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
