Art of Murder (66 page)

Miss Wood opened another folder and put aside two landscape studies. Then a carbon drawing with a night-time wood. Drawings of birds. Still lives, but no slaughtered ox. A young girl standing arms akimbo, but she did not resemble the
Girl Leaning on a Windowsill.

20.50.

As he advanced along the Tunnel, Bosch spotted one of the guards. His red badge shone dully in the light from the plinths. His face was a blur of shadows.

'Mr Bosch?' the man said when he had identified himself. 'It's Jan Wuyters, sir'

'How is everything going, Jan?'

'All quiet so far'

Beyond Wuyters the sharp linear splendour of the crucified
Christ
loomed in the distance. A trick of perspective made it look as though it were floating above Wuyters head, as if he were being offered special divine protection.

'I'd be happier if there was more light and we could see the face and hands of people properly,' Wuyters added. 'This is a slum, Mr Bosch.'

'You're right. But it's Art that's giving the orders.'

'I guess so.'

All at once, Bosch decided Wuyters was a very convincing Wuyters in the darkness. He was
almost
sure it was him, but as in a nightmare, tiny details confused him. He would have liked to have seen the man's eyes outside in the daylight.

'To tell you the truth, sir, I wish today's opening was over,' Wuyters' silhouette whispered.
‘I
share your feelings entirely, Jan.'

'And the horrible smell of paint
...
isn't your throat burning?' Bosch was just about to reply when all hell broke loose.

20.55.

Miss Wood was staring at the watercolour, without moving a muscle. Seeing the change in her attitude, Zericky leaned over her shoulder.

'It's lovely, isn't it? It's one of the watercolours Maurits did of her.'

Miss Wood looked round at him uncomprehendingly.

'It's his wife,' Zericky explained. 'The young Spanish woman.'

'You mean this woman was Van Tysch's
mother?'

'Well,' said Zericky with a smile,
‘I
think she was. Bruno never knew her, and Maurits destroyed almost all the photos of her after she died, so Bruno only had these drawings by Maurits to know what she looked like. But it is her. My parents knew her, and according to them they are a very good likeness.'

First, the remembrance of his childhood. Then his father and Richard Tysch. Now his mother. The third most personal work. Miss Wood no longer had the slightest doubt. She did not even need to look in the remaining folders. She knew exactly which painting the drawing related to. Her hand was trembling as she consulted her watch.

There's still time. I'm sure there's still time. Today's exhibition hasn't even finished yet.

She left the watercolour on the table, picked up her bag and took out her mobile phone.

All at once, something like a sudden presentiment, the shudder of a sixth sense, paralysed her.

No, there's no time left. It's too late.

She dialled a number.

What a shame you could not do it perfectly, April. Doing things well is doing them badly.

She put the phone to her ear and heard the distant screech of the call.

Because if you let yourself be defeated
in
small things, you'll lose out
in
the big ones too.

The telephone voice sounded in the minute darkness of her ear.

20.57.

Lothar Bosch had faced up to a crowd on several occasions in his life.

Sometimes he had been part of it (but even then he had needed to
protect himself
from it); at others, he had been part of those trying to disperse it. Whatever the case, he had known the phenomenon since his youth. He had never been able to draw any useful lesson from his experiences: he thought he must have survived by pure luck. A terrified crowd is not something a person can learn to resist, just as you can never learn to walk in the eye of a hurricane.

It all happened very quickly. First there was a shout. Then many more. A few moments later, and Bosch realised the full extent of the horror.

The Tunnel was roaring.

It was the deep roar of underground bells, as if the earth he was standing on had a life of its own and had decided to prove it by rearing up.

The darkness prevented him from comprehending exactly what was going on, but he could hear a ringing sound from the roof's metallic structure and from the curtain walls nearest to him. My God, the whole thing's coming down, he thought.

That was when the panic started.

Wuyters, the guard who had been talking to him just a few moments earlier, was swept away by a surge of shouts, gaping mouths and hands clawing for the open air. A thrusting piston of bodies flung Bosch against the guide rope. For one atrocious instant he saw himself crushed by the stampede, but fortunately the torrent of humanity was not headed in his direction: it was just forcing its way past. Fear made the crowd run blindly towards the far end of the Tunnel. The stanchions securing the rope held, so Bosch clung on and avoided falling off the ramp.

The worst of it, he thought, was not being able to see anything, plus this obscene carnival darkness, in which only a minimum of movement was possible. It was like being shoved under a woollen blanket with a lion.

A woman was screaming next to him, trying to get out. The fact that her breath smelt of tobacco was a stupid detail that seized hold of Bosch's terrified brain. He thought he understood that she was holding a child by the hand, and was begging the monster to respect her, at least not to devour her tiny charge. Then Bosch saw her swept under (had she bent down? been swept away?) then reappear further on, waving a tremulous, wailing little creature above her head like a banner. Go on, go on, get him out of here, Bosch wanted to shout, get your child out of here. He was trying to help her when he was struck by another blow, and fell over the edge of the ramp.

He felt he has falling through space. The darkness outside the ramp was so intense his eyes could not calculate the distance separating him from harm. Even so, he managed to put his hands out and parry his fall. For a second or two he could not even work out what had happened, why he was in this strange position of floating along horizontally. Then he understood that all the chiaroscuro lighting must have gone off.

That must be it, because in the entire length of the Tunnel he could not see a single light, not even a speck. The paintings had been swallowed up in the shadows. And he was in the belly of the darkness.

He tried to get to his knees, but was knocked flat again. Something, or some mass of things, swept over him. Somebody had thought that beyond the ramp there might be another exit, and now everyone was running towards this remote possibility. Perhaps it was true that the emergency exits for the paintings could also be used by the public: even though they were further off, they were much easier to get to. The problem was finding them.

Bosch finally managed to stand up and check he had no broken bones. All around him, dumbfounded shadows heaved. He tried to guide them because he knew where the exits were. He started shouting at people who were like stampeding elephants in the black centre of a storm.

'The far end! The far end!'

But: the far end of what? They started running towards the lights. But the lights were getting closer, too. A magical brush painted a sudden majestic white stripe on the sweating, terrified face in front of Bosch. Then the darkness added black, and the face disappeared. Another brush sketched an outstretched hand, then a summery shirt, a fleeting silhouette. In the midst of the Guernica panic, Bosch waved his arms like a drowning man.

'Stay calm, stay calm,' he heard a voice say.

Just hearing words that made sense reassured him a lot. It was a shred of coherence that might lead to some communication. Then there were the lights, which must be torches. He ran towards them as though the darkness engulfing him were flames, and his body needed to douse itself in light. He struggled to push away another person desperate to reach the privilege of light. Darkness is cruel, he thought. Darkness is inhuman, he thought.

'It's Lothar Bosch here!' he shouted. He felt his jacket lapel, but his ID badge had been torn off.

'Calm, stay calm,' the voice offering the gift of light repeated.

A beam struck his face, blinding him. It did not matter: he preferred to
be
blinded rather than to be
blind.
He raised his hands, begging for light.

'Stay calm, nothing has happened,' the voice said in English.

Bosch wanted to laugh. So nothing had happened?

It was then he realised that it was true that whatever had happened was over. He could no longer hear the sinister creaking of the Tunnel's metallic structure.

The torch painted another face: a woman from the crowd who was weeping as she tried to speak. Bosch contemplated this mask of tragedy as carefully as he had studied the paintings only a few minutes earlier.

He staggered out of the Tunnel inferno, guided by the rescuing torches, but feeling as lost as everyone else around him. Night had not yet fallen, and it had even stopped raining, but the dense ceiling of grey clouds made the sunset even more impressive. Under this colourless sky, the central square was a riot of colour. It was as if the Rijksmuseum had burst open and peopled the streets with Rembrandt's dreams.

The Table and Maid from
The Feast of Belshazzar
were being helped into their robes by people from Conservation. King Belshazzar, swathed in a heavy painted turban, was panting loudly. The soldiers from
The Night Watch
were still holding aloft their lances and muskets, and looked for all the world like an army of dead men, astonishment filling their bloody faces. The girl with the chicken at her waist, naked and gold-painted, was a flickering flame at the foot of the recovery vehicle. At the opposite end of the horseshoe,
The Syndics
were climbing into more vehicles, while the students from
The Anatomy Lesson
ran about in their white ruffs. Kirsten Kirstenman's pale blue body was being carried on a stretcher. The paintings were all jumbled up with ordinary people. Out in the open, Van Tysch's masterpieces looked like the final nightmare of a painter on the point of death. Where could Danielle be? Where exactly had
Young Girl Leaning on a Windowsill
been on display? Bosch could not remember. He was completely disorientated.

Suddenly he recalled that the painting had been on show beyond
The Feast.
He remembered he had decided not to spend much time on that one so he could get to her as soon as possible.

He saw a man from Conservation whom he recognised. He was nervously attaching a label round the neck of Paula Kircher, the Angel from
Jacob Wrestling with the Angel.
Paula was wearing a huge pair of wings in a gleaming pearl-grey colour, fixed on her back like a monstrous, useless parachute. Another assistant had run over to protect her priceless ochre nakedness in a robe, but it was impossible to put on without removing her wings, so Paula just wrapped herself in it like a towel. People milling round her knocked against her feathers with their heads or shoulders: a fireman tore one out with his helmet. It was Paula who replied to Bosch's desperate question: she seemed a good deal calmer than the man trying to put her labels on.

'She's with the
Christ.'

She pointed towards a side exit. But there was no vehicle there. 'My God, where is she? Has she already been evacuated?' He ran wildly over to the exit. A female security agent from the inside team was consoling a woman who, probably, was a person rather than a painting. Bosch decided this because she was not painted. Next to him was a figure who
was
a painting: maroon clothing and a face like a cardinal by Velazquez: perhaps one of the characters from
The Night Watch.
Bosch interrupted the agent with his hasty question.

'I don't know, Mr Bosch. She might have been evacuated already, but I can't be sure. Why don't you call up control on your radio?'

‘I
haven't got one.'

'Use mine.'

The girl unhooked the microphone and passed it to him. As he was putting the headpiece on, Bosch realised there was a piano tune coming from his chest. It was his mobile phone ringing in his inside pocket. Bosch had no idea when it had started. Then all at once it fell silent. He decided not to worry about the call for now. He would track it down later.