only things in danger at the moment are our works of art." The idiot! Well, 1 didn't say that to him, of course.'

Bosch laughed soundlessly, simply opening his mouth and tilting back his head.

'Paul, you need intravenous injections of that tea substitute of yours.'

'I don't like Austrians. They're too twisted. That swindler Sigmund Freud was Austrian. I swear that…' There was a noise at the door and Miss Wood burst in.

'Did that policeman we talked to yesterday get in touch with you?' she asked Bosch directly. 'Felix Braun? No. Why?'

'I left a message on his answering machine demanding he call us at once. His men found the van early this morning, but they didn't tell us a thing. I only found out because a little bird told me so. Oh, hello there, Paul. I'm glad you came. We can all have a good laugh together.' 'The van?' Benoit said. 'What about Diaz?' 'Not a trace.'

The two men looked concerned at the news. For a moment all that could be heard was the dialogue between De Baas and the purple Flower. An assistant brought up a chair. Miss Wood's slight frame collapsed into it. She crossed her legs, revealing a pair of jodphurs and a pair of pointed leather boots. Her slender neck rose high above her shoulders, where she was wearing a purple-coloured silk scarf. The badge in her lapel matched the scarf. She looked like a pretty adolescent, an effeminate daddy's boy who had just been expelled from university for the third or fourth time. There was something dispiriting about her: it was not the way she sat, nor the ironic smile on her lips, not even the way she looked at people – although Bosch preferred seeing her in profile to having her stare at him – or the striking clothes she wore. Taken one by one, each of the components that made up Miss Wood was attractive: it was when they were all put together that they became somehow disagreeable.

'Would you like some tea substitute?' Benoit said, pointing to the Trolley.

'No thanks, Paul. You have it, you're going to need it. Because I still haven't told you the best bit.' Bosch and Benoit looked at her.

'The van was found hidden in trees forty kilometres north of the area where they discovered the work of art. As we suspected, the tracking device had been disconnected. In the back was a bloody sheet of plastic. Perhaps he used it to wrap the work in after he had cut her to pieces, so he could drag her across the grass without getting stains on him. And by the side of the road there were other tyre tracks, apparently from a saloon car. He had another car waiting for him. Our Mr Fixit planned it all very thoroughly.'

It hurts, Mr De Bans. It really hurts. I can bear it, but it does hurt.'

It was the voice of Imaginary Orchid. She was in the gym for canvases in the MuseumsQuartier and had adopted a classic stretching pose: standing with her head between her feet with her hands clasping her calves. In order to film her face, the camera was behind her back almost at ground level. And the Orchid's face appeared upside down on the screen.

'Does it only hurt when you adopt the pose, Shirley?' De Baas wanted to know.

Benoit was looking not at the screens but at Wood. He seemed suddenly irritated.

'April, for the love of God, where has Diaz got to? He is only a guard. He can't have dreamed up a plan as sophisticated as this! Where is he?'

'Spin a globe and stick your finger in it, Paul. You might get lucky.' 'I warn you, I'm not in the mood for jokes just now.'

'It's not a joke. Several hours went by between the moment he destroyed the canvas and when we started to look for him. If we bear in mind that he had another car, and calculate he also had false papers, by now he could be anywhere in the world.'

'Now for example, the pain is… owl'

'Don't keep it in, Shirley. Don't try to suppress it, because that way we won't know how much it is hurting you… I can see the effort you're making… let yourself go. Express the pain you're feeling…'

'We have to find that Colombian girl,' Benoit said between clenched teeth.

'That seems easier,' Miss Wood said. 'Thea has just called me from Paris. Our dear Briseida Canchares is with Roger Levin, Gaston's eldest son.'

'The marchand?' Benoit drew his hand across his face. 'Everything is getting more and more complicated…'

'I have to get through it… Mi… ster De Ba… aas… I am a work ofa… art, M… ister DeBa…a… aaaaas'

'No, no Shirley, that's a mistake. You can't get beyond your pain. I want you to express it… Come on, Shirley, don't hold it in, you can scream if you need to…'

'Roger and the girl are going to one of those surprise parties the Roquentins organise to attract clients and deal in illegal works. But the real surprise will be when they get home.' Wood glanced at her watch. Thea is going to call me at any minute.'

'Shout, Shirley. As hard as you can. I want to hear how much your back hurts…'

'N-n-n-n-… N-n-n-n-n-n-n-nnnnnn…'

Bosch was observing the screens. The canvas' forehead was racked with dry sobs – she was primed and had no tears to cry. Her knees, on a level with her face, were trembling. Benoit and Wood were the only people in the room paying absolutely no attention to what was happening on the televisions. The Trolley was not looking either, but then she was only an ornament.

'April, scare her as much as is necessary,' Benoit said. 'Her and that idiot Levin boy, if need be.' Wood nodded.

'We plan to scare them so much they'll piss themselves, Paul.' 'Is Romberg in Vienna?'

'No, Romberg is in Czechoslovakia looking into that fake copies business. Last week we found a false sketch of one of the figures from Couple. We convinced him he didn't want to have anything to do with fakes any more. I don't think he'll blab, but it's still a delicate matter.'

'Can't you see, Shirley? It hurts too much. I'll count to three, then you shout as loud as you like, OK?' 'April, forget the fakes for a moment. This has priority.' 'Since when have you also been Head of Security, Paul?' 'It's not that, April, it's not that…' 'As hard as you can!… A real howl, Shirley.'

The Austrian police are searching for Diaz even under the Minister of Interior's carpet,' said Wood. 'I don't think there's any need to invest more men or money in a job they can do for us. The fact that the dogs bring us our prey doesn't make them the hunters, Paul.' Two…'

'OK, let's do it your way, April. All I want is…' 'Three!'

'AaaaaaaaaAAAAAHHHH…!'

It was strangely fascinating to see a face shouting upside down: at the top, beneath the tiny pyramid of a forehead, a huge blind eye with a pink tentacle; at the bottom, two slits sunk into furrows. Except for the Trolley, everyone raised their hands to their ears.

'Shit, Willy!' Benoit shouted. 'Can't you put a gag on that idiot? It's impossible to talk!'

Willy De Baas moved away from the microphone and turned down the loudspeakers.

I'm sorry, Paul. It's Shirley Carloni. In April she came apart and we had to operate, do you remember? But she's still not right.'

Bosch remembered that the expression 'came apart' had become popular among the Conservation staff for 'Flowers'. It described the worst problem the works of art faced: damage to their spines.

'Pull her out for a week, suspend the flexibility drugs, give her more painkillers and call the surgeons,' said Benoit. 'That's exactly what I had in mind.'

'Well do it then, and keep the volume of your wonderful speaker down, would you?… What was I saying? April, I have no wish to supervise your work, far from it. You know how much we all trust you. But this problem is… let's just say… a bit special. This bastard has destroyed not merely an adolescent, but part of the world's heritage.'

'I'll take the responsibility, Paul,' said Miss Wood with a smile.

'You'll take the responsibility, fine. I do as well, and so does everyone else in this artistic enterprise, April. That's what we can tell the insurance companies, if you like: "We take the responsibility." We can also say the same to our investors and private clients: "Don't worry, we take the responsibility." Then we organise a dinner in a salon with ten Rayback nudes in it, and fifty wonderful ornaments as tables, vases and chairs a la Stein, we leave them all open-mouthed in astonishment, and then ask them for more money. But they will reply, quite correctly: "You put on a wonderful display, but if a guard from your own security team can destroy such an expensive work of art and get away with it, who on earth will want to insure any of the works in future? And who will pay to have them?"

As he spoke, Benoit waved the empty cup in the air. The Trolley had been waiting for him to replace it on her table, but Benoit had been too carried away to notice. The ornament did not say or do anything beyond crouching there attentively, trying to keep her balance. As she drew breath, her stomach made the teapot tremble. As he observed her antics, Bosch could scarcely stop himself laughing.

'This business is built on beauty,' Benoit was saying. 'But beauty is nothing without power. Just imagine if all the Egyptian slaves had died, and the pharoah had been forced to carry all those blocks of stone himself…' 'He'd come apart,' Bosch quipped.

'So art is power,' Benoit declared. 'A wall has been breached in our fortress, April, and it's up to you to plug the hole.'

He finally appeared to realise he was still holding the cup, and quickly moved to replace it on the Trolley, who stood up nimbly.

At that moment, as if a black cloud had passed over the room, it turned a darker shade of purple.

'I'd like to know what's happening to Annek,' a voice with a Haarlem accent said.

They all turned towards the screens, though they knew it was Sally before they saw her. She was leaning against one of the bars in the gym for the canvases, and the camera was filming her to halfway down her thighs. She was wearing a T-shirt and shorts. The shorts cut into her groin. She had removed the paint with solution but even so her ebony skin had dark purple highlights. The yellow of her neck label stood out between her breasts.

‘I don't believe the story about flu… the only reason for withdrawing a work from this fucking collection is if they come apart, and if Papa Willy can hear me, let him deny it…'

Willy de Baas had switched off the microphones, and was whispering hurriedly to Benoit.

'We told the works that Annek has the flu, Paul.' 'Fuck,' growled Benoit.

Sally smiled all the time she was talking. In fact, she looked very happy. Bosch thought she must be drugged.

'Look at my skin, Papa Willy: look at my arms and here, on my stomach… If you switch the lights off, you'll still be able to see me. My skin is like a raspberry past its sell-by date. I look at it and feel like eating plums. I've been like this since last year, and I haven't been withdrawn even once. If you don't come apart, you're on show, flu or no flu. But Annek and I will never come apart, will we?

… Our postures with our backs straight are easier than most. How lucky we are, they all say. We're the lucky ones, apparently. But I reckon it depends on how you look on it… it's true, the other works are carried out on stretchers at the end of the day… and they are jealous of us because we can walk without any back problems and we don't need any of those flexibility implants that mean you can kick yourself in the shin with the same foot, isn't that so, Papa Willy?

… But it also means we're on the outside, we aren't part of the group of those who have officially come apart… So cut the crap. What's wrong with Annek? Why have you withdrawn her?'

'Fuck,' Benoit said again.

'She could cause real trouble,' De Baas said, twisting his head towards Benoit. 'She will cause real trouble,' one of his assistants insisted.

'What's happening, Papa Willy? Why don't you reply?'

Benoit swore indignantly again, and stood up.

‘Let me deal with her, Willy. Why on earth did you tell her that nonsense about flu?' 'What else could we do?'

'Papa Willy? Are you there…?'

Benoit scurried over to De Baas, talking all the time.

This is a work of art valued at thirty million dollars, Willy. Thirty big bricks and a monthly rental I prefer not to mention…' He took the microphone from De Baas, 'And she has become indispensable: the owner will only have her. We have to tread carefully…'

Benoit's voice suddenly became mellifluous. 'Sally? It's Paul Benoit.'

'Wow!' Sally unhooked her thumbs from her shorts and stood with arms akimbo. 'Grandpa Paul in person… I'm truly honoured, Grandpa Paul… Grandpa Paul is always the one who comes to the phone when things go wrong, isn't he?…'

I'm sure she's drugged, Bosch thought. Sally was slurring her words, and her plump lips stayed open when she fell silent. Bosch thought she was one of the most beautiful pieces in the collection.

That's right,' Benoit said gently. 'That's how things work with us: they pay Willy less than me, so he spouts more nonsense. But this is pure chance – I happened to be in Vienna and wanted to come and see you all.'

'Well, make sure you don't come down to the gym, Grandpa. Some of the flowers have turned carnivorous. They say you look after those dogs of yours in Brittany better than you do us.'

‘I don't believe that for a minute. You're wicked, Sally.'

'What happened to Annek, Grandpa? Tell me the truth, just this once.'

'Annek is fine,' replied Benoit. The thing is that the Maestro has decided to withdraw her for a few weeks to work on some details.'

This was an absurd excuse, but Bosch knew that Benoit had a lot of experience in fooling the works of art.

'Work on some details…? Come off it, Grandpa! Do you think I'm an idiot? The Maestro finished her two years ago… If he withdrew her, it's because he wants to substitute her…'

'Don't get mad, Sally, that's what I've been told, and I'm usually told the truth. There isn't going to be any substitute for Deflowering for two years at least. The Maestro has taken her to Edenburg to correct a few details of her body colour, that's all. In theory, he's within his rights – Deflowering hasn't been sold yet.'

'Are you telling me the truth, Grandpa?'

'I couldn't lie to you, Sally. Doesn't Hoffmann do the same with you? Doesn't he renew the purple every now and then?' 'Yes, he does.'

'She's falling for it…' one of the assistants whispered admiringly. 'She's falling for it!' De Baas hissed to silence him.

'But why didn't you tell the truth from the beginning, Grandpa? Why invent the story about the flu'?'

'What else could we say? That one of the most expensive of Bruno van Tysch's works was not properly finished? And I need hardly tell you, Sally, that this has to be kept between you and me, right?'

'I'll keep the secret,' Sally paused for a moment, and her expression changed. This made Bosch forget about works of art and suddenly see a solitary, fearful young woman on the TV screens.

'Well, I guess I won't be seeing the poor girl for some time… I feel sorry for her, Grandpa. Annek is a child, and she has no one… I think that's why I liked her, because I'm all alone too… Do you know I invited her to go out to the Prater this Monday?… I thought that might help her…'

'I'm sure you did help her, Sally. Annek feels better now.' Cynicism three times a day after meals, thought Bosch.

'When am I going back to Mr P's house?'

Bosch recalled that Purple Tulip had been bought almost fifteen years earlier by someone called Perlman. He was one of the Foundation's most valued clients. Sally was the tenth substitute for the work. Both she and all her predecessors called him 'Mr P'. Lately, it seemed Mr P had taken a fancy to Sally, and was demanding that she remain with him after the end of the year. Since he paid an astronomical price for renting her, his wishes were commands. On top of that, Perlman had graciously allowed Tulip to be lent for this European tour, so he was owed this favour.

'The person who can tell you about that is Willy. I'll put him on. Take care!'

'Thanks, Grandpa.'

As De Baas took up the conversation again, Benoit seemed to be removing a mask in the cold violet wall lights. He took a handkerchief out of his jacket and mopped his face, giving vent to his frustrations.

'Believe me, I'm so sick of those dumb paintings… shitty little girls and boys raised to the level of works of art…' his voice altered as he copied Sally's accent: "‘I feel so alone too"… she's been plucked out of a black ghetto, she earns more in a month than I earned in a year at her age, and still she moans on about how "alone" she is! How stupid can you get?'

A single mosquito whine of a laugh greeted this tirade – it was Miss Wood. No joke in any language ever made her even smile, but Bosch had often seen her laughing like this when someone was spilling their bile.

'You were great, boss,' an assistant said, giving Benoit the thumbs up.

'Thanks. And don't make any more excuses about flu, whatever you do. We need to be very careful with these canvases, and to keep them in good condition, we have to be subtle. They're all drugged, but they're still smart. If we substituted them earlier, we'd save a lot on conservation. Of course though, I prefer to keep on the "Monsters".' He paused, then puffed, 'This art business is getting crazier and crazier…'

'Thank Heavens we have "Grandpa Paul" to restore all the paintings,' said Miss Wood.

Benoit pretended not to hear. He walked towards the door, but stopped halfway.

‘I have to go. Believe it or not, this morning I have to go to a private concert in the Hofburg. A top-level meeting. Four Austrian politicians and me. An eighteen-year-old countertenor is going to sing Die Schone Mullerin. If I could get out of going, I'd be a happy man.' He wagged a finger in the air. 'Please, April, we need results.'

He continued wagging his finger after falling silent, then left the room.

Miss Wood's mobile phone began to ring. 'We've got the Colombian girl,' she said to Bosch after the call ended. They both hurried out of the violet room.