Art of Murder by José Carlos Somoza Page A

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:
    ‘Y es, 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