Art of Murder (70 page)

'Was it the Maestro who gave all these instructions?' Rodino asked.

'Your clothes, please,' Matt replied with complete calm.

Rodino obeyed without another word. Krupka helped him. Clara, who was standing some distance from them, utterly naked and utterly nervous, had decided not to look at the two men. It was easier for her to imagine them as cruel if she did not look at them. But Rodino's doubts were like cold water thrown in her face. Why couldn't that fat, clumsy canvas just shut up and obey, as Krupka had? Krupka was far more odious than Rodino, more detestable, and therefore the better work of art. By focusing her thoughts on Krupka, Clara managed to feel sick from terror. She suspected that Krupka would not have to pretend to fling himself on her and hurt her: ever since they had seen each other for the first time in Schiphol, he had been constantly devouring her with his sensual, shining eyes. Which meant the Hungarian was a good ally for any 'leap into the void'.

She heard the deep rumble of a curtain coming down. Clara guessed this meant Rodino was finally naked.

She went on staring at the floor between her bare feet. She could see the foreshortened perspective of her painted breasts, with the erect nipples gleaming in rose and ochre. But the silence was so profound she was forced to look up.

Matt had turned his back on them and was searching for something in his case.

'What's next?' asked Krupka.

The young man turned towards them once more. He was holding something in his hand. A pistol. 'This is next,' he said simply.

22.50.

Perhaps it was too late already. 'But don't admit defeat until you have to, Lothar', Hendrickje whispered in his ear. They had crossed the Amstel bridge at top speed and headed towards Plantage through the intense curtain of rain. The windscreen wipers could not cope, so that to Bosch it seemed as if they were driving through an underwater city. All of a sudden the walls of the Old Atelier buildings loomed up in their headlights like tall cliffs. A complicated aerosol graffiti decorated the lower sections. It was signed by a neo-Nazi group.

'Drive into the underground car park, Jan,' Bosch said.

The front door to the Foundation was closed, but that meant nothing, if he's brought them to the Atelier, he must have the keys.' One of the men got out and dealt with the electronic keypad that allowed them access. As the van negotiated the descent, the car-park lights came on. Under the blinking fluorescent strips they could see it was empty and silent. But Bosch still thought the other vehicle might be there somewhere.

Then all at once there was the parked van, as if it had been lying in wait for them, beside a block of lifts. To Bosch's surprise this discovery, which apparently confirmed his theory, had the effect of almost totally unnerving him. He swivelled in his seat and hit Wuyters on the arm. 'Here! Stop here!'

The engine was still running when Bosch leapt from the vehicle. He was so nervous he had forgotten he was still wearing the radio headset, and the cable caught in his seat belt, tugging violently at his head as he got up. He threw the headset off, cursing as he did so. His big hands were shaking. He was old: it was a judgment he had no time to reflect on. Leaving the police meant he had got rich, fat and old. He ran towards the other van, sensing that his men were following him. He wanted to shout to them, but could not draw breath. He could not believe how out of shape he was. He was afraid he would have a heart attack before he could even decide what to do.

The van looked empty, but they had to check it out. He opened the front door, looked inside, and breathed in a rasping smell of oil paint. No one there.

Fine, Lothar, fine, you stupid man. You've proved they
might
be here. So now, where are they?

There were five different buildings in the Old Atelier. They could be in any of them. He'll have taken them to the workshops, Bosch reasoned. That's the safest place. But that was not much help either. The workshops were spread over five floors and four basements. For the love of God, which one would they be in?

Think, you old fool, think. A roomy, quiet place. He needs to make recordings. And there are three figures
...

His men were examining the back of the van. It was empty, but it was obvious that a short time before there had been a painting there.

The goods lift,' Bosch suddenly muttered.

He was still short of breath, but ran towards the lift shaft.

'If he parked here, it was so he could use the goods lift. That goes down to the basements, so there are four possible floors for us to search. He could be in any of them.'

He stopped to look at his men. They were all young, and all looked as bewildered as him. Their hair was streaming from the rain. Bosch himself was amazed at the assured way he gave orders and deployed his men: two of them were to search the third and fourth floors; Wuyters and he would take the second and first basements. Whichever group found them first would contact the others by radio. First and foremost though they were to protect the art work: if they had to take urgent action, they should.

‘I
don't know what he looks like, or if he has others with him,' Bosch added, 'but I do know he is a very dangerous individual. Don't give him any chances.'

The goods lift opened. Bosch and his men piled in.

They had all pulled out their weapons. Wuyters had a small Walther PPK as a backup, and Bosch asked him for it. Feeling the familiar weight of the metal 'L' in his hand, Bosch hesitated. He wondered how good his aim was nowadays: he had not used a gun in years. Should he ask for help? Reinforcements? Call April? His mind was a flaming wasps' nest. He decided there was no time to lose. It was up to them. They would have to find the Artist and stop him.

The goods lift moved off agonisingly slowly.

21.51.

The beginning and the end, she thought. The beginning and the end were there, and she was staring at them.

At that moment she would have loved to have been able to count on Oslo's opinion, but she understood that poor Hirum would take a long time to speak, or even to think coherently, after seeing something like this. Faced with this work, Hirum Oslo would hardly have been able to do anything more than stand open-mouthed, eyes wide, for much longer than she did.

‘I
t's almost finished,' murmured Stein, clouds of vapour coming from his mouth. 'What's missing is the destruction of
Susanna,
of course. When Baldi sends it, the paindng will be complete.'

What could it be compared to? wondered April Wood, blinking at the sight. What landmark in the history of art was anything like it?
Guernica?
The Sistine Chapel? She walked slowly around it to be able to take it all in: it was spread out on the floor. The

Pieta?
The
Dem
oiselles d'Avignon? A
border, a limit, a point beyond which art changes altogether? The moment when the first man dipped his fingers in paint and drew an animal on the wall of his cave home? The moment when Tanagorsky got up on a platform and s
houted to an astonished public I
am the painting'?

She twisted her mouth, collected some saliva, swallowed. Her heart was beating at a different rhythm to the slow passage of the seconds in the numbingly cold room, a crazy, unhinged rhythm.

Neither she nor Stein dared disobey the silence for several seconds.

They were in a room measuring about eight metres by ten, that was completely sealed, soundproof and at a set temperature. This was controlled from outside, and was several degrees below zero, giving the room the appearance of a mournful butcher's freezer. The ceiling, walls and floor had all been lined with turquoise-blue steel. The dim white light came from a track of small spotlights on the ceiling. They were all pointed at the man on the floor, who seemed to be floating in a frosty lake.

The man was Bruno van Tysch. He lay completely naked flat on his back, arms stretched out above his head, ankles crossed in a pose that immediately recalled the crucifixion. He was painted ochre and blue from head to foot. The veins at his ankles and wrists were slashed; as she peered more closely, the deep cuts were plainly visible. It was easy to see what had happened only a short while before. The coagulated blood around each extremity formed a dense pool of red on the blue of the floor, which made it look as though Van Tysch was nailed to his own blood. Several large rectangular objects, flat as mirrors, were placed around the body. There were three of them: one on the right-hand side, another on the left - arranged so that their bottom edges met close to the painter's ankles - and the third across the top of his head, touching the hands. But they were not mirrors. The rectangle to the right of Van Tysch showed Annek Hollech's body full-size, naked and labelled, placed in almost the same pose as the painter, torn apart in ten places by the ten cuts of a blade. On the left, there was the image of the Walden brothers in a similar pose, and similarly destroyed. These were not simply video images: the burgeoning mound of the twins' stomachs rose above Van Tysch's body like bloody twin peaks. April Wood supposed they must be some kind of virtual image that did not need a visor. The red of the paintings' wounds, and the gleaming, scarlet, real red at Van Tysch's wrists and feet, formed a whole that contrasted with the flesh tones of the four dead bodies. The backgrounds (a lawn for Annek, a hotel room for the Walden brothers) had been cleverly merged in a uniform turquoise that appeared to continue the floor of this strongroom. The tableau had an incredible symmetry and a mysterious but undeniable beauty. Any sensitive observer would immediately think of some kind of all-incorporating idea: the artist and his creation, the artist and his testament, the immolation of the artist together with his works. There was something almost sacred in that naked family with arms and legs outstretched, torn apart and still. Something eternal. The horizontal panel, much larger than the others and still dark, broke up the harmony. That must be where - thought April - the images from the destruction of
Susanna
are to go.

'Don't ask me to explain it to you,' said Stein, seeing her expression. 'It's art, Miss Wood. I don't think you'd understand it. And it's not for the artist to try to explain it either—'

At that moment another unexpected voice interrupted his. April Wood almost jumped in terror at this unforeseen outpouring of underground words amplified to an inhuman degree. It was Annek Hollech. Gentle harmonies by Purcell underscored her trembling words.

'ART
IS
ALSO
DESTRUCTION.'

A brief pause. Then the solemn strains of a baroque funeral march.

'IN
THE
BEGINNING,
IT
WAS
NOTHING
ELSE,
IN
THE
CAVES
THEY
ONLY PAINTED
WHAT
THEY
WANTED
TO
SACRIFICE.'

Another pause.

April Wood's hair was standing on end. She was shivering as though an unending line of ants was crawling over her.

In the mirror, Annek's image seemed to have changed. Still naked and hacked to pieces, her face appeared to be moving. That was where the voice was coming from.

'THE
ARTIST
SAYS
.
.
.'

Stein and Miss Wood listened to the rest of the recording in respectful silence.

When Annek had finished, her face turned back into the hollow mask that was part of her corpse. Immediately afterwards, a chorus of angels seemed to transform the tearful, floating features of the Walden brothers: they came to life and spoke into the air as if saying a prayer or a sacred incantation. Again, neither Stein nor Miss Wood felt they could interrupt them.

When at last the twins subsided into a blood-filled silence, Stein said:

'Van Tysch insisted on having the canvases' original voices, although we improved the quality in our studio. They're programmed to start up every so often, twenty-four hours a day, every day'

The art that survives is the art that has died, April Wood thought. If the figures die, the works survive. Now she understood. In this posthumous work, Van Tysch had found a way to convert a body into eternity. Nothing and nobody could destroy what had already been destroyed. Nothing and nobody could put an end to what had already been ended. The inhospitable electrically controlled cold would ensure this work lasted forever.

His work. His last work.

*Van Tysch prepared Baldi
...'
she murmured. In that room, where every sound was an unwelcome guest, her voice was almost a scream.