'Van Tysch saw these drawings as a child, didn't he?' said Miss Wood. 'Possibly. He never talked to me about it. Why do you ask?'
Instead of replying, she asked another question. 'Who else has seen them?' Rather confused, Zericky smiled.
'As thoroughly as you, nobody. A few researchers have glanced at a folder or two here and there… but what is it you're looking for exactly?'
'Another one.' 'What?' 'Another one. The third.'
There's one missing. The third most important work. It must be here somewhere. It's not an exact copy of one of the 'Rembrandt' paintings. In fact, neither of the other two is an exact copy of Van Tysch's work… the adolescent for example is not naked, and there aren't any narcissi at her feet either… but her pose is identical to Annek's… there has to be something linking it to one of the works: a character, or a group of characters… or perhaps…
She tried to remember the paintings as she had seen them during the signing session the previous day: the characters; their poses; the clothes they wore; the colours. If I could identify Deflowering and Monsters, I must be able to spot the third one.
'Hey, calm down,' Zericky begged her. 'You're throwing all the drawings on the floor..'
Swear that you're going to find it… Swear you're going to do it. .. Swear you're not going to fail this time…
Every so often she came across a crossed-out drawing: always four crosses and two vertical lines. But it was not the moment to try to unravel the meaning of this other incredible coincidence. Nor could she worry about the most troubling mystery of all: how had the Artist managed to see the drawings? Could it have been one of the 'researchers' Zericky had mentioned? And if he hadn't seen them, how else had he chosen the third work to destroy?
One thing at a time, please.
The last drawing in the folder was of a flower. Miss Wood threw it down so violently that Zericky got annoyed.
'Look, you're going to tear them if you treat them like that!' the historian exclaimed, reaching out to take them from her.
'Don't touch me,' whispered Miss Wood. In reality it was not so much a whisper as a rattle in her throat that froze the blood in Zericky's veins. 'Don't even try it. I'll soon be finished, I swear.'
'Don't worry,' Zericky said haltingly. 'Take your time… make yourself at home…'
She must be ill, he thought. Zericky was not a conventional sort, but solitude had made it hard for him to accept any shocks. Anything unexpected (a crazy person in his house going through all the drawings, for example) horrified him. He started to think of a plan to get close to the telephone and call the police without this psychopath noticing.
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
