Art of Murder by José Carlos Somoza

we all trust you. But this problem is ... let's just say ... a bit special. This bastard has destroyed not merely an adolescent, but part of the world's heritage.'
     
    'I'll take the responsibility, Paul,' said Miss Wood with a smile.
     
    'You'll take the responsibility, fine. I do as well, and so does everyone else in this artistic enterprise, April. That's what we can tell the insurance companies, if you like: "We take the responsibility." We can also say the same to our investors and private clients: "Don't worry, we take the responsibility." Then we organise a dinner in a salon with ten Rayback nudes in it, and fifty wonderful ornaments as tables, vases and chairs a la Stein, we leave them all open-mouthed in astonishment, and then ask them for more money. But they will reply, quite correctly: "You put on a wonderful display, but if a guard from your own security team can destroy such an expensive work of art and get away with it, who on earth will want to insure any of the works in future? And who will pay to have them?"
    As he spoke, Benoit waved the empty cup in the air. The Trolley had been waiting for him to replace it on her table, but Benoit had been too carried away to notice. The ornament did not say or do anything beyond crouching there attentively, trying to keep her balance. As she drew breath, her stomach made the teapot tremble. As he observed her antics, Bosch could scarcely stop himself laughing.
    'This business is built on beauty,' Benoit was saying. 'But beauty is nothing without power. Just imagine if all the Egyptian slaves had died, and the pharoah had been forced to carry all those blocks of stone himself ...'
    'He'd come apart,' Bosch quipped.
    'So art is power,' Benoit declared. 'A wall has been breached in our fortress, April, and it's up to you to plug the hole.'
    He finally appeared to realise he was still holding the cup, and quickly moved to replace it on the Trolley, who stood up nimbly.
    At that moment, as if a black cloud had passed over the room, it turned a darker shade of purple.
     
    'I'd like to know what's happening to Annek,' a voice with a Haarlem accent said.
     
    They all turned towards the screens, though they knew it was Sally before they saw her. She was leaning against one of the bars in the gym for the canvases, and the camera was filming her to halfway down her thighs. She was wearing a T -shirt and shorts. The shorts cut into her groin. She had removed the paint with solution but even so her ebony skin had dark purple highlights. The yellow of her neck label stood out between her breasts.
     
    ‘I don't believe the story about flu ... the only reason for withdrawing a work from this fucking collection is if they come apart, and if Papa Willy can hear me, let him deny it .. .'
     
    Willy de Baas had switched off the microphones, and was whispering hurriedly to Benoit.
     
    'We told the works that Annek has the flu, Paul.' 'Fuck,' growled Benoit.
     
    Sally smiled all the time she was talking. In fact, she looked very happy. Bosch thought she must be drugged.
     
    'Look at my skin, Papa Willy: look at my arms and here, on my stomach ... If you switch the lights off, you'll still be able to see me. My skin is like a raspberry past its sell-by date. I look at it and feel like eating plums. I've been like this since last year, and I haven't been withdrawn even once. If you don't come apart, you're on show, flu or no flu. But Annek and I will never come apart, will we? ... Our postures with our backs straight are easier than most. How lucky we are, they all say. We're the lucky ones, apparently. But I reckon it depends on how you look on it ... it's true, the other works are carried out on stretchers at the end of the day ... and they are jealous of us because we can walk without any back problems and we don't need any of those flexibility implants that mean you can kick yourself in the shin with the same foot, isn't that so, Papa Willy? ... But it also means we're on the