succeeded in cutting the girl in his second attempt, when he changed blades after Wuyters and he had thought he had already started the destruction. The echo of the shot had already faded and the crash of the broken glass as well, but Bosch still held the gun in his outstretched arms.
It was strange – he thought – what had happened with Baldi. He had seen how the bullet had struck his head, and the blood spurting like paint, but he had not noticed any spattered organs, nothing really terrible: just a red stain spreading everywhere across the smooth white surface of his skull. Bosch remembered that once as a boy he had spilt an inkwell, which had produced the same effect on his drawing pad. He guessed it must be the cerublastyne that kept everything so neat and tidy looking. Then through the shattered mirror he saw one of his men strip off bits of the mask to reveal the destruction beneath. Baldi's face was gone. His brain was like chewed- up paper. I'm sorry, thought Bosch, staring at this unaesthetic mass, this scrawl of bones and white strands; I'm sorry. I've killed the canvas. He knew that Baldi was not the guilty one. Nor was Van Tysch: Van Tysch was merely a genius. He, Lothar Bosch, was the only guilty one. A vulgar little man.
He finally managed to lower his arms. He could see Wuyters next to him, still staring.
'Do you know what, Jan?' Bosch said, immensely weary, by way of explanation. 'The thing is, I've never liked modern art.'
22.19.
April Wood listened in silence. Then she hung up and spoke to Stein:
'My colleague Lothar Bosch has prevented Bruno van Tysch from completing his posthumous work. He takes full responsibility and will accept whatever consequences may arise from his actions. He also told me he has decided to resign.' She paused. ‘I beg you to add my resignation to Mr Bosch's, but also to put all the responsibility for this on to me. I did not succeed in informing Mr Bosch properly about what was happening, and therefore he acted on a misapprehension. I am the only one responsible for what happened. Thank you.'
Stein burst out laughing. It was a silent, disagreeable laugh. It was like a continuation of the sobs he had produced moments before. Then he stopped. His face betrayed a certain annoyance, as though he were ashamed of the way he had behaved.
Miss Wood did not wait for any further reply, but turned and walked down the tiled corridor.
The half moon shining in the night of Edenburg had risen in the sky.
Who if I cried would hear me from the hierarchies of angels?
RILKE
Epilogue
For a while there were sounds. Then silence reigned.
As he was folding his socks and putting them in his suitcase, Lothar Bosch thought that perhaps this was the only peace and happiness people like him could hope for in this world. Nothing better, he thought, than to smooth a pair of socks and carefully place them in a suitcase. He surveyed his half-completed packing, the case yawning open on the bed. The sun outside his bedroom window brought a cool, watery Holland to his nostrils. His bed, like a mysterious soft chessboard, was covered in pieces: columns of underwear, socks, books and shirts. Bosch had begun the ritual unwillingly, but by the end was thankful for it. It no longer seemed to him such a bad idea to spend the rest of the summer with Roland and his family in Scheveningen. In fact, he was beginning to look forward to it. He had no job, so it was time for him, as his brother said, 'to start to live the life of a pensioner'.
It would also give him the chance to see Danielle. He had bought something special for her in a shop on Rozengracht.
The presents for Hannah and Roland had been easy to choose. They were expensive, as befitted his position as a widower with no children and substantial savings: a diamond brooch from Coster's, and a new digital camera. But Nielle's present was more difficult. At first he had considered a Japanese computer program which had an almost human creature on it that had to be cared for, brought up, taken to school and protected from the dangers of adolescence until the moment she left home, something which almost never happened unless the program had errors or a virus. Then in a toy shop on Rokin he found something much better: a mechanical dalmatian that could move, bark and whine if left alone for too long. He was about to buy it when in the same shop he spotted an enormous felt dog. It was a majestic, soft animal, a Saint Bernard as big as a double pillow. The Saint Bernard did not do anything, it did not move, or bark, but Bosch thought it looked much more alive than the mechanical toy. He gave the necessary instructions for it to be sent to Roland's house in The Hague.
But then, on his way home from the toy shop, he passed by a shop in Rozengracht, and saw it.
He thought for a moment, and retraced his steps. He did not want to cancel his order for the Saint Bernard: he simply requested it be sent to his own house. He would decide later on what to do with that fluffy brown monster. Then he went back to Rozengracht and finally bought the perfect present for Danielle.
The gift would probably arrive before he did. It would bark and whine like a mechanical dalmatian, but it would also do poohs and pee on the carpet and scratch the wood on doors with its claws. It would not be as well behaved as a computer or as sweet as a fluffy Saint Bernard. And – as Bosch knew – when it broke down, nothing and nobody in the world would be able to repair it, and nothing and nobody in the world would be able to restore or substitute it. When that present broke down, it would be completely and forever, and the infinite loss would tear the heart out of more than one person.
From this point of view it was undoubtedly the worst possible gift he could give a ten-year-old girl. But perhaps Nielle would see its advantages. Bosch was hopeful she would.
As the plane began its descent, April Wood glanced at her watch, took a small looking glass from her bag, and studied her face. She found it acceptable. The traces of sadness had disappeared. If they had ever existed, she thought.
She had got the news the day before, just as she was preparing to move to London after having dismantled her office in Amsterdam. She recognised the doctor's voice across the kilometres that separated her from the private clinic. The voice assured her it had all been very rapid. Miss Wood could not agree to that. In fact, it had all been very, very slow. 'Your father had already lost consciousness,' the voice told her. That she could believe. Where was her father's consciousness? Where had it been all these years? Where had it been when she had known him? She had no idea.
She gave all the relevant instructions. Death does not end with death: it has to be concluded with economic and bureacratic instructions. Her father had always wanted to lie under the ruins of classical Rome. All his life he had felt more Roman than British. Exactly that: Roman, because he did not care for Italy and had not even bothered to learn to speak Italian properly. It was Rome that he cared for: the grandeur of having an empire beneath his feet. Now you'll have it above your feet. Enjoy it, Poppy, she had thought. Transferring his body was going to cost her almost as much as the transfer of her paintings.
Her father would travel in a box to Rome. The paintings from her Amsterdam office would travel in private flights to London. 'A good summing-up of my life,' she decided.
She put the looking glass back in her bag, closed it and put it down by her feet.
She had not yet decided what she would do when she got to London. She was thirty years old, and supposed she had about the same number of years of professional activity left. There would be no lack of opportunity, of course: she had already received several offers from art security firms who wanted to be able to count on her. But for the first time in her life she had decided to take a break. She was on her own, and had all the time in the world. Perhaps more than she imagined. Up in the empty sky above the London clouds, with her only family and her only job both dead and gone, April Wood thought that perhaps she had all eternity on front of her.
Holidays. She had not had a real holiday in a long time. Perhaps she would go to Devon. In summer, Devon was ideal. You could have quiet or things to do, as you chose. That was it then: she would go to Devon.
No sooner had she decided that than she remembered Hirum Oslo lived in Devon. She had not given him a thought until now. Of course, she did not rule out calling on him and asking him all the questions that remained unspoken (why he had paid a woman artist to make a portrait from a photo of her, for example). She was not thinking of going to see Hirum again though.
She did not see what going to Devon had to do with paying him a visit.
