Art of Murder by José Carlos Somoza Read Free Book Online Page B

as if to say: But I've been ordered to come and keep you informed, and that is what I am doing. 'Well, I'm at your service.'
    He had no wish to show his disgust, but could not help it. That morning he had received no less than five phone calls from different departments, each successive one from higher up in the political hierarchy. The last had been from a top-ranking official in the Ministry of the Interior whose name never appeared in the newspapers. Braun had been told on no account to miss his appointment in the MuseumsQuartier, and had been urged to give Miss Wood and Bosch all available information. It was obvious the Van Tysch Foundation had wide-ranging and powerful political influence.
    'Your coffee ’ Bosch said, gesturing towards the cup. 'It'll go cold.'
    'Thanks.'
    Braun did not really want any more, but out of politeness lifted the cup and pretended to take a sip. While the two people opposite him exchanged routine remarks, he took a good look at them. He found the man called Bosch more agreeable than his female companion, but that wasn't saying much. He thought he must be around fifty. He looked serious enough, with a shining bald pate ringed with white hair, and distinguished-looking features. When they first met he had confessed to Braun that as a young man he had worked for the Dutch police, so in a way they were almost colleagues. But Miss Wood was something else again. She looked young, somewhere between twenty-five and thirty. Her straight black hair was cut short au garç o n , and showed a perfect parting on the right-hand side. Her skinny frame was moulded into a sleeveless dress, and at the neckline was the red pass of the Van Tysch Foundation Security Department. Apart from that he could only see tons of make-up and those absurd dark glasses. Unlike her companion, Miss Wood never smiled, and spoke as though everyone around her was there to serve her. Braun felt sorry for Bosch for having to put up with the woman.
    All at once, Felix Braun felt very odd. It was almost as if he had a split personality. He could see himself sitting in a room lit by red bulbs and decorated by a huge photo of two people squashed into a glass box, at a red table in the shape of a painter's palette, opposite two outlandish figures and waited on by a maid like an odalisk. He had just come out of an exhibition of naked, painted youngsters who all gave off different perfumes, and he was finding it hard to work out what a murder detective like him was doing in the middle of all this. He also found it hard to see what all this had to do with the events that had taken place. The ravaged body they had discovered that morning in the Wienerwald was of a poor fourteen-year-old adolescent, brutally murdered in one of the worst acts of sadism Braun had ever encountered. What link was there between that murder and this red room, an odalisk, two ridiculous characters, and a museum?
    'In fact,' he said, and the change in his voice led the other two to break off their conversation and stare at him, 'I still can't quite grasp what role you two have to play in this case, apart from being the directors of a security firm that the main suspect belongs to. A brutal crime has been committed, and that is the sole responsibility of the police.'
    'Do you know what hyperdramatic art is, Detective Braun?' Miss Wood suddenly asked.
    'Who doesn't?' Braun replied. 'I've just seen the "Flowers" exhibition. And I've got a cousin who's bought a book of art for beginners. He wants to practise on all of us: every time I see him he wants to use me as his model ...'
    Bosch laughed together with Braun, but Miss Wood was as solemn as ever.
     
    'Give me a definition,' she said. 'A definition?'
     
    ‘Y es. What do you think HD art is?'
    'What's she after now?' Braun thought to himself. She made him nervous. He straightened the knot on his tie and cleared his throat, looking around as if he might find the right words in some corner of this red room.
    'I'd say