that it is people who stay stock-still and which others call paintings,' he replied.
His irony bounced off the woman's stern face.
'It's exactly the opposite,' she retorted. She smiled for the first time. It was the most unpleasant smile Braun had ever seen. 'They are paintings which sometimes move and look like human beings. It's not a question of terminology, but of points of view, and that is the point of view we have at the Foundation.' Miss Wood's voice stung icily, as if each of her words was a veiled threat. 'The Foundation is responsible for protecting and promoting Bruno van Tysch's art throughout the world, and I personally am responsible for the Security Department. My task, and that of my companion here, Mr Lothar Bosch, is to make sure that none of Van Tysch's works suffers the slightest damage. And Annek Hollech was a painting worth much more than all our wages and pension plans put together, Detective Braun. She was called Deflowering, was a Van Tysch original, was considered one of the key works of contemporary painting, and now she has been destroyed.'
Braun was impressed by the cold fury of her staccato, almost whispering voice. Miss Wood paused before she went on. Her dark glasses stared at Braun, the twin reflection of the table gleaming from them.
'What you see as a murder is for us a serious attack on one of our works. As you will understand, we therefore feel ourselves intimately involved in the investigation, which is why we have asked to collaborate. Is that clear?'
'Perfectly.'
'Don't for a moment imagine we are going to get in your way at all,' Miss Wood went on. 'The police must do as they see fit, and the Foundation will do likewise. But I would ask you to inform us of any developments that may arise in the course of your investigation. Thank you.'
That was the end of the meeting. Led by the public relations woman who had received him when he arrived, Braun walked back along the labyrinthine corridors of the oval wing of the MuseumsQuartier. It was only when he was out in the street again, in the bright sunlight, that he regained his calm.
As he drove home, the exact name of the exhibit flashed into his head without warning. Magic Purple.
That was the name of the bright-red work of art who had the same fragrance as his wife. Scarlet, carmine, blood red.
3
The card was a turquoise-blue colour, the colour of magic spells, bluebirds over the rainbow, the azure sea. It glinted in the dining-room light. The phone number was written in the centre in fine black lines. All that was on the card was the number, probably a mobile, although the code was strange. While she was dialling it, Clara noticed that her fingernail was still shining with traces of paint from Girl in Front of a Looking Glass. At the second ring, a young woman's voice answered. 'Yes?' 'Hello, this is Clara Reyes.'
She was still thinking of what to say next when she realised the other person had hung up. She thought it must have been by accident, as sometimes happened with mobiles. They were such ghastly inventions which could be used for anything, even to talk, as Jorge used to joke. She pressed the redial button. The same voice replied, in exactly the same tone.
'I think we got cut off,' Clara said. 'I. ..'
Someone hung up again.
Intrigued, Clara tried a third time. Was hung up on again. She thought about it for a moment. She had just got in from the GS gallery, and the first thing she had done after taking a shower and washing the paint from her hair and body had been to look for the card and make the call. She was sitting in the dining room on the navy-blue tatami, with her legs crossed and a towel wrapped round her body. She had opened the windows, and a cool evening breeze was fanning her back. A gentle blues number was playing on the stereo. It can't be a problem with the phone. This time they hung up at once. They're doing it on purpose, she thought to herself.
She decided to try another
His irony bounced off the woman's stern face.
'It's exactly the opposite,' she retorted. She smiled for the first time. It was the most unpleasant smile Braun had ever seen. 'They are paintings which sometimes move and look like human beings. It's not a question of terminology, but of points of view, and that is the point of view we have at the Foundation.' Miss Wood's voice stung icily, as if each of her words was a veiled threat. 'The Foundation is responsible for protecting and promoting Bruno van Tysch's art throughout the world, and I personally am responsible for the Security Department. My task, and that of my companion here, Mr Lothar Bosch, is to make sure that none of Van Tysch's works suffers the slightest damage. And Annek Hollech was a painting worth much more than all our wages and pension plans put together, Detective Braun. She was called Deflowering, was a Van Tysch original, was considered one of the key works of contemporary painting, and now she has been destroyed.'
Braun was impressed by the cold fury of her staccato, almost whispering voice. Miss Wood paused before she went on. Her dark glasses stared at Braun, the twin reflection of the table gleaming from them.
'What you see as a murder is for us a serious attack on one of our works. As you will understand, we therefore feel ourselves intimately involved in the investigation, which is why we have asked to collaborate. Is that clear?'
'Perfectly.'
'Don't for a moment imagine we are going to get in your way at all,' Miss Wood went on. 'The police must do as they see fit, and the Foundation will do likewise. But I would ask you to inform us of any developments that may arise in the course of your investigation. Thank you.'
That was the end of the meeting. Led by the public relations woman who had received him when he arrived, Braun walked back along the labyrinthine corridors of the oval wing of the MuseumsQuartier. It was only when he was out in the street again, in the bright sunlight, that he regained his calm.
As he drove home, the exact name of the exhibit flashed into his head without warning. Magic Purple.
That was the name of the bright-red work of art who had the same fragrance as his wife. Scarlet, carmine, blood red.
3
The card was a turquoise-blue colour, the colour of magic spells, bluebirds over the rainbow, the azure sea. It glinted in the dining-room light. The phone number was written in the centre in fine black lines. All that was on the card was the number, probably a mobile, although the code was strange. While she was dialling it, Clara noticed that her fingernail was still shining with traces of paint from Girl in Front of a Looking Glass. At the second ring, a young woman's voice answered. 'Yes?' 'Hello, this is Clara Reyes.'
She was still thinking of what to say next when she realised the other person had hung up. She thought it must have been by accident, as sometimes happened with mobiles. They were such ghastly inventions which could be used for anything, even to talk, as Jorge used to joke. She pressed the redial button. The same voice replied, in exactly the same tone.
'I think we got cut off,' Clara said. 'I. ..'
Someone hung up again.
Intrigued, Clara tried a third time. Was hung up on again. She thought about it for a moment. She had just got in from the GS gallery, and the first thing she had done after taking a shower and washing the paint from her hair and body had been to look for the card and make the call. She was sitting in the dining room on the navy-blue tatami, with her legs crossed and a towel wrapped round her body. She had opened the windows, and a cool evening breeze was fanning her back. A gentle blues number was playing on the stereo. It can't be a problem with the phone. This time they hung up at once. They're doing it on purpose, she thought to herself.
She decided to try another
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